They had only removed one of his eyes before he gutted the man with the commando knife.

He would miss it but it wasn’t his dominant eye.

In fact, it seemed to improve his aim. The magnum dropped its hammer on an empty chamber. A bloodied body dropped to the dirt. He was dead enough apparently.

They all wear hoods. Too bad. It would be far more satisfying for him if he could watch their heads blow apart like that comedian does to watermelons with a mallet.

The cylinder of the Colt popped outwards. He emptied its six sacrifices. Blood from skinned knuckles dripped across the rubber Pachmayr grip, he adjusted his shooting hand as he loaded in six more .357 magnum rounds.

Dusk began settling across the farmyard. He already killed six of them. There were more. The cult had gotten bigger since they purchased the old Weller farm in ‘73.

They thought they had captured a drunken trespasser but it was all an act. He wanted to get inside the house. He allowed himself to be taken. Not resisting until they tried cutting out his eyes.

He knew they used all sorts of drugs to dull the senses, so he took a handful of amphetamine pills he bought from a street dealer in the city before he rolled his truck into the driveway, hitting a parked tangerine Pinto.

Everyone on the farm wore robes, so he knew some dark ceremony had begun. They stripped off his denim trucker jacket and tied his hands in front but were negligent in searching his jeans or boots. The black commando knife was lying just under the pant leg, snug against his left calf. The Colt had been shoved down in the groin.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t what was promised by parents, teachers, priests and his army C.O. They told him that if he voluntarily worked hard, prayed and paid his taxes, his life would be calm and fulfilling.

But they took everything.

He hadn’t cut down Barbara’s body when he found her hanging by an extension cord. She was never a strong woman and the death of their only daughter broke her. She was gone. They are both gone now.

The first aid kit was still sitting under the front passenger seat of his Ford truck. He pulled it out and applied a compress to his empty left socket, wiping away gobs of flesh and blood with old restaurant wet wipes as he did so. Once the compress was applied he wound a bandage around his head to keep it in place. A few aspirin tablets were swallowed to help with the dull ache forming in his head.

They had to be in the barn. He already searched the farmhouse and killed all the cultists he found there, plus the one he just shot outside. Another tried hiding in a closet but he found her and pulled her out by her hair, screaming and kicking at the rotting hardwood floor.

“You took my daughter from me. My wife went insane from grief, you took everything from me, I will hunt down every one of you disgusting hippie perverts”, he screamed at the mewling, terrified pudgy visage. He squeezed the trigger and the Colt bucked. The cultist would have to go to her god without a face.

The house was in shambles. Once it was a clean, well-ordered space filled with three generations of farmers. Now it was a rotting nest of former California druggies and their New Age guru who worshipped an unclean god. The man had turned it into a charnel house.

When they first moved in, he had just come back from Vietnam. He wanted nothing more than to restart his own family farm, raise a family and prosper.

The long-time locals were ablaze with gossip, about the strange rites these new residents practiced and how they all seemed to have a hollow look to them. No one ever met their secretive leader. It was said that he had once been a gospel preacher.

For a long while, nothing much changed. He focused on his dairy farm and spent what little time he had left over with his wife and daughter.

He only began paying attention when people began disappearing. At first, it was only people who wouldn’t be missed, the town drunk, elderly hermits who had no family left.

Later, teenagers went missing. The Sheriff got involved and even got a warrant to search the old Weller property. Nothing was found. But he knew a few deputies and they told him of the strange fetish objects they saw, weird sigils painted inside the barn, barely perceptible music; they couldn’t locate its source and it gave them all terrible headaches.

It was only after Amber went missing that he knew. Two weeks later, the Sheriff’s deputies found her body by the lake, her head and heart missing. She could only be identified due to fingerprints. Barbara stopped talking after the funeral.

He knew it was them.

Once Barbara was dead, he made his decision. They would all suffer.

The barn door opened slightly, a greenish fog poured out. A kind of whistling music emanated from inside. The soft glow of sputtering candle lighting could be seen.

A wild-eyed madman stumbled out. He was older than the others by a few decades. Older than the man. The hooded robe was red, instead of white; like the others he killed. But it was in tatters, as if something tried to tear it off but did not have enough strength. The long pale white hair was greasy and plastered to a thin, angular skull. The bloodless lips drawn back in ecstasy. The hands were curled like claws and he held a kriss dagger, similar to the one that took his left eye.

“She rises. The ritual has begun…you cannot stop what is coming. Our god will grant us dominion over-” A bullet shattered teeth, ruptured tongue and made a mockery of his tender, throat tissue. It exited out of the back of his spine and buried itself in the wood of the barn. He died with a look of surprise on his face, maybe he saw something he didn’t like when he pierced the veil to the other side. He’d seen it happen in Vietnam. Saw a grunt die with a quizzical countenance when the AK rounds slammed into his chest and dropped him.

The music became louder.

He reached into the pocket of his jeans. Nine rounds, just nine rounds left, plus, the old commando dagger in his work boots.

It was all he had left. It would have to do.

The man strode forward into the fog, towards the entrance of the barn.

Once again, we take a deep dive into those unsung men of yesterday who diligently maintained civilization throughout history. In previous essays, I have written about hotel detectives and gandy dancers. In this short essay, we are going to examine a profession that many of us would find distasteful but was absolutely necessary for urban public health: the humble rat-catcher.

Before there were credentialed experts, i.e. public health officers…the public relied on rat-catchers to keep the pestilence quotient to a minimum. In the West, the ancient Greeks were the very first to discover how much a nuisance rats can become in an urban environment. When the Greeks began storing grain, rat infestations became a serious concern. The Greeks didn’t employ any specific professionals though, they used cats and other neutral predators to find and kill these pests. Later on, they also utilized certain herbs and sulfur.

Did you know that a female rat only needs less than 24 days to birth a litter? They make rabbits look chaste in comparison. Rats were such a vexation that large towns and cities started paying a bounty for their corpses. So, a new job class was born; rat bounty hunter. In medieval Europe, the rat-catcher was an important part of any urban landscape.

In feudal France, many rat-catchers were nomadic and would walk from cities to town shouting their anthem; Mort-aux-rats or Death to the rats! They could also be identified by a staff they carried which were hung with the bodies of dead rats on it, as well as carrying boxes of traps and cats (the first rat terrier).

For medieval folk, how the itinerant rat catcher went about his profession must have seemed like magic to them. Some were even said to deploy special spells against the rats. Maybe this is the origin of the most famous rat-catcher in European history: The Pied Piper of Hamelin?

What is amazing is that by the time of the Victorian period in merry Old England, the professional rat-catcher had developed many methods of killing even the wiliest of rats, from specially trained canine terriers to ingenious traps and special poisons. Some even utilized rifles.

Many cities would also have their own professional rat-catching force. Even now, in NYC, due to their ever growing sanitation issues, a recent rat czar position has been created to deal with the vast army of rats throughout the five boroughs.

By the 19th century, a rat-catcher was actually considered a respectable working man occupation. It was not a desirable job due to the fact that rats nest in disgusting places and the chance of being bit by a disease infested rat was high. Also, very few men wish to spend their day in urban sewers. However, the pay was steady and you could be your own boss.

Unfortunately, this led to a certain level of fraud. Rat-catchers, in order to pad their bounties, would breed rats and then kill them. If you could slip in a few rats that you bred and killed yourself to the dozen you killed in a sewer, you now increased that government payout.

Nowadays, we have a less romantic figure to deal with the rats: your local pest exterminator. Many national pest control companies exist to spray your home and yard with all sorts of noxious chemicals. No more dogs, cats or specialized traps. Although, I have shot a rat or two in my time with a .22 magnum. Pest control techs now just use a lot of heavy duty poison. In my area, they tend to wear neat khakis and clean polo shirts. That’s modernism for you; sanitized and standardized!

The next time you see a huge rat staring at you in the middle of the night, before you scream and run away, think about those fearless rat catchers that once roamed the alleyways of your city, hunting these nasty demons of the sewers.

Mort-aux-rats!

My book: Darkness Over the Potomac: Stories of Hard-Boiled Horror

Is now out in both paperback and Kindle versions…check is out on Amazon!

Part III

“Do we really need to go over this again, Inspector?”

“This arrest is the most important of my career, Roper. I want to make sure nothing goes awry.” He mispronounced awry but Roper didn’t bother to correct him. He wasn’t an English teacher and just wanted to be done with this cloak and dagger operation.

Both men were standing in Roper’s lavish junior suite at the Ritz Carlton. Initially, Inspector Cheung had balked at Roper’s request but through flattery and charm, he convinced the inspector that it was in the best interest of the Royal Hong Kong Police, Anti-Corruption Branch that he get as much quality rest as possible, considering he was still convalescing from Han’s deadly tournament.

Eventually, Inspector Cheung agreed to put the posh hotel room on the department’s tab. However, the bill had now finally come due, Roper was to meet with Goodbar, the corrupt cop in the morning.

“Alright, Inspector. At 7 am sharp, outside the hotel, I take a taxi driven by one of your men disguised as a cabbie, to Temple Hill Pavilion, off of Shatin Pass Road. The cab leaves and I pick up the hidden diamonds outside the pavilion, walk 500 feet south to Kwun Yam Buddhist Temple. Since this temple is closed for renovations and it being a Saturday, there will be no construction workers, so I will be alone. If I see anyone but Chief Superintendent James Goodbar, I am to leave immediately, with the briefcase.”

Roper sighed loudly.

“Good, go on.”

“I am scheduled to meet Goodbar at the lower cemetery, at the southeast side of the temple, at 8 am. We exchange pleasantries, I show him the diamonds, he shows me the Hong Kong dollars. We exchange our packages and I let him leave first. You nab him at the entrance to Shatin Pass Road and all is well in the world. That sound about right to you?”

Inspector Cheung’s thin ruby lips turned into a lopsided grin and he nodded.

“Yes, excellent, Roper. Just remember, my men and I will be very close by, so do not even think about taking anything, I need to account for every single diamond and dollar.”

Roper saluted the inspector. Both men said their goodbyes. Inspector Cheung cheerfully departed the suite. Roper dropped his luxurious terry cloth bathrobe on the plush carpet and fell naked onto the Queen sized bed. He was feeling lighter, his bruises were less painful.

“He’s gone, you can come out now, my dear.”

The bathroom door slowly inched open and Sub-Inspector Susan Koh stepped out. Her lithe, pallid body was well toned. She was naked except for a pair of black pumps with three inch heels. Her skin still glistened from a warm shower she had taken after their lovemaking session. She hid in the bathroom when she heard the knock on the door.

Now, she felt more ravenous than ever. Her recent dating experiences for the most part had been disappointing. Koh’s mother was constantly trying to set her up with some young, ambitious businessman from their church. Her mother lived in constant fear that she might marry a fellow police officer.

Roper had invited her for drinks at the hotel’s chic cocktail bar and lounge the night before. Intrigued, she agreed. Roper acted the fool but had an animal magnetism about him. Koh was attracted to him but could never logically explain that attraction, by all accounts, she knew he would make a poor husband.

However, this was not an issue when they made passionate love later that night and into the early morning hours, only falling asleep after both masculine and feminine energies were spent.

Koh climbed on to the bed and straddled Roper with hard, lean thighs. She began taking off her pumps. Roper gently stopped her.

“No, leave them on.” He kissed her roughly on the mouth and she leaned into him. Roper slid inside of her.

The following morning, Roper followed Inspector Cheung’s instructions to the letter. It was a warm day but as the taxi ascended Lion Rock, the air was cooler, moist even. The undercover cop was silent and rebuffed Roper’s attempt at small talk. So Roper stuck his head out the window instead, the air was more pure this high up. He was glad to be out of the miasma of the city.

The taxi dropped Roper off at the entrance to the pavilion and he slowly walked around it. He found a purple, Crown Royal Whiskey bag half buried in one of the potted plants. Upon opening the bag, Roper stared at small cut diamonds, he had never been this close to a handful of stone wealth before. He placed the bag in his jacket and continued on. It was 7:40 am and he slowly walked to his final destination.

Goodbar would meet him in the cemetery in twenty minutes.

As he ambled towards the buddhist temple, Roper could hear various birds chirping and unseen critters moving about the underbrush of the park. The grass around the temple was maintained still and well trimmed. No one was about.

Kwun Yam Temple was impressive, even in its current state. It had been built into the rock of the mountain and Roper had to take several metal stairs down into the main entrance. Scaffolding had been erected all around the outside of the temple. The exterior of the temple was a deep red with various black signs with gold Chinese lettering hung around the entrance portal. The heavy oak door was closed.

Roper continued walking past. He found another set of stairs that descended further down into the lower cemetery. For a brief moment, Roper considered absconding with the diamonds, his mind playing out various escape scenarios. Can I get away with it? He thought to himself.

Suddenly, Roper heard screaming. Looking up into the trees that grew out of the slope of the mountain, he witnessed a solitary brown macaque monkey swinging from branch to branch. The monkey stopped and stared at Roper, Roper stared back. It shrieked at him.

“Okay, I’ll go through with this damn mission,” Roper whispered. The monkey seemed to hear him, since it suddenly made a strange scowl that could also be interpreted as a smile and moved on further down the slope. Roper waved to the retreating monkey and inhaled the clean mountain air.

He entered a large courtyard of cement. He was surrounded by weathered tombstones and crypts of various sizes and indeterminate age. A small cement village of the dead. It was a perfect clandestine meeting spot. The well hidden cemetery hugged the mountain at the bottom of the temple, with only one entry and exit point, impossible to spy on anyone without being seen.

The sound of footsteps descending down into the cemetery from the metal stairs could be heard. Roper turned around and he recognized the chief superintendent of the maritime police. Goodbar stepped into the spacious courtyard.

“Mr. Goodbar, I would presume.” Roper put on his best charismatic smile and moved forward to shake hands. Goodbar reluctantly shook hands with him, he did not appear very comfortable with the current situation. A hunted man on the lam.

“Yes, Mr. Rosenthal. It is nice to finally meet you in person. However, I am on a rather tight schedule and I will need to conduct this business forthwith.” Goodbar’s eyes darted around nervously, looking for anything out of place. Roper had a feeling he had been near the temple all along, hiding, watching for anyone who might be following Roper.

“Just me, myself and I, Mr. Goodbar. Now, if you show me the cash, we shall conduct business.” Goodbar nodded and opened a black leather briefcase full of reddish Hong Kong one hundred dollar bills. The Crown Royal Whiskey bag was handed over to Goodbar. Roper counted the money in the briefcase, as Goodbar used a jeweler’s loup to inspect the diamonds in the bag.

“Yes, very nice, exquisite even,” Goodbar exclaimed.

“The cash is all here, Mr. Goodbar. You seem satisfied with the presentation of the diamonds. I can assume our business is now over?” Roper inquired as he shut the briefcase and looked up.

“Yes, I would say so..”

Two gunshots almost simultaneously rang out. Roper heard both rounds strike the back of Goodbar. They sounded like a baseball bat hitting a side of beef. Goodbar coughed once and then blood trickled out of his mouth. As his body struck the ground, Roper knew he was already dead. The corpse still clutched the diamond bag.

It all happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that Roper did not notice Inspector Cheung until he was standing at the edge of the courtyard, by the stairs. The inspector had a 9mm Browning HI-Power pointed at Roper, not the police issued Smith and Wesson .38 he usually carried. Calculations began cogitating in Roper’s mind. He collected himself and moved his eyes from the corpse of Goodbar to Cheung.

A malevolent grin split Cheung’s formerly handsome face. Roper frowned and put the briefcase on the ground.

“Let me guess, I killed Goodbar but before you could arrest me, I escaped with both the cash and diamonds. In the meantime, my bullet riddled corpse gets rolled off this mountain. Not very good for your career, Inspector, losing all that wealth and the killer.” Cheung laughed.

“Do you know what happens in 1997, Roper? Hong Kong reverts back to Chinese rule. The Royal Hong Kong Police shall end but the Wo Shing Wo will continue as it always has…only by then, our influence will be even greater! Goodbar, the coward, no longer wanted to serve us and needed to be punished. These assets he collected will go to my masters and they will reward me. One day, Roper, I shall be Dragon Head of the Wo Shing Wo. Unfortunately, you will not be around to witness my ascendency.” Cheung put both hands on the grip of the pistol and took aim at his target across the courtyard.

“I see, I assume you also snuffed out Mr. Arthur Rosenthal. My, my, you are an ambitious one, aren’t you? I can see you are a man of real martial spirit, you missed a good tournament. You would have fit right in with Han and his homicidal cronies.” A ripple of intense anger ran through Cheung’s previously placid countenance. He lowered his pistol slightly.

At that moment, Roper knew he had found a pressure point, so he decided to exploit it.

“You wanted to be at that tournament, didn’t you, Cheung? To test your mettle. But you didn’t get the chance. What’s the matter, had to work that day?” Cheung snarled, he clutched his handgun tighter and his arm quivered. When he answered, his accent was thicker.

“I should have been there! Among the Wo Shing Wo, I am considered their greatest fighter. But Han, damn him to the Hell of Boiling Oil, he hated both the police and the triads equally, he refused all my requests. He denied me the ultimate satisfaction, winning an international tournament.”

“Well now. Here is your chance. Winner takes all. I may not have gotten the number one spot but you could do worse than taking on the silver medal winner. What do you say, Cheung? Monkey versus tiger…think you got it in you?”

That was all the goading Cheung needed. Cheung’s ego completely took over. He bent over and gently placed his Browning on the ground. He stripped off jacket, dress shirt and tie. He kicked off his leather penny loafers and slipped out of his socks. Finally, belt and pants came off. He wore nothing but black briefs, his musculature in full display.

“What is it with you Chinese guys? Always wanting to get naked when you want to fight.” Roper slipped off his jacket and tie. He unbuttoned the top collar and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

Both men got into a fighting stance. The silent concrete cemetery slab became their battleground. The dead their audience.

Slowly, they circled one another, probing each other with simple strikes, searching for weaknesses or doubt. They traded a few weak blows.

A tropical bird called out, Roper was briefly distracted. A spinning crescent kick was executed perfectly by Cheung. The side of the foot slammed into Roper’s face, the force pushed him back and briefly blurred his vision. Miraculously, Roper stayed on his feet and even blocked an incoming savage punch with his left elbow. Roper dropped for a single leg take down but Cheung anticipated this and planted a knee into his strong jaw. Roper stayed conscious and was able to slam the top of his head into Cheung’s unprotected groin. Both went down hard on the ground. They quickly spun away from each other.

Cheung grunted and briefly rubbed his damaged groin. He had a deep angry rash on his skin where it had met concrete. Roper shook his stunned head a few times, clearing his vision. Cheung gingerly rose from the ground, his stance less wide than before. Roper rose to meet him. Both men took in deep breaths.

They danced around one another, continuing their duel.

Roper could feel the swelling on top of his zygomatic bone near his right eye. He assumed he would lose vision in that eye at some point.

A powerful kiai emerged from Roper’s throat and he pushed forward with a flurry of combinations with his fists. Cheung bobbed and weaved away from the hand strikes but caught a shuffle kick from Roper’s leading leg to his right knee. Cheung feigned as if he was falling over but launched into a powerful sidekick, it connected. A bare foot struck Roper’s abdomen, it felt like his guts were exploding and he almost lost control of his bowels.

The wounded Roper backpedaled. He put his back to a large tombstone. Cheung advanced forward, Roper noticed he was limping, favoring his left leg. The strike to the knee had done some damage. Both men were gulping in air.

They crashed into each other, the grappling became frenetic and desperate. Roper attempted to put Cheung in a rear chokehold and Cheung was attempting to put Roper in an armbar and a leglock. Both men rolled around on the punishing cement, neither getting an upper hand.

Roper was able to put enough distance in order to throw several hard elbow strikes into Cheung’s face. Cartilage broke and skin ripped open, Cheung’s face became a bloodied piece of mutilated meat. When Cheung pulled his face away, his injured knee moved forward, towards Roper. Roper snatched the ankle with his left hand and with his right, commenced to deliver a series of Shotokan iron hammer fist blows to the injured knee.

Cheung howled in excruciating pain. He lashed out with left foot and hit Roper near enough to his injured eye that he let go. Cheung scrambled away from Roper and, like his Chinese astrology symbol, ran on all four towards the stairs…and his handgun.

Roper realized this too late and lunged forward after him. Cheung grabbed his pistol and turned it towards Roper who was only six feet away from him. The right finger moved towards the trigger.

He never got a shot off.

Instead, another explosion rang out. A bullet buried itself in the back of Cheung’s head, bone and blood spurted from the ragged entrance wound. Roper saw Cheung’s eyes roll back as his spirit left the leaking corpse, it flopped onto the concrete. The gray concrete turned crimson.

A spent Roper dropped to his knees, his world slowly spinning. He felt nauseous but had no food in his stomach to vomit. He saw a vague slender figure running towards him.

The sub-inspector grabbed him just as he started to fall over and go unconscious. He heard her sobbing and whispering.

“I’m sorry, I meant to be here sooner but there was an accident and traffic. Cheung must have deliberately blocked Shantin Pass Road with that old fisherman’s truck...” Roper heard nothing more from her after that, allowing a peaceful presence to wash over his pain racked body. Before he let go of consciousness completely, he swore he heard a monkey laughing somewhere down in the forest.

“You knew Cheung was dirty, you sent me into the tiger’s den, hoping I’d get killed so you could throw a murder charge at him, didn’t you, Burns?” Burns let out a heavy sigh, but Roper noticed he didn’t deny the accusation. He was back in Queen Mary Hospital, possibly in the same room as he had been before. He was now wide awake, covered in new bruises and livid with the senior inspector from Special Branch.

“Now, now, Mr. Roper. I knew the chief superintendent was corrupt but as for Cheung, I had my suspicions about his triad connections, but I needed to be sure. A hunch as you Americans say. I needed an outsider to go in and shake things up a bit, see what falls out. I knew you could handle yourself. Cheung would have sniffed out any of my people. Also, I needed someone who was his equal in the martial arts.”

“Fine, I’m glad your little black bag operation is over. Now if you will just kindly hand me my passport and cash, I will be on my way.”

“Yes, about that…it seems something else has come up where I could really use an outsider…”

“No, no, no, you sonvabitch! I did my part, I am ready to go back to the U.S.!” Burns frowned at this outburst of intense emotion from the American.

“I see, there is just one other matter I wanted to share with you. It would seem that a certain powerful syndicate has people looking out for you in every major US airport, including Honolulu, from what I hear. I would assume they are still quite angry about the money you stole from them. Quite incensed, you know? Hopefully they don’t find out what airport you are landing in.” Burns adjusted his cufflinks after making the veiled threat.

Roper was gobsmacked. For once, he was completely silent. He just stared at Burns. Burns continued talking in a merry tone.

“I know you need time to convalesce, of course. My superiors at Special Branch have agreed to put you back up at the Ritz Carlton for the next twelve days. That should give you time to heal and enjoy some of the wonderful tourist sites we have here in Hong Kong. I have also added more petty cash to your billfold.” He pointed at the battered armoire at the other end of the room.

Roper gave a hard stare but then sighed. What choice do I have? He thought to himself.

“I want a full suite this time, Burns…and nicer threads.”

“Done! Now, I shall take my leave, I know Inspector Koh wants to check in on you as well. Congratulate her on her new promotion! See you in twelve days, Mr. Roper.” Burns glided out of the hospital room, like Christ walking on water, leaving behind his lemon scent.

Roper leaned his aching head further back on his soft pillow. The window to his room was open and outside, past the sounds of traffic and birds shrieking, he heard another sound, the triumphant cry of a single monkey, far off in the distance.

Roper smiled.

If you would like future pulp stories of rogue martial artist Roper, let me know in the comments.

Part II

Roper was no beauty queen but now he was truly hideous.

His face was still heavily bruised, yellow and purplish. All the shallow cuts were now covered with adhesive bandages, hiding some deft stitching. He looked like he had just returned from the bad bush of Vietnam, a second time. At least he was now dressed as a respectable businessman. Still, the elderly Chinese waiter gave him a quizzical look as he set down the breakfast plate.

The heavily creamed and sugared coffee he was slurping, along with the eggs and bacon helped Roper feel more human. He studied his tourist map closely as he ate. Roper was not far from the University of Hong Kong. According to the map, he would need another cab to take him across the bridge into West Kowloon, where he would find this Inspector Cheung. The meeting location was in a neighborhood full of warehouses, a nice secretive location for a clandestine meeting.

Roper eyes looked up. He scanned the room. A dozen or so other tables were full of mostly young Chinese university students with a few older British business professionals scattered about. One table stood out, like Roper, she was alone. She seemed too old to be a university student but still somewhere in her twenties. Her sleeveless yellow dress covered in white daisies marked her as part of the upper class of Chinese Hong Kong society. Her white Go-Go boots gave her staid, conservative dress a bit of fashionable flare.

He liked the natural look of her soft oval face framed by dark curtain bangs. Her long hair wasn’t done up like most women Roper tended to date in California. She sat at her table across the room but within eye sight of Roper, sipping a cup of tea. She studiously avoided eye contact with Roper, eventually he gave up trying to get her attention.

The waiter was paid from Roper’s new billfold and he left the restaurant, searching for another cab. Unlike the hospital, the street outside the restaurant wasn’t packed with activity.

Roper decided to walk a bit before finding a cab; he had plenty of time before his rendezvous with Inspector Cheung. As he glided from one well-ordered, clean street to another in this university district, Roper felt eyes on him. Being a man who always made enemies no matter where he landed, he learned to trust his intuition.

Roper stopped in front of a bakery. He pretended to look at the foodstuffs displayed in the window. In truth, he used the glass as a mirror to peer behind him. Soon enough, a familiar figure appeared in the window. It was the young woman from the restaurant.

“Burns, you suspicious scotch bastard. You put a tail on me.” A few fellow pedestrians turned and looked at the battered man muttering to himself, assumed he was mentally ill, gave him a wide berth and hurried along.

Roper, feeling more like himself and mischievous, decided to play a game with this new shadow. He continued walking down the main thoroughfare until he found what he needed.

It was a dead end alley.

However, this alley had some ancient lamps attached to the brickwork via long elaborate metal anchors, gas lights at one time, now electric. The brick wasn’t smooth and he could easily scale the wall when he dashed into the alley. He grabbed a metal anchor and pulled himself up. He sat on the lamp.

Roper’s trick worked.

A minute later, Burn’s tail came around the corner and entered the alley. She did not look up and never saw Roper squatting above her. She walked all the way down the alley searching for a door. She assumed Roper must have entered one. She stopped at the end of the alley and scratched the top of her head, she found nothing but trash and dirty brick to either side of her.

As his stalker turned to leave the alley, Roper lightly dropped down behind her. Her face went pale when she saw that he stood in front of the only exit, trapping her.

The woman was carrying a white leather purse and she immediately attempted to reach inside.

“No you don’t, sister.” Roper, expecting this, moved quickly and snatched her purse from her. She now was wild eyed and moved backwards putting her back to the dead-end wall.

Inside the purse, Roper found what he was looking for, a small Smith and Wesson revolver and a police ID. According to the ID, the frightened woman standing in front of him was Sub-Inspector Susan Koh, Hong Kong Royal Police, Special Branch.

He then did something unexpected, he put the ID back in her purse and handed it back to her slightly trembling hand.

“First day on the job, Sub-inspector?”

“No, Mr. Roper, I’ve been with Special Branch for two months now.” She answered his sarcasm with brutal honesty. Roper merely chuckled at her forthrightness.

“So, you’re the shadow sent by Burns to keep an eye on me. Well, at least you’re better looking than the Senior Inspector.” The Sub-Inspector blushed a crimson red. Her eyes were downcast. If Roper hadn’t seen the Hong Kong Royal Police ID, he would have assumed she worked as an executive assistant for some senior executive at HSBC in the Central Business District.

“I guess you haven’t been with the Hong Kong Royal Police very long then.” The sub-inspector became indigent, all previous fear now erased. She straightened her shoulders and stood tall. She made eye contact.

“Actully, prior to my promotion to Special Branch, I was a truancy officer for five years.” She spoke with an upper class British accent and her voice was a bit husky. Roper snorted at her response, causing some discomfort due to his damaged visage.

“Lady, I ain’t a lost kid, skipping school and hanging out in gambling dens. Go back to Burns and tell him on my way to the wharf to meet with Inspector Cheung.” Roper stepped aside to give her space. She didn’t reply and didn’t move. Instead, she gave Roper a hard, determined stare. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Alright, but I refuse to have you shadow me anymore. Come with me to the meeting or the both of us will spend the day taking in all the tourist sites Hong Kong has to offer.” The sub-inspector reluctantly agreed and the two of them found a taxi cab not long after leaving the alleyway.

Roper attempted to interrogate the sub-inspector further in the cab but she seemed immune to his charms. She either answered every question with a word or two, or she was silent altogether.

The silver and red Datsun cab fought traffic with aplomb and finally crossed the sprawling Western Harbour Bridge into West Kowloon.

This side of the island was dominated by large modern high rises and swanky western style hotels. Roper made a mental note when they passed by the Ritz Carlton, he would need a place to live. Roper had certain standards that wouldn’t be denied.

The bored taxi driver merged on to Lin Cheung Road and they moved closer to the wharf. The wharf district was still impressive but more working class due to all the fish mongering businesses hugging the harbour.

The cab stopped in front of a large sprawling warehouse. A large white and red sign announced Cheung Sha Wan Wholesale Fish Market in both English and Chinese characters.

The Chinese cabbie turned to request payment. Roper casually turned to Sub-Inspector Koh, his hand on the door handle.

“Pay the man, my dear.” He quickly exited the cab before she could respond. The sub-inspector narrowed her eyes at Roper’s exiting backside. She dug into her purse and handed the cabbie his fare.

As Roper walked towards what appeared to be the main entrance of the warehouse, following a large group of workers in dirty overalls and heavy coats, the sub-inspector caught up to him, a scowl was on her face. Roper merely smiled benevolently in response, like a knowing saint.

Both of them passed through the open portal into a wet, cold but bustling, chaotic environment. Stacks of all forms of sea creatures sat on packed ice everywhere in the warehouse. It was full of workers, restaurateurs, traders and business men of all ranks. A frigid temple dedicated to Hong Kong seafood commerce.

A security guard in a dark blue uniform materialized out of nowhere. He spoke rapid fire Cantonese at both Roper and Koh. Koh responded and she turned to Roper.

“We are to follow him. The inspector is waiting for you.” Roper made a grand flourish with his hand.

“Lead the way, squire!”

The phlegmatic security guard did not respond but instead guided them out of the main warehouse and into a series of maze-like corridors. These warmer hallways suddenly became more upscale with plush carpeting and tasteful paintings decorating the dark wood paneled walls. Even the overhead lights were softer. This was clearly where the real business of the wholesale fish market was conducted.

Both of them were ushered into a small office. The door was shut and the guard disappeared once more.

The office appeared to be a small group meeting room. Various tables with uncomfortable metal chairs were set up and they faced a currently empty chalkboard. By the chalkboard was a small wooden podium. Roper did not hesitate and moved towards the front of the room, to the man standing at the podium.

“Inspector Cheung, I presume? I’m Roper but I am sure you already knew that.”

The inspector appeared somewhat young for a man of his position on the police force. He reminded Roper of Lee, in that he had a handsome square jaw, clear intelligent eyes and a noticeable athletic build, a boxer’s body. He was as tall as Roper and wore a similar suit but with a yellow tie. He extended a rough palm as Roper approached. Roper noticed the inspector was in a fighting stance as he closed the distance.

They clasped calloused hands. One martial artist recognizing another.

“We seem to shop at the same tailor, Mr. Roper,” Inspector Cheung replied in his soft accented English.

“Just Roper, if you please. Compliments of Senior Inspector Burns, my current employer.” Without taking his eyes off of Roper, Inspector Chueng addressed the sub-inspector in Cantonese. Roper noticed that his voice was deeper and harsher when speaking to Koh. She responded in a long, tight litany. Tension filled the room. Cheung frowned at one point and held up his hand to Koh. He switched to English.

“The sub-inspector will wait for you outside. Her assignment has nothing to do with the duties you are to perform for me in Anti-Corruption Branch. We are independent from Special Branch and do not answer to them.” Cheung looked at Koh, she impassively stared back for a moment. It would seem that the Royal Hong Kong Police was no different from other large bureaucracies, different fiefdoms competing for power and influence inside the main body.

The contest of wills ended. Koh relented and nodded her head to Cheung. She turned without another word in either Cantonese or English and marched out of the meeting room, slamming the door behind her.

Inspector Cheung turned on his own form of charisma and smiled, he beckoned Roper to have a seat and took one himself at the same table. The table contained an elaborate tea set and he poured a cup of green tea for Roper and then himself.

“I know you are here against your own desire but I do appreciate your part in our current operation.” From a black leather briefcase at his feet, Cheung took out a large manilla file. He placed it on the table between them. Roper gave Cheung a foolish grin.

“Let it never be said that I don’t carry out my orders to the fullest. In the army, I was known for my dedicated mission oriented approach,” he lied. Cheung smiled back, knowing a rascal when he meets one.

“Tell me, Roper. What year were you born?”

“I don’t see how that…”

“Humor me, please.” Cheung interrupted.

“Alright, I was born in 1932.”

“Yes, of course, you have both the luck and the low cunning of the monkey, Roper. It would make sense you were born in his year. Do you know the Chinese zodiac?”

“I’m not very superstitious, Inspector. I tend to only believe what I can see.”

“Very practical of you. I was born in the year of the Metal Tiger. An ambitious sign, I am the youngest man in the Hong Kong Royal Police to make my current rank.”

“Congratulations. I am sure you are a dedicated and hardworking policeman,” Roper saluted Cheung with his cup of tea. Cheung grinned sheepishly.

“Thank you. I tell you this not out of arrogance but to impress upon you that due to my meteoric rise, I have made many enemies, both inside and outside the police force.”

“I got the sense that you and Special Branch don’t play well together.”

“Special Branch believes that Anti-Corruption Branch should be placed under their complete jurisdiction. Senior Inspector Burns and I are of course cordial to one another. He owed me a favor, hence why you are temporarily attached to me. But he and Special Branch cannot be allowed to interfere in this current operation.”

Roper leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and sipped his tea. He liked where this was going, he was looking for an angle to exploit. Finally, he may have found it.

“I have a feeling that the young sub-inspector will continue to dog me no matter what, Inspector. After all, she knows this city more intimately than I do. What is a poor American contractor such as myself going to do?” Roper put his hands up in a defeated gesture.

“When the time comes, my people will deal with the sub-inspector. For now, let us discuss the business at hand.”

Cheung opened his file and handed Roper a large portrait of a late middle aged, balding Caucasian man in a light blue business suit.

“The picture you are holding is the most recent photo of Chief Superintendent James Goodbar. He has worked in several departments within the Hong Kong Royal Police, including Special Branch but now oversees our maritime operations. It is a vast force that covers many islands and waterways in and surrounding Hong Kong.”

“Okay, what’s this got to do with your work, Inspector?” Cheung took a deep breath.

“This highly decorated police official is thoroughly corrupt. My branch has spent months tracking dead drop caches full of cash, accessed by Goodbar and later placed into Swiss bank accounts, once the money has been laundered through certain legitimate businesses.” Roper, always a sucker for gray market business rackets, was intrigued.

“I see, what businesses is he using exactly? Bars?”

“No, due to his police background and experience, he knows my organization keeps a close eye on cash intensive businesses, such as bars, and restaurants. He utilizes something new to Hong Kong…vending machines.”

“Interesting, Inspector. Please go on.”

“We have been slowly building a serious corruption case against him, the largest in Hong Kong history in fact. It is going to upset many powerful people. I have to be careful and make sure my evidence is beyond reproach.”

“I can imagine a lot of British mandarins aren’t going to be happy about this, one of their own getting popped for corruption.”

“No, but it won’t just be Sir Murray MacLehose and his British establishment here in Hong Kong that will be embarrassed. You see Goodbar works for a powerful criminal syndicate, a triad. This secret society is one of the deadliest here in Hong Kong: Wo Shing Wo, their numbers are estimated to be somewhere around seventy thousand members, spread throughout Hong Kong. They enjoy a variety of criminal activities from smuggling, prostitution and drug trafficking.”

“All activities that require use of boats and waterways.” Roper replied.

“Exactly. One cannot engage in these activities without running afoul of the maritime police force.”

“This is all fascinating, Inspector but why do you need me?” Inspector Cheung dug into his folder again and pulled out various type written letters.

“I have recently discovered that Goodbar has been in contact with an American businessman here in Hong Kong. He recently sold his vending machines and has been in contact with this wealthy American Jeweler, an expat originally from New York City. Goodbar and wishes to purchase several ideal cut diamonds, off market, from him.” Roper knowingly nodded at this.

“He’s liquidating his assets, getting ready to run.” Inspector Cheung raised an eyebrow.

“I see you have some knowledge in this area.” Roper gave a tight smile but did not take the bait and refused to elaborate. Cheung continued.

“Yes, I deduce that he wants to liquidate a large amount of his Hong Kong dollars and turn them into something he can easily hide and carry across international borders. Once he is out of Hong Kong, he can disappear anywhere he chooses. He is a widow and he never had children with his deceased wife. Much like you, he has no attachments.”

“Again, how do I fit into this drama?”

“I want to arrest him during this cash/diamond exchange. You see, he has never met this American jeweler, or even talked to him by phone. The entire correspondence has been through Royal Hong Kong Mail. We know this because Anti-Corruption Branch has been intercepting his mail for months. We read it before sending it to him. Unfortunately, we believe he is now aware of our investigation.”

“So you have to act now. You want me to play the part of this jeweler, catch him red handed in the act and along with the other evidence you have, charge him. What about this New York jeweler?”

“Yes, that is correct. We needn’t worry about him. You see, he was killed last week in a traffic accident. I made sure that the untimely death of Arthur Rosenthal was kept out of the newspapers. Unfortunate traffic accidents occur in Hong Kong all the time, so this was not an unusual event. Also, without his glasses, you and Mr. Rosenthal look quite alike. Just in case Goodbar has seen a picture of him.”

“Well, we New Yorkers all look alike, don’t you know? So I take his place, make the exchange, you come running in and say: In the name of the Queen, I place you under arrest, James Goodbar!”

“Now who is being overly dramatic, Roper? Essentially, yes, this is the operation. This clandestine meeting is to take place in two days time. Are you willing to play this role?”

“I’ve been told, I am quite the actor. Of course, anything for the Queen,” Roper quipped. Inspector Cheung rolled his eyes but smiled and nodded. Roper stood up and acted as if to shake on this deal, when his elbow knocked his empty tea cup off the table. Cheung’s right hand shot out like a venomous snake. He snatched the tea cup before it hit the floor.

Roper grinned, a certain intuition he had was confirmed.

“By the way, Inspector, I’ll need accommodations for the next few nights. I noticed you have a Ritz Carlton on my cab ride over…”

Final part coming soon.

Part I

“All hospitals smell of death,” Roper mumbled in his drugged state. Underneath the reek of industrial cleansers, it was there…right on the edge of one’s senses.

Roper laid in his hospital bed, half closed eyelids taking in the chaotic scene around him. Some of the other tournament fighters were there, many still dressed in Han’s yellow gi uniform, as well as some of his henchmen in the white gi. These particular patients were heavily sedated, unconscious forms handcuffed to bed frames.

Lee had disappeared after the Hong Kong Royal Police had taken over the crime scene. They rounded up all surviving participants. Lee was probably now back in his mountain monastery, or so Roper assumed. He sighed. Everything was gone; Williams dead, Tania dead, even his unpaid prize money from Han. Payment would never materialize since Han’s battered body was now laying in the morgue at Queen Mary Hospital.

A groan escaped from his lips, the dilaudid slowly wore off.

Appearing before his bed, like a stage act magician, was a Chinese physician in white lab coat. He spoke in a very posh British accent.

“Ah, Mr. Roper coming back to the land of the living I see. I just took a look at your X-rays, you are a very lucky man. Unlike most of my patients coming from the island, you have no broken bones, a few sprains for sure, along with some internal bleeding, not to mention those external lacerations.”

“Well, lucky me,” Roper mused.

“Indeed! We are going to keep you overnight for observation of course but I see no need to keep you here once you are stitched up. We will send you on your way tomorrow with a bit of aspirin for the pain.” Before Roper could reply, and request more dilaudid, the efficient physician had moved on to his next patient.

“Nice talkin’ to ya, Doc,” he said to the empty air in front of his bed.

Even with withdrawal setting in, Roper fell back into a deep slumber.

It was evening, he could tell since the blinds in the hospital room were open and he witnessed the reddish yellow sun softly setting. Although there were two beds in the room, he was alone. Soreness from a dozen different parts of his battered body made itself known. However, he did feel stronger, all major muscle groups seemed operational.

A loud knock on his door echoed inside the small hospital room. Roper coughed and licked his dry lips.

“Come in.” A fit, middle-aged gentleman entered. He wore a stylish dark suit, while carrying a white regimental panama hat in manicured hands like a rosary.

“Good evening, Mr. Roper. I am Senior Inspector Burns with the Royal Hong Kong Police, Special Branch. I trust you are feeling up for a bit of conversation?”

Roper looked up into the ruddy face of the tall, lanky Scotsman. He was clean shaven with slicked back dark hair and smelled of lemon soap. Roper wasn’t a fan of cops but he was in no condition to make a hasty exit out of a 4th story window.

“Sure, Inspector. Always happy to assist the police.” Roper slyly grinned at the Special Branch investigator.

“Hardly, Mr. Roper. I have read your police file from America. Seems you were well known to several bunko squads in California for running confidence games and swindling. However, since you mostly committed fraud against other criminals, the courts were quite lenient with you. Once again, a lucky man.”

“Well, since you know so much about me. How about I know a little about yourself, Inspector?”

“My background is irrelevant for our current discussion, Mr. Roper.” Inspector Burns smirked. He went to a small table near Roper’s hospital bed. He poured a generous amount of water from a plastic jug into a heavy glass cup and gave it to Roper. Roper couldn’t help himself and drank the water greedily. Burns waited patiently.

“You survived quite the ordeal, Mr. Roper. Several tournament competitors are now fighting for their lives in the surgery ward. Han’s henchmen, the ones still alive anyway, are being transported to Stanley Prison.”

“Yeah, On A Roll Roper is what they used to call me in ‘Nam. Why don’t you tell me why you are really here, Burns.”

“Yes, I agree, cut to the chase, as it were. We Scotsmen don’t relish small talk either. You are a professional con artist, sir. Luckily for you, Special Branch here in Hong Kong has such a need for a man of your particular talents. I saw the results of your handiwork; gruesome. Also, I found your passport in Han’s safe, along with the other participants. I assume you realize this tournament was highly illegal. So, you will work for us, for a bit. The assignment I have in mind will require both your fighting abilities, as well as your silver tongue. Work for us and you get to stay out of Stanley Prison. Also, you get your passport back, along with 5000 US dollars to help you start your new life…away from Hong Kong.” Roper sat up and cocked an eyebrow.

“Let’s make it an even 10K, Inspector.”

“No, but nice try. Let me remind you, I hold all the cards.” Roper shrugged and fell back on his pillow. You hold all the cards…for now, he thought to himself. Burns seemed to read his mind and crossed his arms, hard grey eyes bore down on him. Roper played indignant. He threw his hands up in the air.

“In the US, we call this blackmail, Inspector!”

“In Special Branch, we prefer the term indentured contractor. You are now a useful asset, much like Mr. Lee but he has fulfilled his contract with us.”

“Okay, so what now?” Inspector Burns took out a notepad and pen. He furiously scribbled down an address. He tore it and placed the slip of paper on the cheap wooden night stand.

“Tomorrow, you will go to that address at noon, that should give you time to acclimate yourself and get something to eat. The food here is retched. At that address, you will meet my colleague from Anti-Corruption Branch, Inspector Cheung. He will give you your instructions. Once your assignment is complete, I will return your passport and give you the agreed upon payment.”

“You expect me to show up in a hospital gown, Inspector? It won’t make a good impression.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Roper, we are not savages here in the Pearl of the Orient. In that heinous wardrobe armoire, you will find a set of clothes that should fit, along with a tourist map of Hong Kong and some petty cash. I will leave you to your rest now. We won’t be seeing each other again for a bit but rest assured…I will be watching.” Burns winked at Roper and exited the room quickly.

Probably off to blackmail another poor bastard, Roper thought to himself.

A young, comely Chinese nurse came in and checked his vitals and fed him some aspirin. Roper asked for a sponge bath but was coldly told that he could use the shower himself…alone. Roper decided to get some sleep instead.

Morning came all too quickly. Roper stretched and tested his limbs. He found that he was stiff but didn’t experience too much pain. After a long hot shower helped loosen up his sore muscles, he inspected Burns’ gifts.

It wasn’t really Roper’s style but the plain charcoal suit and white button down shirt fit him perfectly. The tie was thin and wholly out of style for 1973, it even had a silver tie clip. The ensemble was rounded out with a thick black leather belt and dark brown Oxford Brogue shoes. Thankfully, Burns had also left some new undergarments. He slowly dressed himself. Roper inspected himself in the bathroom mirror.

“I look like a damn Bakersfield accountant, well, I’ll just have to make it work for now. What’s the bread situation like?” Roper found a simple leather billfold in the inner pocket of the jacket. Burns had left 200 Hong Kong Dollars in various small bills in it. Not enough cash to get him out of Hong Kong, but enough to keep him fed for a few weeks.

Since Roper had skipped his last few meals, he was famished. Signing himself out of the hospital, he decided to go find breakfast and much needed coffee. He exited the busy hospital and found a cabbie who knew of an English style restaurant in Kennedy Town. The cab sped off.

Roper didn’t realize it at the time but Han’s tournament was merely a warmup for the true mayhem that was about to enter his formally nomadic self-absorbed world.

Part III

Five parked a quarter mile away from the cemetery, off of Elvira Street, the closest residential community to the small graveyard.

He threw a black MA-1 flight jacket over his brown tee shirt, since it was cool outside and to blend more into mother night. He carried a small SureFire flashlight in his left hand. He quickly walked west on Kicklighter Road, there was no traffic and the few houses that dotted the landscape were dark and quiet.

Being a convicted felon, Five had to be real careful when he carried a firearm. Since this current mission was only about surveillance, he decided to leave his beloved Springfield 1911 DS behind in his truck.

Five never considered that the stakeout might go awry.

The small town of Cassadaga had been established by New York spiritualists in the nineteenth century. Even now, you could find psychics, astrologers and palm readers plying their trade to both tourists and residents alike in the main village neighborhood. Five had known a few lady friends over the years who visited Volusia County for the purpose of fortune telling. Five on the other hand, preferred to make his own fortune.

He soon came upon the black wrought iron fence that marked the boundary of the town’s cemetery. In the distance, he could see flickering lights. He shut off his flashlight and slowly skulked towards the illumination at the center of the boneyard.

As he got closer, he observed lit tiki torches had been staked into the ground, making a small circle. In the circle was a red brick square and built into the wall was a rather uncomfortable chair. It was clear the wall had been built as a boundary for a small graveyard within the larger cemetery; two headstones with the name Thatcher could be seen inside the brick perimeter.

Something else had been placed inside the perimeter that clearly was not part of the cemetery.

A hideous scarecrow-like object was also placed in front of the red brick chair. It appeared to be some form of grotesque totem. The closer Five came to it, the more freakish it looked. A chain had been placed around the pole that acted as a neck and dark objects were attached to each chain. The crossbeam pole had what appeared to be black leather gloves on each end. A misshapen wooden head on the top of the pole bore a brunette wig. Five decided not to spend much time looking at it.

Around the totem stood a half dozen figures. They all wore white robes with hoods. Their faces were obscured by white featureless masks. They were engaged in some form of ritual. They mumbled aloud words in an alien language and threw hands up in a sort of exultation. It reminded Five of a prayer service at a Pentecostal church he was forced to attend once while in the wilds of Polk County.

Five moved closer to the ecstatic ceremony.

Two figures emerged from a copse of trees not far from where Five was covertly crouching. He had been seen by these guardians of the ceremony.

Both men were in white robes, like their brethren but they wore smooth black resin masks, one tall and angular and the other shorter and portly. Both held decorative machetes with three foot sharpened blades which shone in the moonlight.

“Guess that’s why I’m a damn intern and ain’t a real PI,” he cursed at himself for being sloppy and getting caught.

The two machete wielding guards charged the lone unarmed Five.

There was no place to run. He knew without a weapon, his chances of surviving were slim. Fives shoved his flashlight in a jacket pocket and took a defensive stance, preparing for the inevitable.

Five knew that some religious people would call upon saints to intercede in certain situations. Well, Five didn’t know much about saints or even Jesus for that matter but he had known one truly righteous man in his life, a man no one had ever uttered a negative word about, a man above reproach, his deceased hard-ass karate sensei.

“Master Bud, I know I wasn’t always your best behavin’ student and I tested your patience on more than one occasion, but I am begging for your help now!”

As the lead taller man charged, swinging his machete, amazingly, he tripped on a jutting tree root. The result was as if someone had swept his leg. He flew downward and a rock came up to meet his head, with a loud crack, he was immediately out cold. Five sprinted forward and scooped up the dropped machete in his right hand.

The second sentinel was on him. When Five had trained with Master Bud, he had been taught the Japanese art of using the tanbo or fighting stick, it was roughly the same length as the machete in Five’s calloused hand. Master Bud’s stick fighting training came flowing back into his mind.

The robed attacker was clearly untrained and based on the distended belly pushing out of his robe, not very athletic.

Five’s opponent struck out with a telegraphed forehand swing. Five easily parried and answered with a number two angle strike, in a quick slashing motion. He felt the machete connect to his attacker’s collarbone, the thin bone broke underneath the heavy steel, skin and muscle could be seen torn through the robe. The white material turned crimson.

The response was immediate. Five’s attacker let go of his machete and he made a high pitched piercing scream that split the quiet night. The guard’s arm dangled uselessly from his shoulder and he clutched at it with his other hand.

The man scurried in sheer terror out of the cemetery, blood leaking from his body. This began a cascading effect. The other six ritual participants had stopped their ritual and watched this scene of pandemonium. They witnessed their first compatriot knock himself unconscious and now they saw their last armed lookout receive a grievous bodily injury and blindly flee.

A wicked looking Five holding a bloody machete while grinning broke their resolve.

Panic is much like a virus, in that it is very contagious. Once it sets in, it can be all consuming. Five of the six ritual magicians also began scampering, running away in opposite directions. Some of them began shedding their robes and masks, in order to run faster.

Only one remained. He stood stock still and watched Five. Five tightened his grip on the machete and moved forward. He sauntered into the brick perimeter and stood before the shorter robed figure, by the Devil’s Chair.

The totem was even more horrifying up close. Five now understood that what he thought were gloves were putrefying human hands. The end of the chains sprouted decayed human feet.

Five continued moving towards the diminutive magician.

He could hear mumbling inside the mask and hood, his head began to hurt and his vision blurred at times. Without thinking, Five snatched the mask off and pulled the hood down from the slender robed figure’s head.

He stood there; mouth agape.

This ain’t impossible, he thought.

The long blond hair spilled over onto her robed shoulders. She smiled with thick ruby red lips.

“Hello, lover.” She simply stated in her southern Virginia accent. The machete fell from Five’s numb hand.

“Becky?!? How…why…what…the fuck!” Five sputtered, stepping back. Becky casually stepped forward, he could smell the coconut body wash she always used and loved.

She moved forward, embraced him with her arms. She pressed her lips against his own, the kiss was passionate and intoxicating, just like their last one had been. Long repressed memories assaulted his mind.

Salty tears flowed freely from Five’s closed eyes.

Somewhere in the night, an owl screeched and something else answered. Five’s mind flew back to the present moment.

He blinked the tears from his eyes, standing before him wasn’t Becky, instead, it was a thin young man with delicate features, cold emerald eyes and long curly, black hair. A kris dagger was in his right hand and it came down in an overhead chopping motion.

Five reacted as he was taught by Master Bud. He blocked the wrist with left hand and committed a nodowa, throat jab with the fingertips of his right hand. The slender throat of his adversary was no match for Five’s stiff, well worked fingers.

The young man fell to the ground retching and clutching his damaged neck. Five picked up the fallen kris dagger and shoved it into the waistband of his dark jeans. Then he grabbed the machete.

Five patiently waited a few minutes for the young occultist to regain his breath and get his voice box working again.

“Speak, son or else I bury this here machete in your skull, the critters can have what’s left of you.” Five waved the machete around menacingly to assert his point.

“What..what…do..you want?” the gasping, prone magician asked.

“I saw the corpse those feet and hands came from…who was he…why did you kill him…and how the hell did you look like Becky a few minutes ago?”

The young man looked up, blood flecked on his lips from a bleeding tongue.

His head fell back and he laughed wildly.

“Lord Mot has given me the gift of glamour, I delved into your simple mind and stole an image of someone you loved and trusted. You found my teacher, my former master but he betrayed me, he betrayed all of us, including our Lord Mot. He was speaking to an outsider, a woman! She was some journalist, writing a book on ancient cults…she would have exposed us, she has been silenced forever!”

Five’s stomach dropped as he looked at the grotesque totem with its long brunette wig; it wasn’t a wig, it was scalped human hair. The young worshipper’s mouth was now open and he continued his confession freely, it came pouring out of him like a raging river.

“The rest of us, we decided in secret that Ragnar was going to be our sacrifice to Lord Mot, along with his harlot…it would greatly please Mot and increase our power. Once we were finished, we tried burying Ragnar several times but when I would awake in the morning, his dirt covered body was always sitting inside my home, his empty sockets staring at me. We determined the only way to be rid of him permanently was burial at sea. Water would neutralize his sorcery, so we dumped the body in the Gulf, where it will float forever, suspended between life and death…for he has been rejected by our Lord Mot due to his betrayal.”

“What?!? You mean that dude ain’t fully dead?” Five asked incredulously. The young man smiled maliciously.

“No, even as his body rots and is torn apart by living creatures, his soul will continue to inhibit that skeleton. A silent decaying lich.”

Both stared at each other for a moment. A silent standoff of sorts occurred.

“Well, I guess I solved this case. Not bad…for an intern. This was nothing personal, mind you. I didn’t realize I was getting involved in some internal matter between weirdo cultists types. But if you decide to find me and come after me…I will end you, boy.”

The young man’s hazel eyes were full of hatred, he smirked. Five sighed.

In order to bring his point fully home. Five took the butt of the machete and smashed it into the forehead of the youthful magician with all his strength. The eyes fluttered briefly and his head slid back, unconscious. Five picked him up and sat him in the Devil’s Chair.

“Good night, Harry Potter.”

As Five exited the cemetery, he made an anonymous call to 911. He told the dispatcher he was driving near the cemetery when he witnessed bizarre armed, robed figures running around, as well as feminine screams and gunshots. He added those last few lies in order to get the deputy sheriffs to drive code three to the area.

It had been one helluva night. He decided to keep the fancy machete as a souvenir but left the kris dagger buried in the totem.

Four days later, Five and his buddy Gus sat in Five’s fishing vessel at a placid spot in the Gulf of America.

Five took another sip of his beer. “Ah, now that is what I call pain management, Detective Florida Man!” He had just gotten done explaining the entire sordid story of the cult meeting at the cemetery. Gus was not pleased that Five didn’t wait for him and he went alone but he knew his friend. Five was all about immediate action rather than thoughtful, careful, planning.

Gus saw the local news. Several men had been arrested in and around the strange cemetery and were now in county lockup, awaiting arraignment.

“Well, sounds like you performed your own occult magic, Five.”

“What you mean?”

“You called upon the shade of your old master…and he listened. Sounds like necromancy to me.”

“Yeah..you might be on to something, Detective Florida Man.”

“Also, you made out with a dude, bro!” Gus laughed so hard he began coughing.

“Shut the hell up and hand me that bait.”

The sun blazed overhead and two old friends continued cajoling each other and drinking until both had caught a pile of mahi mahi.

Van Halen played in the background.

Part II

“I can’t investigate your watery corpse right now, Five. I think I know where my missing guy is at and I need to head out of the area for a bit.”

“Well, what do I do about this funky situation, man?”

“Look, maybe I can pick up this investigation when I am done with this current case. Tell you what, I am officially making you my intern. Your job will be to do some research for me, background type stuff, so I know what I am dealing with when I’m ready.”

“PI intern? Hell, yeah brother. I like the sound of that. So what do you want me to do? Do I get a badge?”

“No. I’ll tell you what, there is this bizarre bookshop, down in Ybor City, it’s an occult bookshop…the Weirdest Bookshop In Florida. I want you to go there and talk to the owner, a strange fellow by the surname of Wilson. Make some pics of those rune tattoos and ask him about them. See what he says, then hit me up.”

“Alright, Detective Florida Man, I’ll do it! What’s the name of that bookshop?”

“That is the name, it is literally called The Weirdest Bookshop In Florida.”

“Well, alright, if you say so.”

“One more thing, the man is addicted to Arizona Ice Tea, but only the Black and White version, it’s rare but Bob’s Big Deals in Pinellas Park carries it. Buy a couple of those and bring them as a sort of offering.”

The following day, Five spent a prosaic morning and afternoon taking some jovial dentists out on the Gulf for a fishing excursion. When he finally had his boat docked and cleaned up, it was already getting dark but according to the bookshop’s Facebook page, it was open until 1 am.

“This bookseller must be a real nightcrawler,” he stated to himself as he jumped into his Ford pickup, after changing into some jeans and a clean tee shirt.

Five sped south to Pinellas Park, picked up the offering at the discount beverage store and drove across the lengthy Howard Frankland Bridge. It was a quiet unseasonably cool spring night with little traffic flowing through Tampa.

However, the various bars and night clubs of Ybor City were hopping with life. Even the homeless in this Tampa neighborhood seemed upbeat and alive with electricity.

After driving through the main entertainment district, he came upon a small out of the way stripmall at the dead end of East 8th Avenue. One side of the street was a self-storage warehouse and on the other side was an abandoned pet hotel.

The stripmall contained exactly three businesses; an all-night taco place: Casa Santa Filomena on one end and on the other a vape and head shop. Sandwiched in between was a nondescript brick building with a glass and steel front door as an entrance.

What stood out was the large metal sign above the entrance.

The gaudy red and green neon sign boldly proclaimed: The Weirdest Bookshop In Florida. As it was getting dark, the neon truly penetrated the gloom.

As Five walked up to the frosted glass front door, two striking, well endowed goth girls dressed in all black strolled out holding a pile of books in their hands. They headed to the taco restaurant. Five briefly considered following them.

Instead, he strode through the front door.

It was an offbeat place.

The inside was lit with overhead spotlights, creating an effect where some areas, such as the front wooden counter with iPad, were overly lit, while other areas of the bookstore were hidden in near impenetrable darkness. This was compounded by the fact that all four walls of the building had been painted black. Young, hip college age patrons hunted the various stacks and shelves with phone flashlights at times, searching for secrets of the universe.

The book shelves were brimming with all sorts of texts, both ancient and modern but Five, not being a scholar of the written word in any form, ignored it all.

Since Five was no professional investigator, he decided to be blunt and direct.

He walked straight up to the black stained wooden counter and the man leaning against it on the other side. He was a tall, slender middle-aged man, dressed in black jeans, and a long sleeved black polo with black nail polish on his fingernails. Five noticed the man was painfully pale but with intense blue eyes which watched him closely, his black hair was pulled into a slick ponytail. A well trimmed graying van dyke beard rounded out his elegant appearance.

“Hey, how are ya? My name is Five, are you Wilson?”

“Yes, Winston F.T. Wilson is the name…at your service…welcome to my humble bookshop…how may I assist you, Mr. Five?”

“It’s just Five. Well, my buddy, Detective…ah, I mean Gus Florden told me you might be able to help me with something. Also, he asked me to give you these.” Five dropped the two bottles of Arizona Iced Tea on the pitted, scarred counter.

Wilson’s ice blue eyes widened slightly. “Ah, thank you, my good man. The ginseng and honey coats and soothes my nicotine stained throat. Yes, I remember your friend fondly. We had a few stimulating conversations in the past. He has a niche interest in energy vampires. I know a little about the topic of the various subtypes of strigoi.”

“How so, Mr. Wilson?”

“I learned about this peculiar subject during my travels and scholarship through the Dark Country.”

“The what now?”

“You would know it as that terrible central region of Romania called Transylvania.”

“Oh, no fooling?! You see like Dracula’s castle and all that jazz?”

“No, there are things much more horrific there than an undead Wallachian aristocrat.”

“If you say so, anyway I have some questions about rune tattoos.” Five took out his phone and showed the bookseller various close-up pics he had taken of the tattooed corpse. Wilson twisted open an iced tea cap.

“Hmmm, possibly West Semitic or maybe Canaanite, yes, probably Canaanite, see those curves there? Very similar to their unusual script. I have a book somewhere around here on the cult of Mot, their god of death, the Devourer of Everything. The Hebrews would come to call him Satan.” He looked around absentmindedly.

“That’s okay, I ain’t much of a reader. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who could tell me more about this subject, would ya?” Winston F.T. Wilson frowned and was silent for a moment. Finally, he made up his mind while sipping his Arizona Iced Tea.

“Well…there is a certain group of Left Hand path magicians, here in Florida, who would know much more about such things. I find them to be an unsavory lot myself. I don’t have any acquaintance with anyone from this group myself. But I have heard they get together once a month, during the full moon, of course.”

“Of course,” Five stated as if he was knowledgeable about this little occult lore he knew nothing about.

“During the full moon, it is whispered, they travel from all over the state and meet at the Devil’s Chair, in an old cemetery near Lake Helen and Cassadaga. There they supposedly commune with unclean things, or so I have been told. It’s all very sordid, you understand.” Five snapped his fingers and became excited.

“Hey! I heard of that place! It’s just northeast of Orlando. Supposedly, if you sit on the chair in the graveyard on a certain night, at a certain time, the devil will whisper secrets into your ear.”

Wilson slowly blinked and nodded while drinking his Arizona Iced Tea with the sublime delight of the drug fiend in an opium den. Just then a few young, spiky green haired punkers came up to the counter with a small stack of books. Five thanked Wilson for the information and left the eccentric bookseller to attend to his customers.

While sitting in his truck, Five took out his phone and Googled when the next full moon would occur, it was in two nights. Five cogitated for a few minutes, a simple plan formed in his sober brain. Five knew Detective Florida Man wouldn’t be ready to conduct a stakeout in two days time. It would be up to him. He didn’t know much about PI surveillance but how hard could it be? He thought to himself.

Five fired up his engine. The satellite radio was playing Van Halen’s Panama on the 80s rock station. He took this as a good omen and it cemented his decision. He would monitor the old cemetery in two nights time and continue gathering information.

The plan wouldn’t go according to plan. But then again Five O’Clock Somewheres had never read any Robert Burns poetry.

Part I

Five O’Clock Somewheres sat in his fishing boat. For once, he actually was fishing.

No contraband to be picked up, no arms deals going down in the middle of the Gulf, no surreptitious midnight meeting on little known inlets.

No, Five was just fishing.

Today, he was all alone. The daytripping customers, looking for some mahi mahi or grouper would arrive the following day. He invited his best friend, Gus but Detective Florida Man was working on a missing persons case and Five couldn’t persuade him to take the day off, a mental health check day he insisted, but Gus refused. He was like a bloodhound who had caught a scent and was off to pursue his quarry.

Five enjoyed his fishing outings with Detective Florida Man. Although Gus was his best friend, neither man would ever acknowledge this fact. Some things are simply best left unsaid between amigos. They had been through a lot together and this forged a strong bond.

A photo of a comely and shapely woman with a big smile in a bikini holding up a large fish was tacked onto the vessel’s console. Five was feeling a bit morose, he missed Becky but he knew she was never coming back, she’d made herself a new life in Las Vegas and there she would stay.

A second beer was pulled out of the cooler for his liquid lunch and he checked his lines.

One of the lines began tugging but in such a queer manner, Five thought someone was playing with him. He pulled the Shimano fishing rod from the gunwale mount on the stern of his vessel and began reeling in the line.

The line tightened and then loosened. This occurred continuously and almost rhythmically.

Five let loose such a hellacious torrent of swear words that it would have made a Tijuana whore blush.

After several minutes of fighting the line, an object glided into Five’s visual range.

It was no fish.

Although due to the paleness of the flesh, it could have been mistaken for a dead shark, it was a mammal.

More specifically, it had once been a man.

The corpse was naked and had begun bloating. It was covered in strange blue and red tattoos that quite frankly made Five’s eyes hurt from looking at them too long. Instead, he holstered his rod and took out his phone. He hit record.

The body was a man who probably had been middle-aged, he was bald and his eye color was unknown since his eyes had either been torn or eaten out.

Empty sockets looked towards the blue sky.

The body began swaying with the water, Five would swear in that moment, it was almost swimming languidly with the current and waves. After a few minutes of this slow steady movement, the fishing hook became untethered from the ear it had snagged on too.

The corpse was missing both hands and feet. The aristocratic Caucasian face had an almost placid look to it, as if it was enjoying a day at the beach. The buoyant body then began sinking into the Gulf. Five dropped his phone on a chair and grabbed his pole gaff. He attempted to hook the body with it but it was too late. The body quickly sank but also moved away from the boat. After a minute, Five could no longer see it or where it went.

He sat down and stared at nothing for several minutes, his prosaic morning had been thoroughly violated.

“Well, hell,” he muttered to himself.

Due to previous adventures with Detective Florida Man, Five knew there were things out in the Gulf, no man needed to know about…or should look for. But this was too much, Five knew he had to locate someone in authority and show them the video.

He marked his location on his GPS. Five pulled his other fishing lines and aimed his boat towards the marina in Ozona.

When Five had docked his boat, he immediately drove to the Pinellas County Sheriff North District station in Dunedin, he saw who he was looking for in the parking lot. Sgt. Luz Rodriguez was slowly ambling towards her SUV when an excited Five flagged her down to get her attention.

She immediately folded her arms and frowned when she recognized the stained, grubby baseball cap and OD colored cargo shorts. Five wanted to show her the video on his phone, the strange corpse floating in the Gulf. Sgt. Rodriguez turned her handsome, skeptical face towards the well-known recidivist. She sighed.

“Have you been drinking, Five?”

“That was hours ago, Sgt. Rodriguez…I am stone cold sober, hand to God!”

“Hmmm, okay…why are you here?”

“I came looking for you, a respectable officer of the law, I got something I need you to see.” Five took out his iPhone and played the video of the odd corpse, dancing in the warm waters of the Gulf. Sgt. Rodriguez knitted her dark brows together.

“This can’t be real..what’s your game? What do you really want?” Five and the good deputy had a long complex history together. Like many women throughout his life.

One time, he had informed her of an illegal gun deal going down in an isolated spot out by Indian Shores. The resulting combined ATF/sheriff’s office bust had helped deputy Rodriquez get her promotion to patrol sergeant and eliminated one of Five’s competitors. Everyone was happy, except Daryl White and company who were now doing 15 to 20 in a federal pokey.

“Hey, man…I’m telling you as a concerned citizen of this here sunshine state. That corpse is still out there,” Five argued and pointed west to the Gulf.

“You’re a degenerate and a fucking criminal,” the irate sheriff shot back. Five was no stranger to the county sheriff’s office, the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, the U.S. Coast Guard and the state highway patrol.

About the only law enforcement agency who wasn’t familiar with him was the state gaming control. This was only due to the fact that Five was not a gambling man.

“Be that as it may, you are employed to go out and detect at the request of the citizenry, so go detect. This weird ass corpse is still out there!”

“If you tell me your tax dollars pay my salary…I will shoot you.” She didn’t wait for a retort and instead, put her aviator’s sunglasses on and turned her back on him, heading towards her supervisor marked SUV. He had to admit that her latina ass did fill out the cargo pants of her uniform quite well.

Five made the wise decision to not throw a middle-fingered salute. The lady cop left and he decided to think things over with a few cold libations at Missy’s tiki bar.

Since Missy, the bar owner, was in a good mood, she agreed to serve him, as long as he behaved himself. He made a boy scout pledge to be an ideal customer. Luckily for him, It was shoulder season and few tourists were in the bar, just the usual locals.

He took a stool at the bar and Missy plopped a Modelo in front of him. A few of the regulars smiled and nodded at him.

The older degenerates at the beach bar often commented that he looked like David Lee Roth circa early 2000s. This stroked his ego since Five was a lover of Diamond Dave’s music and overall vibe. Like Roth, Five had been an admirer of Japanese martial arts when he was young and earned a black belt in Kyokushin Karate by the time he was 25 years old, fighting young tradesmen in a humid dojo, under the watchful glare of his wrathful former marine sensei, Master Bud.

Five sipped at his beer and took out his iPhone. He pulled some pics from the video he had taken of the corpse. The whole situation unnerved him, he decided that he needed professional help and texted the pics to Detective Florida Man.

The results were instantaneous, Five’s phone began buzzing and he answered.

“What the fuck, man?!?”

“I thought those pics would get your attention, Detective Florida Man.”

“You should have sent me an explanation, Five. You don’t just text a man pics of a bloated naked dead body in the water!”

“Nobody wants to do anything about this. I want to know more about this dead guy! I need your help.”

“Alright, send me the rest of that video, Five. Those tattoos, I think I recognize the art. I saw it in this old book I…ah…acquired a few months back.”

Five knew he was in it now, there was no turning back.

Since it has been a while, I thought I would drop another essay in my irregular series on the men who built and maintained American civilization. The last essay was on the Hotel Detectives who secured the reputations of American hotels in the first half of the twentieth century. In this essay, we are going back slightly further into the later half of the nineteenth century.

Westward expansion was often an arduous and even dangerous journey for early pioneers and settlers. Over time, once towns were settled and large regions pacified of hostile Indian tribes, a new mode of transport was desperately needed to connect east and west. The stage coach was too limited and there weren’t enough large bodies of water to connect the two coasts.

Enter the private railroads. The first American tech companies.

This machine of iron and steam could ship people and material back and forth across the expansive west. In 1869, three separate railroads came together to create the Pacific Railroad. A route that connected the wharf of San Francisco to the trading settlements of Council Bluff, Iowa. Even more routes continued to blossom from that time on due to the success of the Pacific Railroad company.

The railroad would finally close the frontier of America.

So how does one lay track over vast territory that is uneven and prone to harsh weather at times? Enter the gandy dancers.

A gandy dancer, is a term given to railroad workers who physically laid the track. Section hands were the official title given to these contract construction workers. Before 1900, there were no machines that could do this arduous work. It had to be done by men who sweated and broke their backs under an unrelenting sun.

Working all day with various hand tools, sometimes with a song caller to keep them moving and their spirits up.

Only the most desperate of men would sign up for these harsh working conditions. Therefore, it tended to attract migrants or in the case of the south, those African Americans who were willing to truly toil for steady pay. Sometimes, chain gangs of prisoners would be utilized.

My grandfather, who worked for a railroad company for 30 years, after World War II, worked with the grandson of a gandy dancer when he was a very young man and this worker was getting ready to retire. He was a polish man who, according to my grandfather, “looked like Charles Bronson, could drink all night and work all day without any complaint.”

The term itself comes from the tool these men used to keep the tracks in alignment, known as a gandy, they had to quickly move around it when laying the tracks, hence the nickname of dancing. But there is controversy around the origin of the name itself, some things are simply lost to us, being that oral history is not written down very often.

So why am I, a weird pulp writer, discussing early railroad workers?

Quite simply, it is the grandsons of these men who would become the voracious readers of early pulp, such as Black Mask and Weird Tales. As well as the commuters who used the railroad itself. After all, one needed something to do while sitting on a long train ride.

In addition to southern blacks and Chinese immigrants in the south and west, hordes of European immigrants were paid to lay the iron road in the northeast and midwest. Many of these immigrants had never been outside their squalid urban tenements before. This work expanded their horizons. They realized they didn’t have to live in places like New York City or Boston. The steady pay allowed them to build homes and families throughout small cities and large towns that blossomed around these new railroad stations.

This was the beginning of economic prosperity which would drive further innovation and wealth in the early part of 20th century America. Men would have more free time and petty cash and were looking for entertainment. Mass compulsory education would mean that every American would have direct access to basic literacy.

For me, the railroad will always hold a place of romance in my heart. As a little boy, I spent so much time around railroad men. As a child, by this time, my grandfather had been promoted to stationmaster in the small town where I lived. It wasn’t a large station so my grandfather had multiple duties.

I loved hanging out in his second floor office, it was built more like an airport control tower. I would stand on a stool and press my face to the glass and watch the trains arrive. I listened in as my grandfather cheerfully spoke to the train engineers on the CB radio, giving directions and receiving reports on the tracks.

Sometimes, I even got to walk the tracks with my grandfather, looking for maintenance issues. He would pour me a cup of hot chocolate and himself a cup of hot coffee and we’d walk the tracks together. He would tell me stories about the men he’d work with over the long years of his career.

This was truly a world of men.

Exactly one woman worked at the train station. I don’t remember her name but she had a kind smile and a quiet voice. She worked the ticket counter and sold both train and bus tickets, since the county bus system also used the train station as a transfer station, moving people to the nearby airport and the downtown section of a nearby city, the largest population center in the state.

Across the street from the train station was a news stand convenience store. It was here that my grandfather would also buy me comic books and gum. The news stand’s racks carried many paperbacks but I was too young to read them but their garish covers fascinated me. I still remember the 1982 Berkley edition of Starship Troopers.

Back to the gandy dancers, as with most backbreaking toil, this job would be replaced by technology soon enough. However, some railroad employees would continue to be called gandy dancers all the way into the early 1960s. Mainly, these men were responsible for the unending maintenance work on the tracks.

As difficult as this kind of work was, sometimes, I wonder if we have lost something fundamental by allowing machines to take over this type of toil. Hard labor is not pleasant but there are times when I have engaged in it and recognized it was good for my soul, especially when you can gaze upon something and say: I built this with my own hands.

The next time you see some railroad tracks in your travels, think of the gandy dancers and their backbreaking efforts to build this magnificent country of ours.

Part III

It’s amazing how taking some aspirin, drinking a gallon of water and taking a two hour power nap will reduce the effects of even the most insidious of hangovers.

I was back at the Sugar Shack and doing what most private investigators spend the majority of their time doing outside of surveillance…researching.

Before I took off for Five O’Clock Somewhere’s warehouse with my undead luggage in tow, I snatched a painting from the wall of the mobile home’s addon. It looked to be from sometime in the 1700s. I wanted more information and a new AI art website provided it for me.

The AI, aptly named Monet, asked me to snap a picture of the painting with my iPhone and attach it to a response. It only took about a minute or so and the entire history of the piece shot up onto my laptop screen.

This painting is by the Polish artist, Piotr Kowalczyk. Kowalczyk was a well known portrait artist during the European enlightenment period who painted many noblemen, both great and lesser of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. He died not long after finishing this final piece from a mysterious wasting disease. The portrait is of a Lord Ostrogski. Not much is known about him other than he disappeared from his small estate in Malbork after being accused of engaging in strange occult practices, such as summoning demons, communing with the dead, as well as buggery. All capital offenses at that time.

An offer popped up on my screen stating some private collector would pay me 25K for it. I didn’t respond. Looks like its unholy owner was desperately looking for it.

I attempted an AI deepdive about this Lord Ostrogski but didn’t learn anything new, other than he disappeared (presumed dead) in 1751. I reckoned it was about time he disappeared permanently.

An idea, an outline of a very basic plan began forming in my Tennessee noggin.

I texted Mag and advised her that I had found the unit on Lot 187 to be unsecured and found some human bones inside, near a weird altar. I told her I had a friend in the FBI who specialized in dental records and could match dental records if she knew the name of the dental clinic her family had used when Jan was still around. She gave me the name of some dental clinic in Maryland and I told her that I would get back to her.

I also told her to immediately text me when she saw the Cadillac back at Lot 187. She readily agreed.

I spent the rest of the day with preparations.

A while back, I did a favor for the bishop of the archdiocese of Pinellas County. I decided to call in that chip. I asked him for a container of holy water. I am sure my protestant ancestors cried over that request.

The bishop was very surprised by my odd request but after I promised to sign up for an online Catholic catechism course, he readily agreed. I picked it up at the rectory of St. Jude before heading to my next stop.

I drove to FreeMen gun shop in Dunedin and bought 25 rounds of 12 gauge rock salt rounds, along with a bandolier to sling around my chest.

I called the casino and let them know I would be off for a few days because of the flu. They weren’t happy about it but then again, they didn’t want a sick security guard wandering around the lobby coughing on alcoholics and the elderly. I went to bed feeling prepared and ready for anything. I woke up with a text from Mag…the Cadillac had returned sometime that night.

I grabbed my gear and jumped into the Jeep and headed north to EZ BreeZy.

“You think he’s been kidnappin’ and killin’ for years on end, without anyone catching on?” Mag asked wide eyed.

I laid it out for my client, portraying the kidnapper of her brother as a particularly virulent occult serial killer from New Jersey. It was a small fib but a necessary one. I didn’t think she was ready to believe her brother’s body had been abused by some type of energy vampire.

“Yes, and look, I need you to leave for the night, Mag. I plan on poking the hornet’s nest and I am not sure how he is going to react but he WILL react to my jab. Can I help you pack? You can stay at my place, if you have nowhere to go.” She shook her head.

“No, I got a girlfriend in Holiday I can stay with, it ain’t a problem. You gonna kill him?” She sounded hopeful.

“It may come to that, I would prefer a confession from him about your brother’s kidnapping and death, as well as a why but if push comes to shove, I’m droppin’ im,” I lied. My plan called for sending that unholy polack to Hell, no questions asked. She went to go pack but then stopped and turned around.

“But why my family, why target us?”

“I’m not sure. I know this guy is Polish, like your family. New Jersey has a large Polish community he could hide in. You told me about your ancestors who worked for the Catholic Church, investigating local legends. Maybe this guy found about it and being unhinged, targeted your family over it. It’s only a theory.” She nodded and went to get her things.

When Mag had gone, I prepared my vampire hunting kit.

I took out the rock salt shotgun rounds and doused each one in holy water. I doubted the holy water saturated rock salt rounds would kill ‘em but I didn’t care, I wanted him to hurt; hurt real bad. I had a few other ideas about how to annihilate that piece of shit.

Then I prepared the bait.

As the sun went down, I stepped outside with the old painting of Lord Fancypants. I set it up so the picture and frame faced Lot 187.

Then I doused the painting, gilt frame and all, in kerosene. I picked up several pebbles and walked closer to Lot 187 but not too close, I began pelting the single wide unit with my stones. After I threw a dozen of them, I walked back to the painting, took out a box of matches, lit a few of them and threw them on the painting.

I didn’t even hang out to watch my handiwork. I simply went back into Mag’s double wide and shut the door behind me, locking the deadbolt.

I took a single shot of tequila from a bottle I pulled out of my overnight bag. I put on my shooting range ear protection and slung the bandolier of shotgun rounds over my chest. I grabbed my Mossberg 590A1 and waited.

I didn’t wait long.

An inhuman ear piercing scream came to life outside. Gawd almighty, it was awful.

I put my back to a wall and pumped a round into the shotgun, I pointed it at the door.

The entire fiberglass front door flew off its hinges, as if a tornado swallowed it. It was incredible to witness. The creature charged inside.

He had no fangs, no bat wings or even blood red eyes. Hell, he didn’t even look like 1990s Gary Oldman. A part of me wanted to laugh, the paintings were a fake, an ideal version of himself. AI enhanced before it was even invented.

In fact, he looked like this balding IT guy I used to know, who collected vintage transistor radios. The total banality of evil.

But he clearly wasn’t a boring nerd. A snarl was plastered to his homely bearded face and he simply pointed at me with stubby fingers. I decided to begin the conversation.

Three of his fingers on his left hand simply disappeared, no blood or ichor, just ceased to exist from a holy water rock salt blast at short range.

Before I could unleash the other 4 rounds, he was on me, damn, he was fast. The shotgun got knocked out of my hands and onto the floor.

Physically, he was much smaller than me but I felt like I was wrestling with a stone golem who was 7 feet tall. We rolled around on the taupe plush carpet, grappling with a desperation I have never felt in my entire life. He kept trying to get his ruined hands around my neck. I suspected he wanted the satisfaction of strangling me, especially after what I did to his vanity artwork.

We ended up near some cans and one fell over, it was the other cans of kerosene I had brought with me.

I had hoped to push him outside with the holy water rock salt rounds and then throw the kerosene on him but now I was desperate. I couldn’t manhandle this immortal occultist, he was too powerful. I would have to light him up inside Mag’s unit.

My old wrestling coach would not have approved but I was playing by a different set of rules in that trailer park. When I felt the can knock over, I made my move. I bit down hard on the nose of my forceful opponent. It tasted awful, like a diseased putrefying ham. Again, no blood came forth but it had an effect, at heart, he was a vain creature.

He didn’t scream but he let me go to inspect his nose. It was all I needed, I grabbed a pint of kerosene and dumped the entire contents on his head. I think it had been years since anyone (if anyone) had truly fought him. He was probably used to stalking his prey and taking them by subterfuge. My vampiric buddy had never been hunted before.

I pulled out my box of matches and lit the kerosene.

The old legends were true. Fire and the undead do not mix well at all. The head of the creature had become a greenish fireball. I could see flesh melting much too quickly from the flames.

Still, it moved in a terrible fashion and screamed horrifically. If I hadn’t been wearing my ear protection, I might have lost control of my nerves and bowels at the same time, his voice seemed to have some sorta unnatural power.

Blindly, he came at me, he could no longer see very well but his fingers still tore at my clothes and his fingernails even scraped some flesh from my arms. That burning head singed some of my own hair, my forearm hair was smoldering.

I was able to push him off but in his blind panic, curtains and other fabrics also caught on fire. I grabbed my Mossberg and began pumping rounds at him, pushing him outside. I exited the mobile home as heavy black smoke began pouring out of it, fires eating up oxygen.

In an effort to save himself, he managed to run across the street towards his own unit. I grabbed a metal can of kerosene near the burning painting and ran after him. The monster dashed inside and I chased but stopped when I got inside the addon. I took the kerosene and emptied it. I lit everything there on fire and exited the only entrance.

He continued screaming and knocking into objects inside the single wide. I could hear other items catching on fire, all of his burning candles didn’t help, they were getting knocked over. I took my shotgun and fed it more rounds from the bandolier. Every time he attempted to exit the trailer from the front door or one of the windows, I fired on him.

I turned that trailer into a giant funeral pyre.

“Burn motherfucker! Burn!” I hooted and screamed, laughing like a manic. Emptying every shotgun round I had into the flames. The flames soared high and hot, even a few surrounding palm trees began smoking. I didn’t care, I was elated, I had destroyed a thing of darkness and I was alive.

Eventually, I heard sirens in the distance. Some of the braver residents located on the other side of the park were leaving their units and slowly wandering towards the cul de sac. Only after I made sure nothing moved in that conflagration, did I get into my Jeep and take a back exit out of EZ BreeZy.

I was bruised, blooded and covered in soot but pumping out too much adrenaline to even care. I got home and took a shower and fell into bed for several hours, waking up not long after sunrise.

I called Mag and gave her an abridged version of what happened the previous night. I left out the epic vamping out that her brother’s killer engaged in.

“Sorry about your mobile home, Mag.”

“Don’t be, it was insured and I could never live in EZ BreeZy knowing you found Jan’s bones there. I’ll rebuild my life somewhere else. This morning, before you called, I decided to fully retire from the lifestyle. I kinda feel calm and at peace now, ya know?”

“I’m glad. I wish you the best in that new life. I’m off to Missy’s bar for a plate of eggs, avocado and a well deserved mimosa.”

“Thanks again, fella,” she remarked before hanging up.

I looked down at the slim red leather volume. It was written in Greek and contained some disturbing sketches. A souvenir I had saved from the vampire’s burning wreckage of a home.

“Hmmm, I wonder what trouble I could get in with that?” I asked ugly cat, he simply sniffed it, then coughed up an immense hairball.

Unfortunately, one day I found out.

Part II

I got up early.

Thanks to ugly cat.

He demanded breakfast as soon as the sun peeked above the limp palm trees in the park. After a few leisurely cups of espresso and checking in on pointless social media, I showered and shaved.

I prepared myself to be the private investigator others expected of me.

I pulled my new used Glock 19 out of my floor safe and slipped into my kidney holster. Recently purchased at a local, dingy pawn shop after I lost my last Glock in an unfortunate swamp incident. I didn’t think I would be in any danger at a 55 plus Mobile Home Community but I found potential clients liked knowing you were armed, part of the mystique of being a private investigator. For many clients, they viewed a PI without a gat like a firefighter without his turnout gear, kinda useless.

In order to cover up the gun and holster, I threw on a cheerful teal and gold Hawaiian shirt. stonewashed jeans and slightly scuffed leather boat shoes rounded out my professional ensemble. A pair of vintage mirrored aviators were added and I hopped into my Jeep Islander.

Traffic was light as I headed up US 19. As I drove north, the strip malls became much more seedy. Gone were the Starbucks and Wholefoods, replaced by head shops, strip clubs, and discount grocery stores with names in both English and Spanish.

Still, western Pasco County had a certain charm to it, a live and let live vibe that burned out hippies and misanthropic libertarians would appreciate.

I swerved into a right hand turn onto Route 54, leaving the long, dirty strip malls behind, soon I took a left onto Starkey Road and headed north. It was quite a contrast, development ended on the eastern side of the road, where Starkey Wilderness Preserve began. On the western side, residential streets had been carved into what had formerly been prosaic nature. Perhaps, in fifty years or so, Starkey would go from being a large wilderness preserve to a small county park.

The entrance to EZ BreeZy was easy to spot. The sign outside the main gate was taller than my own mobile home; very large letters declared: EZ BreeZY Mobile Home Community…YOU DESERVE TO LIVE HERE. Hmmm, ominous, I thought to myself.

However, it didn’t appear to be any different than the hundreds of other retirement trailer parks in central Florida. Elderly women in large brimmed straw hats were outside freshly painted units, tending to their perimeter gardens.

Mag’s lot was deep into the mobile home community, where the units were much more spaced out from one another. These lots were far from the amenities, such as the main clubhouse, pool and laundry facilities; it felt remote, closer to the wilderness preserve.

As I excited my Jeep, the first thing I noticed was the quiet. Whereas the earlier mobile homes were humming with daily life, here there was nothing but silence. Even the air felt oppressive, it was too early for the afternoon humidity, so I couldn’t chalk it up to the weather.

Perhaps the various bizarre experiences I’ve been exposed to over the past few years made me more sensitive to these things than most Floridians.

I walked over to the salmon and green colored double wide unit and hit an Amazon Ring video doorbell. Mag came to the door in a beige coverup dress, a neon green bikini peaked out from underneath. Her eyes went wide when she saw me standing at her door.

“Didn’t think you’d come, I just got back from the pool.” She gestured for me to come inside. I noticed she intently scanned the curtilage of the property before shutting the door…and locking it.

The interior of the mobile home was cozy, full of bric-a-brac and various baubles. Her furniture was modern and tasteful, she pointed to a padded green side chair. It was comfortable, if a little cool, being too close to one of her window a/c units.

“You want coffee or ah beer?” She asked sincerely. I shook my head.

“Just a glass of water, seltzer, if you have it.” She nodded and took a glass from a dark stained cabinet and reached into an ancient battered fridge. It was an old Montgomery Ward build, older than me and would probably outlast me as well. She poured out a full measure and handed me the glass.

“Before we begin, I just want you to know that an anonymous donor is paying for this investigation, so don’t be concerned about my fee.” Mag frowned, deepening her marionette lines around her mouth.

“I ain’t no charity case, I’ve always paid one way or another,” she muttered.

“No, I’m serious. A friend who wants to help and wishes to remain nameless is paying for my services. By the way, I didn’t see any Cadillac El Dorados when I rolled in here. Although I did see one sweet Chevy Monte Carlo SS in black.” I enthusiastically stated, in order to deflect from Missy’s generosity.

“Yeah, that’s Paul from Lot 101, he’s a retired plumber from Delaware. The Cadillac was there, in Lot 187, the last one at the end of the street, in the cul de sac. When I got up this morning it was gone.”

“You don’t know what time it may have left?”

“No, I took a Trazodone pill around 9 pm and I was out until 8 am. So, sometime between those hours, I guess.” She poured herself a cup of coffee from a steel Presto coffee maker. I took the intermission to look around her living room.

Pretty typical mobile home build, fake wood paneling surrounded me, a large flat screen TV, Verizon internet router on a wooden stool and a brown leather couch rounded out the space. The walls were decorated with old pictures, most of them were scenes of sunny beaches and black and white shots of delicatessens. I was attracted to one picture, two smiling young adults standing side by side at the beach. I stood up and walked over to it. I heard Mag behind me.

“That’s me and my brother, at Clearwater Beach, a month before he disappeared,” She remarked, I thought she might break down on me but then she gulped a mouthful of java.

Jan was a good looking sandy haired teen with delicate features. Both physically stunning beachgoers had wide grins showing even white teeth. The picture could have been from one of those old Mentos commercials from Europe. A less busty but more vital Mag stared back at me, a version that hadn’t been beaten down by life yet. A smile full of hope and promise.

I turned away before I got weepy on my client.

A phone started going off and Mag excused herself to go answer it. I took the opportunity to look outside. Lot 187 did appear abandoned. No decorations were set up outside, no exterior lights and the weeds surrounding the single wide hadn’t been dealt with at all. Mag came back and stared outside with me, quiet and tense.

“You’re Ring camera, was it on last night?” Mag nodded. “Send me the footage from your app, so I can review it. In the meantime, I am going to go take a looksy around Lot 187, any neighbors around?”

“No, they’re all Canadian snowbirds, left for the season. I’m the only permanent resident on this end, fella. Look, I gotta head out, go take a look around but be careful, don’t know when tha Caddy’s coming back. Let me know if you find anythang weird.”

I said I would. I escorted Mag to her carport and she took off in an emerald colored Ford Bronco. I walked back to my vehicle.

Reaching into the back of my Jeep, I pulled out my hi-viz safety vest, white hardhat and trusty clipboard. These items tended to assure people I was in the neighborhood on official business. People trust others when they think they’re there on official business. You tell people you’re a private eye, you get too many curious questions. It was a great disguise I’ve used on several occasions, when I want to do a bit of surreptitious peeping.

After making sure no dog walkers were out and about, I casually strolled to the end of the drive. The single wide was a drab sepia color, the paint peeling away from the metal frame. An enclosed addon had been built to give the mobile home more room. I slow walked around the exterior. The small rectangular windows appeared to have been covered over with aluminum foil, from the inside. A film of dirt and grim covered everything on the outside.

Time to introduce the potential resident to Gus, the friendly power company tech, here to check on reports of power outages. I knocked on the flimsy aluminum door to the addon. No answer. No sounds of movement from inside. Just the peculiar stillness.

I turned the knob. It was unlocked.

I opened the door and was immediately hit with a smoky, pungent odor. It wasn’t patchouli but definitely some type of incense was burning somewhere inside. I poked my head in. It was cool but I didn’t hear any a/c units running inside.

The interior was dark but the entire trailer had been decked out in gothic looking candles, some of them were on ornate metal stands, others were simply placed on the laminate wood floor.

Oh, the county fire marshall ain’t gonna like this, I thought to myself.

“Hello? Duke Energy here, we’re investigating power outages in your neighborhood. These candles are quite dangerous, ya know. I need to inspect your circuit breaker box. I’m coming in.” No response, I walked into the dimly lit addon.

Strange paintings had been awkwardly placed on the yellow vinyl walls. An elegant, well dressed, fit, early middle-aged man with dark hair and a beard but with penetrating blue eyes stared back at me. In all 4 paintings, he was dressed in garb of different eras, the last appeared to be from the American Jazz Age, based on the suit and panama hat.

Not the kind of art one normally sees in a Florida trailer park.

There was no door from the addon to the actual unit, it was darker there, fewer candles had been lit. It was in the darkness that I began hearing the shuffling. The hair on the back of my neck stood rigid. My right hand instinctively went to the Glock. I placed the clipboard on the laminate flooring, as I rose, I saw him.

I recognized the pale, distorted face in the dark shadows. He still looked enough like the picture I saw in Mag’s mobile home.

Jan’s eyes looked like the kind you see on dead fish; milky and empty. Someone had applied red lipstick to his fleshy lips, making his soft, pasty face truly grotesque.

Even more disturbing was what he was wearing. Jan had very little on. He wore a peculiar leather shoulder harness that was attached to a leather collar, the type you would see at a goth or bondage club. A red silk thong barely concealed a bulge coming out of the front of his groin.

An undead guard dog and sex slave rolled into one. Thankfully, I didn’t have time to reflect on this perversion.

As terrified as I was, I pulled myself together. “Jan, can you hear me, can you speak?”

He jerkily walked forward, not answering me, not even seeing me, I think. The silence was unnerving me.

Stupidly, I went to touch him. I think my intention was to try and maybe wake him up. My mind did not want to fathom Jan as being dead, the dead don’t walk after all. My hand touched cool skin but something seemed to move under the skin, a kind of cold energy.

Jan grabbed my left wrist in a vice grip. I felt my bones shifting. I reacted, deploying the Glock and quickly squeezing off two rounds into center of mass. The bullets penetrated his chest but did not exit his body. No blood flowed out of the wounds but a kind of putrid smelling vapor did exit the holes.

I should have been deaf due to the enclosed space of the trailer but the sound of the gunfire was swallowed by the silent space we occupied. The two shots had sounded like little more than tiny Chinese firecrackers going off.

Those rounds striking Jan with intense velocity did have an effect, he let go of my badly bruised wrist and stumbling backward a few feet. I took this as an opportunity and retreated back outside that horror show, embracing the Florida sunshine.

I witnessed the door closing itself. I put my Glock away and deliberately slowed my ragged breathing. My wrist hurt like hell and it was already changing color. I looked around, no witnesses, not even the ever present ducks and egrets approached this place.

“The hell with this!” I yelled at no one. My terror had given way to Appalachian righteous fury. I stomped back to my Jeep and in a hidden under-floor bin, I pulled out several sturdy zip ties and the cloth bag I carried them in, along with a large beach blanket.

Five O’Clock Somewheres and I stood on the hot asphalt driveway of his expansive parking lot.

Five snorted and cheap beer flowed out of his nostrils.“Vampires, Detective Florida Man?!? We get like 300 days of sunshine a year! Are yetis living in Miami now as well?”

My tone became serious and I looked Five dead in the eye. “I’ve got something I need to show you, Edgar.” Five became quiet when I used his Christian name and didn’t offer a quippy comeback. I brought him out to my Jeep and I unbundled my undead, blanketed ziptied package.

I awkwardly placed it on the asphalt. I took the cloth bag off of Jan’s constantly moving head, his mouth open and closing, desiring to tear and rend flesh. Both of us quiet as what was once a teenager undulated and squirmed, trying to escape heat and sunlight. Five broke the silence.

“Pick it up and put it out back, we shouldn’t let anyone else see this…thing. I’m going to go and break out my whiskey, I’m gonna need to shake hands with Jim Beam.” I did just that, the creature silently fighting to break free of its bonds the entire time.

“Can you help me get rid of it?” Five turned around and angrily shot back.

“What makes you think I know anything about getting rid of bodies, Detective Florida Man?” he asked incredulously.

I simply stared at him for a minute, without comment.

“Well, okay, maybe I’ve had to disappear a corpse a time or two but it was always for good reason!” he snapped.

“This is a good reason, Five. I’m not gonna let my client see what that freak did to her brother and how he’s been used as a sex toy for decades.”

“Fair enough. Put it in the oil drum out back, we’d better get started. I’ll go get the hydrofluoric acid…and the whiskey”

Five came back not just with a bottle of Jim Beam but also a crate of glass containers.

“You see that burn barrel, Detective Florida Man, put that unholy thing in there.” I did as I was told, feeling sick to my stomach as the monstrosity wiggled and squirmed in my bare arms, yellowed teeth attempting to seek warm flesh. I chucked it in head first.

“Never thought I would come across evidence of a real life vampire, that is for sure. I guess it’s not like the movies or books.” Five took another shot from the bottle and passed it to me. We sat in some old beach chairs, our backs to the burn barrel, neither one of us wanting to watch the acid do it work. After a while, I noticed the barrel had stopped shifting back and forth.

“I was thinking the same thing. There is no evidence of blood suckin’ in this case either. But something odd happened. I couldn’t sleep the other night after my shift at the casino ended. I started looking for an old horror movie to watch. I found this flick from the ‘70s, it was one of Hammer studios last horror movies: Captain Kronos-Vampire Hunter.

Five grabbed the whiskey bottle back. “Hey! I haven’t seen that one!”

“The movie has some great sword dueling scenes, you would like it, along with the always bodacious Caroline Munro. Anyway, the movie surmises that there are many different types of vampires who require different types of sustenance. In the movie, Kronos fights an energy vampire that steals the life force of the youth, turning them into decrepit crones.” Five took a long pull from the bottle and raised an eyebrow.

“So you think your Caddy driving vampire is stealing peoples’ life force?”

“Sorta, just not as dramatic. Maybe, he can control it, make it a real slow process, so it doesn’t look suspicious,” I speculated.

“Seems like he’s some sorta sorcerer or alchemist. Also, why target your client’s family?”

I shrugged, “I’m not sure.”

We continued theorizing and drinking until we both passed out halfway through the second bottle of Jim Bean. When we woke, it was almost dawn and the acid had done its work on the soft tissue. The creature moved no more.

Five went back inside his Quonset hut and brought back a couple bottles of water. He handed one to me.

“Your new vampire sorcerer friend ain’t gonna be too pleased, you stealing and destroying his property,” he mused.

“No, he won’t. It’s time someone put a stop to his little experiments. I want the bones, we’ll put them in a box. I’ll tell my client that I found the remains in the lot and that I had some dental testing done. Let her know the remains were definitely those of Jan. At least it will give her something to bury, provide some measure of peace.”

Five agreed and I left to go nurse my hangover, get some rest and do some research.

The next 48 hours were going to be long.

Part I

The semi-retired prostitute wasn’t the worst looking aged hooker I had ever seen but she wasn’t going to win any current beauty contests.

“I was told yous a real honest to goodness PI.” She squinted at me as she slurred her statement of fact, while sucking on her vape pen.

I knew she was a prostitute because as a lover of sordid beach bars, I witnessed her plying her trade in the past, meeting tourists and business men every once in a while, at my favorite tiki bar, flirting over drinks before moving off to a more intimate setting.

Some of these older Florida whores are like middle-aged MMA fighters who just can’t let go of the steel cage.

She was still thin and her large fake boobs kept her upright, probably a stunning beach babe back in 1990 but with her leathery skin and smoker’s croak, she had gone to seed. The wall comes for us all, eventually.

I noticed her accent had a Baltimore flavor to it, having spent some time in Fell’s Point when I worked in DC back in the day.

“I’ve been known to peep on a perp or two,” I shot back at her. She either didn’t get my quip or wasn’t a fan of the great pulp detective writers, such as Raymond Chandler or John D. MacDonald. She blew smoke from her black vape pen out of the side of her mouth.

“Sure, so are you or aren’t you?” She glared with slightly bloodshot eyes.

“I am.” I decided to be more plain and simple for this cognitively unencumbered hustler.

Although, I neglected to mention that the PI business was very slow at the moment. I spent most of my week nights working armed security over at the Seminole casino, mainly safeguarding money transfers and escorting belligerent drunks out of the bar.

My PI work had slowly turned into a side gig. Still better than delivering for DoorDash, I suppose.

But I felt like this was more of a need to know piece of intel.

“I think someone is stalking me,” she blurted out.

“Okay.”

“And maybe wants ta kill me.” She laconically added.

“That maybe is doing a lot of heavy lifting, lady.”

“Look, can we just talk somewhere more private?”

I really didn’t want to, but I have a penchant for damsels in distress, even the ones with hard mileage on them. So I directed her to a back booth at the beachside tiki bar.

“I’m Gus and you are…”

“Magdalena Kowalski but everybody just calls me Mag.”

“Okay, Mag…so what’s up, what is with all this drama about stalking and murder?”

“I wasn’t always like this, ya know? I grew up between here and Maryland. My father owned a string of successful polish delicatessens, he started out as a butcher, like his father who came here from the old country. Over the years he became a successful businessman.”

“I love a good pierogi but about this stalker…”

“I’m getting to it but let me tell MY STORY in my own time, I don’t like asking for help, never have.” She snapped at me.

“Fair enough, Mag…I am all ears.” I made a placating gesture to soothe her Polish temper.

“Anyway, my dad was successful with his shops and my mom stayed at home and raised my older brother ‘n me. She had been a teacher before she married dad, she homeschooled us before it was even popular. We lived outside of Baltimore in summer and fall and lived in a beach cottage in Largo, in the winter and spring. Life was good, real good.”

“Sounds nice.” I offered noncommittedly. She had been looking at the wood pressed table but then her head shot up and she stared me down with hard blue eyes that only a streetwalker can develop.

“They’re all dead.” I was going to offer my condolences but she waved them away.

“Our family is cursed, been cursed for several generations. I think my dziadzio left Poland with his young pregnant bride to try and escape it. But he didn’t, they both died way too young. It eventually came for my brother and then my parents. I tried to escape it through the bottle…and other stuff.” She decided to let that hang in the air, I didn’t pursue it, wanting her to keep some dignity, since she was the teller of this tale.

“Anyway, when I was a kid, I loved walking on the beach. I’d walk the beach for hours, staring at the gulf.” She snapped out of her past echo and took another drag from the vape.

“Every year, near our cottage, down Harborwood Drive, another seasonal visitor would rent a beach cottage several houses down from us. I never saw ‘em but I could..I don’t know…feel his presence, ya know?”

“I don’t think so, Mag. Explain it to me.”

“It’s like…when you walk outside and the sky is sunny and a deep blue, but you know, you just know the rain storm is coming off the bay and in a few hours, there is going to be thunder, lightning and a downpour. I ain’t sayin’ I’m psychic or nothing but my family, well, always been good at what ya call it…”

“Premonition,” I added.

“Yeah, that’s it. Family legend has it that my ancestors, they worked for the Catholic Church in the old world, they hunted things that the church didn’t want the local peasants ta know about. Strange, huh? Who knows if it was true or not. Anyway, whenever I saw that black Cadillac El Dorado with its tinted windows, my head would ache. It always showed up as the sun was going down, a few days after we arrived at our own cottage.” Mag stopped her tale briefly to reload another charge into her vape.

“You think the owner of the El Dorado was following your family? Lots of snowbirds from up north move down here around the same time.”

“I know that!” She shot back. “But this guy, not long after showing up, bad things happened to our family. My parents each started having health issues. Some days, my mom didn’t even leave the house. Whenever we went back to Maryland, they always got better. Eventually, both of them died from rare metabolic disorders. How do two different people die from the same extremely rare disease?”

I had no response for her grief, other than a shoulder shrug. Terrible things happen to people all the time, sometimes, bad luck just comes in spades for certain families.

“But before my parents died, my younger brother Jan disappeared when he was seventeen. I was eighteen at the time and full of myself. I no longer spent much time with my family and I started running with a wild crowd in Clearwater. I had gotten a job as a waitress at Hooters and didn’t tell my parents.”

“Yeah, the original Hooters in Clearwater is still around, crazy how long it’s been there.” I added to lighten the mood a bit. Mag nodded and took a drag.

“I wasn’t around much and Jan was a bit of a loner who mostly hung around the beach and read comic books. When he disappeared, the cops thought he had hooked up with some juvenile delinquents. My brother wasn’t like that, unlike me, he was a good kid, curious and bookish. I used to call him a nerd, I’d give anything to take that back.” Mag teared up a bit.

Missy, the tiki bar owner, surreptitiously placed a vodka soda in front of Mag. She gulped it down before continuing her bizarre tale.

“They never found Jan. No trace whatsoever, as if the Gulf had just swallowed him up. But that damn Caddy, it was there the whole time. It arrived the day before he disappeared. I know that bastard took Jan and…”

She let it hang in the air. I understood. Who would want to contemplate what might have happened to their kidnapped teenage sibling?

“Mom and dad died within a year of each other. Three years after Jan’s disappearance, they were both dead. My parents, they just got weaker and weaker. My dad hired a PI but he never found nothing.”

“What about the beach cottage, Mag?” I asked gently. She shrugged.

“My parents’ medical expenses took all of the family money. The banks took possession of both my parents’ houses. I just lost myself in the lifestyle. I became a dancer at Gentleman’s Secret and eventually drifted into the profession. I moved to Florida full-time and tried to forget everything. I did for a long time, until now.”

Before she even said it, I knew what had brought back all her trauma.

“There is a unit on the other end of my street. For years, it was abandoned by the previous owner. A few nights ago, I saw a black Cadillac El Dorado with tinted windows sittin’ in the carport. I swear to you it is the same model, hell even the same year: 1980. I never saw the original license plate clearly but I know it had Jersey plates, just like the one by me, right now.”

“That is strange but it may be a fluke, doesn’t mean the Caddy owner is stalking you, Mag.” I took a long pull of my iced coffee, letting the cream and sugar coat my dry throat. We both knew I didn’t sound very convincing.

“I just need someone to look into this for me, find out who the owner is, maybe investigate his history, make sure he understands there is a man with a gun keeping an eye on me.” It actually sounded pretty reasonable, from a professional standpoint.

I quickly made up my mind. “I can do that. This is something I have experience in.”

“I suppose you be wanting to be paid.” She narrowed her eyes at me like paying for PI work was more unsavory than plying the world’s oldest trade.

“Well, I don’t work for tiki cocktails…anymore,” I joked.

Just then Missy materialized with my ice coffee. I was working the night shift at the casino later so I needed to be fully sober to manage the drunks. She placed a slip of paper next to my coffee. I took a sip of the strong java.

Mag’s phone started buzzing and she looked down to answer a text. I took the opportunity to scan Missy’s message, it simply read: Help her, I will pay your fee. I slipped the note in my jean’s pocket. Missy always has a soft spot for the local hookers and stray cats.

Mag put her phone away and looked up.

“I have to go see a client, we can talk about your fee tomorrow, if you are willing to meet me.” I shrugged my shoulders.

“I’m free tomorrow morning, I can swing by your place at 11 am. Where am I headed?”

“I’ve been living in the same place for years. I’m at lot 173, in EZ BreeZy in Pasco County, know it?” She cocked a pencil thin eyebrow eye at me.

“EZ BreeZy retirement trailer park? Yeah, I heard of it.”

“It’s a 55 plus Mobile Home Community! I paid a lot of money for my double wide unit and we don’t allow any trailer trash there.” She corrected me harshly.

“Sure, sure. I also live in a Mobile Home Community. I’ll meet you there tomorrow.”

I didn’t add that maybe EZ BreeZy didn’t allow trailer trash but it allowed floozies.

She merely nodded and left to meet her anxiously horny client.

I paid my bill. Missy, ever the business professional, told me that she expected daily reports and expense receipts. I went home to change my clothes and go play casino enforcer. I didn’t realize it at the time but my life was about to get very weird again.

If I had known, I would’ve started drinking at a different beach bar.

Part III

Lara took off but not in a way that Roger had anticipated. She kicked off the ledge and made a hard right.

Roger tossed the shovel and ran in the same direction…so did the skier in black.

All ski resorts have a similar issue. Keeping skiers and snowboarders off of homemade trails. However, young people are always looking for new challenges, more adrenaline, so they will make their own trails that veer off the official resort trails.

Roger could only imagine the type of psycho adrenaline addict who would create their own side trail off of a double diamond one. When the ski patrol found them, they often put up barriers to dissuade their use. This side trail must still be unknown to the patrol, so Roger made a mental note as to the location to let them know about this suicide run.

Lara was clearly an advanced snowboarder, she flawlessly mauvered down the mountain, careening around trees and boulders alike. Whoever had marked this side trail through the woods had known what he was doing. There were just enough objects to avoid, making the run hair-raising but not enough to make it impossible for a seasoned ripper. The stalker wasn’t so sure of himself and had slowed down. Roger was finally gaining on him.

Lara was also slowing down as the three of them approached a large outcropping of rock. Another 10 minutes or so and they would be back at the ski lifts.

The skier in black hit something, he yelled and went down. Lara heard the yell and stopped her downhill descent completely. Roger increased his pace from a quick jog to a full on sprint.

As Roger ran towards the downed stalker, Lara kicked off her snowboard and was also running back. At first, Roger thought she was running to meet him but he realized she was running towards the skier in black.

The skier by this time had dropped his hood and ripped off his mask. He appeared to be holding on to one of his calves and hyperventilating. Lara got to him before Roger and she knelt down before him.

Roger had his Glock out and was yelling at Lara to move away from the man, not only did she not listen, she frowned at Roger.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Roger reached them both, who were now seated on the ground. The man in black turned and looked at Roger, his face a grimace of pain.

Roger lowered his Glock to his side.

The skier was older than the pic in his gmail profile but it was clearly the man who had hired Roger and paid for the weekend package; Mr. Vitaliy Novak.

“What the fuck!?! What the hell is going on?” Roger shouted at both of them.

Both of them were arguing in another language. They stopped and looked at Roger like children who had been caught in a very bad lie by a parent.

Roger had an epiphany.

“This was all a set-up, wasn’t it? There was no stalker, no danger, and no break-in. A ruse. Why the deception?” He stared at Lara, who was now finding some nerve, she simply stared back at him; hard-eyed.

“Please, we sometimes like to play silly games, to keep marriage fresh. We meant no harm. I was supposed to hide in that cave before you reached us. You were never supposed to see me again.” Vitalily panted in a heavy accent.

“He needs help.” Lara simply stated while continuing to give Roger an icy stare and she pointed at Vitaliy’s left calf. A steel foothold trap was wrapped around it. Roger had seen a few of them before when working on a farm as a teen. Some farmers used them to trap predators, in order to keep them away from livestock.

Roger slipped his Glock back in his holster and used both his hands to pry open the jaws of the spring trap. Vitaliy groaned but moved his leg from it, Roger threw the trap into a copse of pine trees. What the hell is that even doing here?, he thought.

Vitaliy took off his skis, and leaned back in the snow. Lara massaged his shoulders and gently whispered something into his ear while he groaned.

Roger stood up and ignored both of them. He wasn’t anyone’s fool and would not be a plaything for the bored, idle rich.

However, something else began taking shape in his mind. He once read a police report about an insane hiker who lured other hikers to his location, where he tortured them to death. The man worshipped some dark god or spirit and fled from park rangers when they began tracking him. He jumped off a cliff into a freezing river and was presumed dead. No body had been found but all killing of hikers in the area stopped.

This madman liked using foothold traps designed for wolves.

Roger took out his Glock and moved up a slight incline, towards the outcropping of rock. He saw it.

Behind a stunted tree, a grotto opening could be seen. As Roger moved towards it, he heard the Novaks calling to him but ignored them. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and a foul stench emitted from the cold, earthy hole.

For a brief moment, Roger thought about stopping, turning around and simply going home. But something deep inside him told him this was more important than his bruised ego.

He moved forward.

A Surefire flashlight shone a powerful cone of light into the darkness. Roger was glad he had slipped it into his pocket at the last minute. He had to lower his head somewhat to walk into the cave. Strange glyphs and figures were marked on the walls in a kind of yellowish chalk. They were nauseating, if Roger looked at them too long or closely.

He shuffled closer to the stench at the other end of the cave. He recognized the smell and braced himself for what he would find.

He found it.

Corpses. Three to be exact, all in varying stages of decay. They also had something else in common, they were all missing their heads.

All three of the bodies were men, two of them were completely devoid of clothing, the third was not. They were stacked on top of each other like a wood pile. The body on top of this grisly scene was dressed in Carhart coveralls with a thick brown parka. Over the parka was an orange resort vest.

The man’s feet were bare, Roger observed one of the ankles on each of the corpses was badly broken, mangled even. Roger whirled about when he heard a piercing scream behind him. The Novaks had snuck up behind him and looked upon the horror show within their secret cave.

Lara scurried out of the cave, hysterical and continuing to scream.

“I…I did not know…this was not here last year. We came here last year and found this cave…it was empty…I thought animal had used it…I saw a few old bones…no human bodies. No yellow markings…this is terrible! A nightmare!” Vitaliy began babbling in his mother tongue.

Like his raving spouse, he moved backwards but unlike her, due to his calf injury, he could not run away, only stumble backwards. Roger coughed and turned away from the grim spectacle.

“We need to contact the sheriff’s office, c’mon on…this is a crime scene now, let’s go.” Roger helped Vitaliy gingerly walk towards the mouth of the grotto.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Devereux. I love Lara dearly and she gets very bored. I work a lot to provide her a certain lifestyle, like she had when we met in Split.”

“Mr. Novak, I will you help down this mountain and then you can go fuck yourself, I never want to hear from either you or your wife again…ever.” Vitaliy Novak merely nodded and allowed Roger to grab him by the waist with his left arm around his neck, he maneuvered him forward.

Roger stopped. This time he had been looking at the dirt floor of the cave.

A red beam of light ran straight across the opening of the cave, 5 inches above the ground. A small plastic LED sensor on each side held the beam steady. They had tripped the sensors several times. Roger blinked.

“Shit! Someone’s coming…we need to leave NOW!” Vitaliy observed the beam and sensors as well, working in cybersecurity, he was familiar with what this meant. He stumbled away from Roger and limped out of the cave, yelling for his wife.

Roger followed with his pistol out, he swept the trail with his iron sights.

In the distance, both men could hear Lara Novak bawling uncontrollably. Well, she’s no longer bored, Roger sardonically thought. He doubted her story about her father, she was most likely a spoiled daughter of some ultra-wealthy oligarch.

Roger heard skies cutting through snow and ice, headed in their direction.

Down the hill came three ski patrol members, in the same black outfits as Vitaliy but wearing red helmets, black goggles and white ski masks. All three wore crimson backpacks emblazoned with a large white cross.

“I’ve never seen ski patrollers wear backpacks, they always wear black load bearing vests to carry stuff.” Roger stated out loud but Vitaliy was already moving towards his wife, as were the ski patrollers.

Roger lowered his Glock but he did not holster it, something wasn’t passing the smell test in his mind. Instead of walking out and meeting the group, he ducked behind a large sugar maple tree. He thought of warning the Novaks but it was too late, they had already been observed by the ski patrol.

Lara Novak was closest to them and she was waving her arms at them as they moved towards her. The ski patrol came barreling down the hill, they did not slow down as they slalomed the last part of the hill before the rocky outcropping.

It all happened so fast. All three ski patrollers plowed right through the Novaks, knocking them both to the ground. They swerved around and jumped out their skies and dropped their poles with such precision that it seemed like a well rehearsed drill.

Vitaliy Novak began to rise when he was shot point blank in the chest by one of the ski patrollers who had taken out what appeared to be a Hi-Point carbine with an attached sound suppressor from his backpack. Vitaliy was dead before his body dropped back into the snow.

A second patroller had a wicked looking machete in his hand and was moving towards a stunned Lara, she was bleeding from a large gash on her forehead. She was still in shock as the wide, heavy gleaming blade moved towards her.

Two red holes blossomed from his helmet, as Roger’s solid copper hollow point rounds found their mark. The ski patroller dropped his machete and then dropped to his knees, finally flopping over into a fetal position. He never moved again.

The ski patroller with the Hi-Point clearly had some training, he immediately sought cover behind a maple tree and began returning fire in the direction of the grotto.

The other patroller was far less skilled than his compatriot. While witnessing this, the patroller dug into a backpack to finally retrieve a Glock 19, Roger noticed this patroller was shorter with wider hips than the other two, a female. She finally retrieved the handgun but did not seek cover, instead firing the Glock into Roger’s general direction, her rounds went wide and far off from her intended target.

Roger decided that he would deal with the more dangerous threat first, the Hi-Point operator. The two exchanged gunfire but neither had the advantage. Roger went through one magazine and loaded his second. As did his carbine wielding adversary.

Suddenly, a vengeful scream reverberated across the mountain.

Roger witnessed Lara snatching up the machete and charging the female ski patroller, she turned to deal with the sword wielding shield maiden. Too late.

The machete hit the wrist of the hand holding the Glock. Both the hand and the gun it was holding flew off like a broken LEGO piece. A spurt of arterial blood began gushing from the wrist. The ski patroller looked at this tragic sight with mute shock and awe.

Lara’s second chop went for the inside of a knee. Slavic curses erupted from Lara. The female ski patroller was turned into a blood pinata. Lara became a raging berserker.

The Hi-Point shooter moved from his ideal cover position to deal with this new unexpected threat. But his carbine jammed and he began cycling a new round when Roger mag dumped the rest of his second magazine. Roger counted at least 6 rounds hitting center of mass.

Hi-Point shooter dropped. Roger ran forward but Lara got there first. With a ferocious scream and a single devastating cut, she beheaded her helmeted target. Roger was out of breath when he reached her. He bent over trying to push air back into his lungs. The scene was a chaotic, bloody mess.

Lara dropped the gore covered machete and ran to the body of her husband. She grabbed and cradled his head with her red hands. Roger could not bear to be part of such an intimate moment. He holstered his empty Glock and picked up the Hi-Point, he cleared the jammed round and made it operational again.

Roger walked over to the bleeding female ski patroller. She was whispering something as she writhed on the ground, bleeding from dozens of open wounds.

He undid the helmet and then took off mask and goggles. Familiar dark hair spilled out onto the snow.

“Bethany? What..how…why?” Roger’s ex-girlfriend looked at him with a hate filled malicious scowl. Her teeth were stained red.

“You fucking idiot, I tried to show you the way…to teach you, but you kept spurning my knowledge, so I found new lovers, they believed me. They came to worship her too.”

“You mean all that New Age crap you used to spout about: Lilith, the Mother of Monsters, that shit!?! Woman, I didn’t think you were serious! I just assumed you got high on mushrooms again.”

Roger had to admit, Bethany was never quite the same after she got back from some weird psilocybin retreat near Bennington last summer. So could act a little unhinged at times but this wasn’t uncommon with female bartenders, in Roger’s dating experience.

Bethany looked into Roger’s eyes and began laughing but only briefly. Since a machete blade roughly entered her forehead and split her formally pretty face into two.

“Bitch!” Lara simply stated and released the handle of the machete.

Roger gently picked up his former employer’s body and placed it in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder. The three descended the mountain together.

The wind picked up again as they walked. Roger could have sworn he heard female laughter in it.

Part II

The next morning his iPhone notified him of an incoming text. He was finishing up a workout in his home gym and picked up the phone, he quickly scanned the screen.

The text was from his beautiful foreign client:

Roger, in the old medieval tales, when a lady asked for a knight’s assistance, the knight was obligated by the Code of Chivalry to aid that lady. I am asking for aid, Sir Knight. By the way, I assume you own a handgun? Please meet me at the Catamount Cafe, in the lobby of the resort at 10 am.

“Yes, Lara, I own a handgun,” he sighed aloud and chuckled. He texted her back that he would be there.

Roger responded to some business emails from his laptop and then took a long hot shower. While dressing, he reached into a wooden drawer in this spare bedroom that acted as both home office and gym. He withdrew a black polymer .40 caliber pistol. He began putting it back in the drawer when he uncharacteristically changed his mind.

Instead, he slipped the Glock 23 into a Kydex appendix holster, along with a spare fifteen round magazine. He had bought the weapon from the Rutland County Sheriff’s Office when he resigned. In order to disguise the firearm and holster, he slipped on a dark Norwegian sweater over his Henley long sleeve. A blue LL Bean Puffer parka rounded out his ensemble.

Due to his short brown beard, able-bodied build, faded black watch cap and some old Soviet army leather winter boots, he looked more like a ski lift operator than a tourist but at least he would still blend in at the resort.

“You brought your weapon, yes?” She asked nervously while they were seated. She wore tight fitting leisurewear, Roger assumed she had visited the resort spa that morning, her flawless skin glowed.

Roger had a hard time not looking at her ample bosom trapped behind the thick cotton. He merely nodded at her question as he sipped on his overpriced cappuccino in the private corner booth of the Catamount Cafe. She relaxed her shoulders a bit.

“Good, a knight is somewhat useless without his sword.” Roger rolled his eyes.

“What is this all about, Lara? I appreciate the cappuccino but we didn’t have to meet at the cafe. Also, why do I need to be armed?” Lara waved a dismissive hand in response to the beverage gift.

“I am being watched, well more than just watched…stalked,” she blurted out.

“What?!? Are you sure? This is Killington’s busy season; a lot of people are around at the moment.” Now it was her turn to roll her eyes at him.

“Yes! I am sure, bedak! Twice now, I have left my room and come back with items misplaced or clothes discarded, as if they were searched. I can feel someone watching me sometimes.” Roger noticed her slavic accent was now a bit stronger.

Roger was about to say something in a soothing manner but Lara was ready for his propitiating response.

“I am sure you do not believe in a woman’s intuition and being a former officer of the law, you require real evidence, well look at this!” She pulled out her pink iPhone and thrust it into his angular face. The screen began playing a video.

The video showed one of Killington’s nicer weekend suites. Lara was shown in the corner putting on some makeup and placing items in a purse, she then left the suite.

Less than a minute later, a figure dressed in a black one piece outfit, entered the large open suite. It was clearly a man but a large hood on the outfit was up and obscured any facial features.

He began searching, sometimes outside the angle of the hidden camera. He appeared to be looking for something specific but not finding it. After a five minute frantic search, sometimes leaving clothes strewn about, he left. The video ended.

Roger leaned back in his chair, Lara looked at him with expectation.

“That black one piece outfit with the hood up, I recognize it. It’s a Rothco Ski and Rescue one piece, many of the ski instructors and ski patrollers wear it, it is insulated and incredibly warm, perfect for winter mountain wear. How did you get this?”

“I know a little about hidden cameras and spying. My father was a secret policeman with UDBA; Yugoslavia’s KGB, during the Cold War. He taught me a few things about surveillance…and when to know you are being harassed.”

“Okay, well we need to take this to Killington’s safety and security department, they will contact the sheriff’s office as well. They will give you another room and perhaps find this guy…”

“No! I want to catch him myself. I want to know what he wants! If you can follow me at a distance, we can catch him, Roger!”

“Whoa, whoa! Hold on, I am your driver for the weekend, not your bodyguard. We don’t even know if he is working alone, he could be part of a more organized thief ring. Let me call someone I know at the sheriff’s office, he can help you with this situation.”

Lara Novak said nothing, she pierced him with her dazzling blue eyes. Roger found this very intimate act both erotic and unnerving at the same time. He broke the gaze and coughed into his fist, then took a drink from his recycled cardboard cup. His face felt flushed.

“My family had many enemies. Although we moved to the U.S. many years ago and my father has been in his grave for almost five years, I know I can never be fully safe. He made many powerful enemies, and my father became wealthy by selling certain secrets to oligarchs and other intelligence agencies.” Roger looked up.

“So they are after you because they believe you hold more secrets or revenge?”

“I don’t know who they are or what they want! I will find out, whether you help me or abandon me.” The last statement cut into Roger, he knew at that moment he was smitten with her, under her spell, this damsel in distress knew what emotional buttons to push.

“Okay, what do you require of me…my lady.” Roger made a flourishing gesture with his hand.

For the next thirty minutes, the two of them hammered out a simple counter-surveillance plan.

“Excellent! Game, set, match! Let me put on my snowboarding outfit and I will meet you outside.”

Before Roger had a chance to respond, she gaily jumped up and headed to her room. Roger stood up, looked around the sparse cafe, and what few tourists were there were glued to their phones. No obvious East European spies in sight. He put on his coat and his watch cap and rambled outside to put some cold air into his lungs.

“Stupid, stupid, I shouldn’t get involved in this Scooby Doo crap, I’ve got a business to run,” he muttered to himself while standing in the parking lot near the main entrance of the office lodge. But Roger made a confession: he was bored. Since Bethany the bartender’s permanent exit, he had become a wallflower. Petty routine had overtaken his life.

Some excitement might snap him out of this post-break-up funk.

He made his final decision, no matter what, he would see this through to the end. Like Sir Galahad on his grail quest.

She was hard to miss. Lara was decked out in red, the formfitting snowsuit was red, with a red storm hood trimmed with white faux fur. On each side a large white stripe was visible. She had on her red knit cap and her snowboard was slung under her arm. She clomped forward in her boots.

They did not make eye contact, as she walked by, heading to the ski lifts. She pulled some purple Pit Viper goggles down over her eyes to hide her gaze.

Roger put on a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses and discreetly followed her at a distance. As Roger passed near a ski lift maintenance shed, he spied an orange high viz vest with the resort’s logo and snow shovel, from previous outings at the resort and knowing the area like the back of his hand, he knew those items would be sitting there.

He quickly put the vest over his winter coat and grabbed the snow shovel.

In any ski resort, the worst job is trail maintenance. Most of it is performed by seasonal hires who barely functioned as adults. Since these temps are spending most of their shift on the mountain, engaged in manual labor, these workers constantly came and went.

Therefore the ski lift operators didn’t even bat an eye when he walked up to them and asked them to hold up the line while he jumped on a lift. They just assumed he was a new hire who had been given the grunt work of looking for bare patches to repair on the upper mountain trails.

Roger quickly ascended into the cold sky.

Lara was only a few chairs ahead of him on the lift line. She was alone and played her role well. She had her snowboard attached to her boots already. A perfect picture of a tourist prepared for a day of epic snowboarding.

As the lift reached the top of the mountain, the weather changed drastically. The sun was hidden behind dark clouds, the wind mercilessly picked up. Roger was used to shifts in the weather patterns in Vermont, especially during the winter, but even this change was weirdly sudden.

As Lara slid effortlessly off her chairlift, Roger followed in a more awkward manner. On top of the mountain, throngs of skiers and snowboarders adjusted their gear and inspected the various resort signs. Trying to figure out which trail they would try out.

“Please, dear God, take the beginner trail,” Roger muttered as he continued following his client. The cold was starting to bite into his skin and the cold air entered his lungs like icy razor blades.

But Lara made a sharp curve to her left. She stopped in front of a trail not being used by any of the tourist families, a double diamond trail called: Howard’s Folly. In fact, most actively avoided this course.

“Shit!” Roger was so loud in his exclamation that several brightly colored teenage snowboarders snickered at him as he walked towards the only double diamond trail on the mountain.

He began moving snow around near Howard’s Folly as Lara stood proud and tall on the very edge of it, adjusting her snow goggles and checking her outfit. A few teenagers and young adult snowboarders approached but they didn’t acknowledge either Roger or Lara and were soon flying down the suicide run.

Lara took two deep breaths and kicked off onto the terrifyingly advanced course. Roger followed at a slow jog, he stuck to the outer edge of the trail, along the tree line. More skiers and snowboarders followed them but they blew past both Roger and Lara. Lara appeared slow and hesitant in her snowboarding. Roger wasn’t sure if this was an act so that he could keep up with her or whether she now realized she made a terrible mistake by choosing the infamous double diamond trail.

It was when he turned around to face back up the mountain, he saw him.

He wore the same black one piece ski patrol outfit that Roger had watched in the video. Just like in the video, his black hood was up, but he now wore a black balaclava and mirrored ski goggles. Roger couldn’t even guess the ethnicity of this infamous man in black, not a trace of skin was showing.

Roger could tell by the way he maneuvered his matte black and crimson colored Rossignol skis that he was no amateur. At the same time, he was deliberately moving slow on the initial mogul course.

He stayed behind Lara but he had no place to hide this time.

Lara came to a ledge before the start of the second part of the course. Perhaps her intuition warned her of incoming danger. She turned and looked up towards the mogul course.

She saw her stalker in black.

Part I

“There aren’t any safety issues at the ski resort…right, Mr. Devereux?” The attractive blue eyed woman asked from the luxurious backseat of the Mercedes G Wagon. Even under her North Face winter jacket, Roger Devereux could tell she possessed an athletic figure, probably toned from several hours of yoga and pilates training at some swanky private gym in Manhattan.

“No, ma’am. Those stories you heard about the recent disappearances are nothing more than fear mongering from the anti-tourist NIMBY types. We have a lot of them in Vermont. It’s sad to say this, but some mentally unwell people commit suicide by wandering out into the dark, cold forests in winter. Their bodies are found in spring or never found at all.” Roger Devereux responded in a frank manner.

“I see, yes, that is quite sad. How long until we reach the ski resort?” She asked in her cultured, slightly foreign accent. Roger couldn’t place it, it was too subtle.

“Approximately thirty minutes, Mrs. Novak. I can turn on one of the satellite radio stations, if you would like to listen to some music on the drive?” The hired chauffeur offered.

“No, I prefer a little warm conversation; do you mind, Mr. Devereux?”

“Not at all, I’m a sucker for good conversation, ma’am.” Devereux grinned into the rearview mirror of the SUV but the affluent millennial didn’t catch the 80s movie reference he had tossed at her.

“Darla…I mean Mrs. Sharpov said that you had been a police officer before starting your luxury transport service, is this true?”

“Well, yes, I was a sheriff’s deputy with Rutland County, the county we are in now for six years before starting my current business. This luxury transport business was part of my final MBA project, I had to come up with a viable tourist business…” Roger stopped going further into his explanation about his graduate school project when he saw the socialite’s eyes glazing over. He still retained enough law enforcement observation skills to know when he was boring a woman to death.

Regardless, she soon perked up and slowly unzipped her white down jacket and allowed her large, modified breasts to breathe a bit more. She continued her line of questioning.

“Still, a deputy sheriff, that must have been exciting? Although, I am sure you prefer running your own business, my husband certainly does, far more than he enjoys being married.”

Roger was astute enough to not respond to her last comment.

She continued her undressing, taking off her red knit winter cap, Her light blonde hair cut in a stylish bob that probably cost more than what Roger spent in monthly groceries.

“It was just a job. When I first joined the sheriff’s office and went through the Vermont Police Academy, I had all sorts of romantic notions. After a year or so on night patrol, they were completely dispelled.”

“Hmmm, I was listening to this podcast at my gym. They talked about all the serial killers that have traveled through or lived in Vermont over the years. Very creepy.” She whispered conspiratorially.

Oh, dear God, she is a true crime enthusiast, Roger thought. He attempted a placating smile.

“You know, when I was a patrol deputy, mostly what I dealt with were people who made poor decisions due to drugs or alcohol. On occasion, I would come across a professional thief operating at one of the ski resorts. But even those were rare. Sorry, no serial killers.”

“That you know of.” She responded cheekily in her light accent. Roger grinned and just shook his head. He liked her moxie.

But he turned on the radio anyway.

“So, I can just text you, if I need your car service then?” Roger’s long-legged client asked. She was nearly his height and he was 6 feet 2. He took both of her large black suitcases out of the trunk of the SUV and handed them off to the resort’s young bellhop staff, along with a Burton snowboard.

“Yes, your husband paid for my weekend excursion executive package. You have access to me throughout the weekend. If you want to go into Rutland or the outlet stores outside the resort, just text me and I will be here in minutes. I will never be more than fifteen minutes away, Mrs. Novak.” Roger shut the liftgate of the G Wagon.

“Excellent, please call me Lara, may I call you Roger? We aren’t living in Downton Abbey.” She smiled and her soft, plump red lips revealed perfectly aligned white teeth.

“As you like, Lara. I recommend that once you get settled in your suite, you try the aperitifs cocktails at the Red Barn Saloon next door. Also, their Friday night dinner specials are excellent.”

“Thanks for the tip, Roger. You will hear from me tomorrow, goodnight.” Roger watched her follow the entourage of bellhops to the magnificent entrance of the large chalet style resort lodge to check-in. They treated her like a Viking queen, bowing and opening doors for her. The curves of her tight, muscular bottom slid delicately up and down in her black Lulumon leggings. Even in winter boots, she moved like a ballet dancer.

Roger took a few deep breaths to settle himself, he had forgotten how lonely he had been since Bethany the bartender had broken up with him.

All around him, laughing, excited people were coming and going, most of them headed to the mountain slopes. It was easy to tell the local families from the wealthy urbanites at Killington.

Many of them were stylish, alluring females in small groups, at the resort for a girl’s weekend. These were the type of women who enjoyed brunch and were eternally bored. Spending their time on the slopes, partying in the resort bars and fornicating with the local college boys from the nearby university. In short, alleviating the tedium of their existence for a brief moment.

And thank God for it, Roger thought. He depended on these flatlander housefraus to hire his luxury car service. Sometimes, the husbands would hire him and offer to throw in a bonus, if he kept track of the wives’ extracurricular activities. He always declined, he had scruples. He would have become a P.I. if he wanted to be some seedy professional peeper.

On his way back home, Roger listened to a podcast. It was produced by some Vermonters and rightly called: Strange New England. The recent disappearances allowed the hosts to talk about a current event for once and encouraged their listeners to text in speculative comments.

In a span of ninety days, three different people had gone missing at Killington, a record for the region. All sorts of theories abounded from serial killers to cryptids and even a witch cult or two.

“Yeah, man! New England is pregnant with witch cults!” One of the hosts exclaimed.

“Totally, remember that bizarre story about the railroad cop who stopped a witches’ sabbath back in the forties?!? Witches and warlocks are everywhere in this region!” The second host declared.

“Always have been!” The first host agreed.

Roger chuckled at the chuckleheads. People will never stop their love of gossip. He weaved the G Wagon down the snowy mountain roads back to his small “A” frame house for a quiet night of steak and bourbon. No witches in his neck of the woods. An image of a sensual, comely Lara came into his mind: That you know of, she smiled at him.

Part III

It turned out to be longer than twenty-four hours but I received a text from Rylee that she had spent a night in Palmetto due to driving fatigue but was now on her way to Marco Island Inn. She pulled into the parking lot around nine am.

She left her BMW SUV in the parking lot and hopped into my Jeep and we headed to the hiking trail.

“Arthur was never much of a hiker. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got himself lost in that damn state park. I took a look at it online and the place looks pretty primitive and remote.”

After only ten minutes of driving, civilization fell away, replaced by stunted trees and marshland. Large metal signs pointed us to the desolate state park. After another twenty minutes, we pulled into a dirt parking lot located just off the highway. There were no other cars in the lot, just a beat-up porta potty and a large, enclosed garbage bin.

Next to the entrance of Sawgrass Trail, a large map encased in plastic was displayed along with various signs by park officials warning that the area was unmonitored and to hike at one’s own risk, as well as the various venomous species that inhabited the state park, and the usual Florida state warnings about alligators.

Both Rylee and I were dressed in light colored cargo hiking pants, boots and long sleeved, brightly colored fishing shirts, to keep sun and insects off of us. We still sprayed ourselves down with insect repellent and carried CamelBak water bladders on our backs. I shifted my Glock to the front of my waist for comfort and easy access. Who knew if the Skunk Ape was friendly or not.

We lit out onto the trail. It was a clear morning and the sun had begun its ascent. As we moved further into the trail, the buzzing of insects became louder, as did the sound of movement of various creatures behind the green wall of wood growth. This forest was clearly ancient.

The trail to our right was bordered by a large body of swamp water. I didn’t know how far down it went. I assumed in summer, the afternoon showers filled the swamp further, overflowing onto the trail, making it impassable.

We walked a long while, mostly silent, Rylee insisted I watch one side of the trail and she watched the other.

“Gus, stop, I think I see something.” She pointed, off the trail, near a copse of small trees. In the far distance, I saw something that was clearly not part of the swamp, a manmade color. Before I could say anything, Rylee was already stomping towards it.

“Wait, Rylee, careful! There might be snakes or gators over there.” But she was already quickly moving off trail and all I could do was follow.

We moved speedily through the sawgrass and eventually, we came to the unnatural color. It was a neon orange bucket hat. It was also covered in dried blood.

Rylee bent down and picked it up. To her, it was a strange hat with some crusted brown stains. I knew what this meant. I wandered around the trees and eventually found what I was looking for in some tall grass.

Not much was left of Arthur Arundel, formerly of Georgetown. Various critters, large and small, had gotten to the corpse by this point so that he was mostly skeletal remains, in dirty rags with very little meat attached to it. I did notice that his skull had been caved in. No swamp critter did that, unless, did Arthur find his Skunk Ape?

Rylee began walking towards me but I told her to stop. She knew from the look on my face what I had found.

I walked back towards her and hugged her. She laid her head on my chest and gently stroked my back. We stayed like that for a bit. I tried to comfort her as best I could.

Later, we moved locations, to a larger tree, near a giant, thick hedge that gave us some shade from the blazing afternoon sun and humidity. We drank water in silence for several minutes.

“Let me see your Glock, Gus.” Rylee suddenly asked.

“Huh, why?” I asked.

“I just want to check something, don’t you trust me, stud?” She grinned and stuck out her tongue.”

I took it out of the holster and handed it to her, grip first. She took hold of it and stepped back several feet.

Rylee pitched the Glock into the swamp water, she had quite the arm, must have been a softball player, it quickly sank. As did my heart. All the pieces of the puzzle dropped into place. She pulled her own piece out of her front pocket, a small black, Ruger LCP .380.

Betrayal.

“You had always planned to kill him and pin it on me, didn’t you?” She held the pistol steady. No tremors whatsoever, a real femme fatale.

“No, not initially. I did some research, stud. The swamp makes a great place to hide a body. When I found out you lived in the area…well, yeah, I figured you would make a great patsy as well. If Arthur just disappeared, the police would be looking at me a little too closely. It might affect the life insurance payout. You saved me from having to seduce some local hayseed. I’m grateful, really. But, Gus, this spider woman needs a new life. I grew tired of his binge drinking bouts and ridiculous obsessions. He was a damn manchild.”

“Yeah, I make a good fall guy. Private investigators don’t exactly have a great reputation among local law enforcement. Being out in the swamp, without witnesses, leaves me with no alibi. You tell ‘em I was blackmailing you, hence all the recent payments. We met here at the state park where I showed you his body, we argued, you had no choice but to shoot me. You drove instead of flying so you could bring that piece with you. What did you hit him with a rock or a tree branch?”

She ignored my question and merely grinned maliciously in response. She raised her arm and pointed the barrel of the .380 at my head. This was it, end of Detective Florida Man. Once again leaving in disgrace.

As I prepared to meet my maker, I heard rustling all around us but didn’t think much of it. These forest swamps are always alive with creatures of every variety. You should only get worried when everything is quiet.

But Rylee should have paid more attention.

Two bare, large hairy arms materialized out of a hedge wall behind her. I could see sharp, dirty, yellow fingernails on the thick hands. They appeared to be the hands of a very dirty man but huge and rough. The hair could almost be mistaken for fur due to the sheer thickness of it. But it was man, just a very large one.

Those muscular arms wrapped themselves around Rylee Arundel’s chest so fast. Her pistol went off and I felt the round glide a few inches from head. I ducked and moved back.

Her pistol dropped into the grass. She was able to see more than I could. She was angry at first but when she turned her head, she let out a horrific, ear piercing scream. Then she began alternating between screeching and gagging.

I could smell it too, it was awful, like a dead carcass had been left lying on pavement in humid weather for a day but then someone pissed on it. I choked on vomit rising out of my throat.

The bare arms pulled her through the heavy hedge, as branches broke and parted, I glimpsed not one, but at least three giant figures in the bushes. They were naked and covered in mud and filth. I swear they had to be at least seven feet tall. Their features were too obscured by matted hair and mud, but I saw they were clearly male, based on how erect they were.

They made some sort of joyous grunting sounds when she was pulled into the shrubs with them.

Slowly, I gingerly moved backwards. I thought of diving forward and grabbing her .380 but decided against such a rash move. Also, I didn’t want to be near that smell.

They did not seem to care about my presence, totally ignoring me. In hindsight, I guess it was because they had a toy to play with, like a cat with a trapped mouse or bird.

Once I felt safe enough to turn my back, I never looked back, even when Rylee’s screams became pitiful, terrified sobs.

The hiking trail was easily located again. I humped it back to my Jeep at a quick pace. I drove all day to get back home, only briefly stopping once to gas up. I barely remember the trip, my mind in a fugue state.

I considered getting mind numbingly wasted that night on high end bourbon. I stopped at a Publix liquor store but never went inside. After five minutes, I drove out of the parking lot and went home.

When I got back to the sugar shack, I noticed a yellowish, red oblong object laying on my lawn; a mango. I’ve never seen one on my property, there are no mango groves in my area.

I looked at the ugly cat and he quizzically stared back at me.

We decided to leave the mango alone and just go to bed early.

In the morning, the mango was gone. Rylee Arundel was never seen again.

I assumed like her husband, the swamp eventually consumed her.

Part II

Five O’Clock Somewheres was outside, in his expansive parking lot, working on one of his fishing boats when I pulled up by his quonset hut in my Jeep Islander.

“Detective Florida Man! You lookin’ like you had one helluva night! Did you hug that porcelain god all night long or just this mornin?” Five put his tools down and inspected my chic Florida hangover.

“And a good morning to you, Five. I’m assuming you have already had your Corona breakfast.”

“That is mighty presumptuous of you, sir.” He lifted a hidden Corona bottle to lips and took a long pull.

We went into his air conditioned cavernous office. He threw a Van Halen cd into his sound system and we shot the shit for a few minutes before I told him about my visit from the spooky HR lady.

“I guess she thinks I’m her questing hero knight, looking for her drunken holy grail.”

“Well, with your prominent brow ridge and strong chin, you could pass for a hero of yore but this is America, and especially here in Florida, there are no heroes and definitely no damsels!” Five waxed philosophical.

“Just so. Anyway, do you remember this particular DC inebriate?”

“Actually, as a matter of fact, I do. It was three weeks ago, I believe. I took my cutter out into the Gulf for a group of lawyers who wanted to do some marlin hunting. The most pastiest of skinny-fat white men you will ever see. A few of them were lobster red by the time we got back. All the Coors they drank as they fished didn’t help.”

“Sounds like a typical outing for you, what makes this one so memorable, Five?”

“Well, sir. While heading back in for the day, the topic of cryptids came up. You know Bigfoot, Mothman, the Jersey Devil, Champ, those sorts of creatures.”

“Not your usual conversation for that crew, I gather.” Five shook his head.

“One of them, the most pasty of them all with a badly receding blond hairline, which he hid with a neon orange bucket hat, I gave him, was simply obsessed with the Florida Skunk Ape!” I chuckled out loud at this absurdity.

“You’re kidding me? Why?”

“No idea! He was asking me all sorts of questions, when he found out my uncle saw it once, he wanted to know all the details.”

“Your crazy Vietnam vet uncle who always slept with a fragmentation grenade under his pillow. That uncle?” Five nodded again.

“That’s the one. One of his favorite pastimes was to hunt or I should say poach wild turkey. Anyway, once, he claimed he observed a large, hairy humanoid moving through the swamp while hunting one early morning in Picayune Strand State Forest.”

“He was probably drunk and having a flashback, thought he was back in the bad bush of ‘nam.” I snarked.

“I told a similar story to Mister Arthur Arundel but he couldn’t get enough. I advised him if he wanted a glimpse of the Skunk Ape, he should head out there and check out that swampy state forest. My uncle used to stay at the Holiday Inn on Marco Island, he’d get hammered at one of the beach bars and sometimes pick up a lonely widow.”

“Interesting, you think Arundel might have headed to Marco Island as well?” Five shrugged in a noncommittal response to my question.

“If you’re a drunk, who wants to go on a serious booze bender, while Skunk Ape hunting, Marco Island would be the place.”

We spent some more time conversing about the finer points of deep sea fishing and then I was off. I needed food and wanted to do a bit of online research. Plus, I was sure my ugly cat wanted second breakfast.

I spent the day researching bars and hotels on Marco Island, the fishing, tourist community just south of Naples and an easy drive to Picayune Strand State Forest. Putting myself in the mind of a drunken DC lawyer with a swamp creature obsession, I located what I thought would be the ideal base of operations for such a task.

The Marco Island Inn…and cocktail lounge.

As I drove south, I got a notification from my payment app, Rylee had paid me another 2000 dollars. I would have to ask her why so much money upfront, I would bill her for all expenses later, once the job was complete. Curious.

I pulled into the parking lot of the stately Marco Island Inn. I checked in and unpacked. I took a tour of the old inn. I didn’t particularly like what I saw. It was trying way too hard.

It wanted to appear to be a part of Old Florida but it had only been around for about forty years. I’ve been inside inns that had been around since the forties and fifties and they had character that this concrete monstrosity lacked.

The hotel cocktail lounge was more bar than lounge. No piano or even a stage for a live band was present. The decor managed to be underwhelming while being tasteless at the same time. The bar staff wore khaki pants and white polo shirts, a pretty standard uniform for many Florida hotels.

Based on the gold name tag my bartender’s name was Stu. He could have been third generation Cuban, Greek or Sicilian. Both his well coiffed wavy, gelled hair and buffed nails, polished spoke of a man who pampered himself a bit too much.

I ordered a whiskey sour and asked a few probing questions. Eventually, he grew suspicious of my curious questions. I made up a fake but impressive story about how I had tracked Arthur Arundel to Marco Island and that I was a private detective. He wanted to see my credentials, so I took out my leather folder out of my back pocket and showed him my state license.

“Well, aren’t you the clever one? I guess that’s why you’re the private dick?” he lisped at me in an uncomfortable flirtatious manner.

Also, I hated the way he enunciated the word clever, like I was a terrier who performed cute little tricks for guests. I had an overwhelming desire to pummel this haughty male peacock until his brains leaked out of his ears.

But, I needed information, not a visit by Collier County’s finest.

I gave him a description of Arthur Arundel and told him about his unusual interests.

“Oh, yes! There was this drunken weirdo in here about two or three weeks ago, maybe.” I had to suppress a smirk when he called Arthur Arundel a weirdo, pot calling the kettle black and all that.

“He kept asking myself and other staff all sorts of questions about the Florida Skunk Ape. I told him that various people, hikers mostly have reported seeing it in the state park. I’m not much of a hiker myself, I prefer the beach or you know, indoor activities.” He gave me a lecherous smile that made my testicles pull into my groin for protection.

“So I guess he didn’t get much information in terms of looking for his cryptid?” Stu frowned.

“Not from me, I know Manny, the dayshift barback told him that many sightings were near the Sawgrass Trail, a few miles or so from the trailhead. Personally, I think he was just making it up to get a fat tip from him, he clearly had money. Another round, Mr. Dick?”

I politely declined and got up. I left him a poor tip when I settled up the bill. I went back to my room. I decided I would make my report via text to Rylee.

When I texted her, I received an almost immediate telephone call back.

“I am on my way. I’ll be there in twenty-four hours, Gus.”

“Wait! What! You’re coming from DC? Why, I have some leads but nothing definitive, Rylee.”

“No, arguments. I am driving down there and I will meet you at the inn parking lot. I’ll text you when I am close. See you in twenty-four hours.” She hung up on me. Clearly there was not going to be any debate.

I spent the next twenty-four hours looking at various online maps and researching the Sawgrass Trail, a long hiking trail that bisected the most remote part of the state park. Looking over online reviews, people mentioned the beauty and isolation of the trail but nothing about Skunk Apes.

Part I

“Did you know that Florida is one of the few places where both alligators and crocodiles live together?” The drunk remarked.

“In harmony?” I asked sincerely. The drunk snorted, beer gushing out of flared nostrils.

“I wouldn’t expect a giant like you to have such a keen sense of humor…then again, you are wearing that hideous Hawaiian shirt,” the drunk retorted.

“It’s called Florida gulf camouflage my man.” I shot back. The drunk suddenly became a fashion critic.

“You wanna blend in the gulf coast, ya need ta be wearing a day-glo wife beater with a gold chain.” He burped aggressively. I had to admit, I couldn’t argue with that sartorial observation. The loud colored muscle-tee cum gold chain was the height of working class fashion in my neck of the beach.

“We should make a toast!” my new friend suddenly shouted, scaring the crowd into silence at the beachside tiki bar. I saw Missy the bar owner reaching for her sawed off axe handle.

“To hurricane parties and loose, big titty women!” To my knowledge the weather forecast for the next week was for plenty of sunshine and blue skies. Also, it was May, a bit too early for hurricane season. As for large breasted women with questionable morals, well there are plenty of those at any beach bar along the coast.

But, I decided to play along.

“A gimlet for Terry Lennox!” I yelled in response as I raised my own cocktail.

“Eh, who’s Terry…whatever his last name is?” The confused drunk asked.

“A friend of Philip Marlowe who later betrayed him…he sort of represents…oh, nevermind.” The drunk had already sauntered off to either the bathroom or maybe find a woman more drunk than him. I took a slip of my drink and stared out into the calm blue water of the Gulf of America.

I liked hanging out at the gaudy tiki bar designed for tourists. The local inland dive bars are boring, it’s always the same building contractors complaining about material prices and their unreliable, lazy workers. Sometimes, they will try and pull me into the conversation, they take a look at my size and assume I’m one of them. More than a few have been surprised when they find out I’m a licensed private investigator.

In a tourist bar, I can eavesdrop on the over-preened urban upper middle-class women gossiping about one another behind their backs. I listen in on tech bros arguing with each other over cryptocurrency or which start-ups are actually failing. I immerse myself in the existential anxieties of their lives. It helps me ignore my own.

You see, I have seen things recently. Shapes and images I cannot unsee…and no amount of alcohol will allow me to forget, sadly. But, I soldier on. Easy to do on a warm early summer day with low humidity and azure colored skies.

That day, I found myself talking to a lost memory. She sidled up to the padded stool next to me, in front of the tacky bamboo and stone bar.

“Look what the cat dragged in! You’ve grown your hair out, I see. At least you aren’t as pale as you used to be. Seems like the hot, Florida sun is agreeing with you, Gus.”

I knew Rylee Arundel from my time at the Agency. She was the human resource officer assigned to the counterintelligence center. Yeah, that’s right, she’s an HR spook. She didn’t look like the other middle-age harridans though. She was tall, athletic with curly strawberry blond hair. Her angular muscle to curve ratio was perfect. She smiled at me with cute dimples.

I hadn’t seen her in almost three years, she still looked good, especially good in the revealing string bikini. She caught me perving on her lean, tanned legs. She smirked and then sighed.

“Look, I really need some help and you owe me, Florida-man.” I cocked an eyebrow at her.

“It’s my piece of shit, drunken husband. He’s gone on another bender and I know he’s down here…somewhere.”

“So? If he’s that much of a pain in the ass, just divorce him, Rylee. You don’t seem to be in love with him anymore.”

“You know how expensive the DC area is, right? Well, since you left, it has only gotten more expensive. I need to live a certain way, you know a princess always needs a castle, right?” She smiled wryly.

I took a long pull from my supersized cocktail. It gave me a chance to avert my gaze from her intense grey eyes which bored into my brain. She continued on.

“I heard about what happened a few years ago, with that weird ass cult in Clearwater. I also know that you were fired from that insurance company you worked for during the case. And, I know you hung up your own shingle afterwards or more accurately these days, website. By the way, I like it, detectivefloridaman.com has a nice ring to it.”

At the mention of the Church By the Sea, I nearly spit up my sweet and sour cocktail. I may have dealt with a bunch of ancillary members and got the church closed down, but I knew more of them were out there. Some of them I suspected were living under the gulf.

She was right though. Recently, business had recently dried up. I was getting a bit desperate. I had a standing job offer to work as an armed security guard at the Tampa Hard Rock Casino and was considering taking it.

She read my thoughts. “Since you’re day drinking with tourists and drunks on a Wednesday afternoon, I’m assuming the independent PI business isn’t going great.” I swallowed and released a deep sigh.

It was true, I did owe her. Due to the circumstances of my leaving the CIA, I was told that the money I had put into a Thrift Savings Plan wasn’t going to be paid out. She personally made sure I got that money, as well as all the annual leave I didn’t use.

“Hey, Rylee, come on, you were just doing your job.” I smiled back at her. But she didn’t smile back.

“I really need your help, Gus,” she pleaded. She moved closer, the smell of lemongrass and cloves overwhelmed me, her cosmetically enhanced D cups brushing my arm.

I wish I could tell you that I refused the advances of a very married woman. That I reacted like my hero Philip Marlowe would have in that situation. But I had no quippy comeback and instead brought her back to my sugar shack where we spent the night drinking and exploring each other’s bodies. In the morning, like a fever dream, she was gone. She sent me a text on my phone.

I’ve sent a $2000 retainer to your PAIDapp account. I’ll send you more, if you find any leads. I expect a daily report emailed to me at COB. I’ve attached a list of his last known whereabouts. Don’t disappoint me, stud.

I opened the attachment and saw a list of bars, strip clubs and a few fishing charters. I recognized one of those fishing charters. I rolled off of the King sized mattress and jumped into a very cold shower.

As I drove out of the entrance of my trailer park, one of the usual rogues’ gallery of homeless addicts was there to greet me by the traffic light. I rolled down my window.

“What’s going on, bud?”

“The mangoes are on the move, they’re on the move!” He repeated this quite a few times during our brief conversation. He was a known schizophrenic, still, his insistence made me a little nervous for some odd reason. He gesticulated wildly and then suddenly ran off, leaving his stained, muddy sack behind.

“Ok, bud.” But he was already gone and out of earshot. The light turned green and I was off to see a smuggler who moonlights as a fishing charter captain.

The latest work of pulp fiction I just finished is Creepin’ Clues, edited by Arbogast. It is a series of short stories where the protagonist is some type of occult investigator, in many cases, an amateur and reluctant one. I have a story in this brilliant anthology and everyone should pick up a copy. I enjoyed all of them, which is rare for me when it comes to anthologies.

Something I noticed is that many of these stories contain at least one of the three basic archetypes of men you find in any kind of modern action story.

What do I mean by this statement?

Well, thirty years ago, I took a film appreciation class while an undergrad. It was an easy one credit class and I needed some sort of art class in order to graduate from my small New England liberal arts college. I wanted something easy that required very little effort on my part, so drawing, painting, clay pottery was out.

Instead, I signed up for a class that gave me much more than what I had expected. It was so long ago, I don’t even remember the professor’s name, who is probably dead (at the very least retired) at this point, since he was well into middle-age when I took the course.

What I do remember is that he was neither a filmmaker or artist but a Jungian trained psychologist. He also loved film, especially action films.

He had this theory when it came to modern action films that has stuck with me. He distinguished between modern and postmodern films. For the purposes of this essay, I am not going to go into detail in terms of what he meant by these terms. Suffice to say, the modern action film had an identifiable hero, he may be flawed but he is heroic.

At the same time, he discussed what made a modern action film truly entertaining. In his mind, a good modern action film needed three specific archetypes of men.

His three basic character archetypes of a modern action drama were: the good man, the bad man, and the good-bad man.

He used the film, Shane (1953) to explain his modern action archetypes. These could also be applied to certain types of pulp writing as well.

Shane is a great example because it is such a simple story. In the Old West, a small farming and ranching community is beset by thugs who work for a cattle baron who wants all the land for his spread.

A Homestead Act rancher and his young family are attempting to make a living on this harsh, unforgiving land. The rancher hires a mysterious drifter to help him with their small ranch. The rancher defies the cattle baron who wants him dead and hires a professional gunfighter to carry out the deed.

Meanwhile, the drifter, named Shane, finds out about the plot and goes into town to confront this devious group. A gunfight ensues, it turns out that Shane is a superb gunfighter and takes out the murderous fiends but is wounded in the process.

The last scene of the movie is iconic since it is Shane riding away from the small ranch with the rancher’s son calling out to him. In the distance you see Shane slump over in his saddle, Shane is dead.

Now, let’s look at our archetypes (according to my professor). The good man archetype is represented by the rancher; Joe Starrett. Starrett is respected by the other ranchers who consider him a competent rancher, he treats others decently, he is a loving husband and father to his young son. One could consider him the ideal, a pillar of any American community. He doesn’t like violence but will not run if he is faced with an injustice. He simply wants to run his ranch and raise his family in peace.

Now the opposite of the good man archetype is the bad man. In this film, there are two main bad men. The cattle baron, Rufus Ryker and the professional contract killer he hires to kill Starrett; Jack Wilson played malevolently by Jack Palance who is perfect for any villain role.

Both men have allowed themselves to be possessed by their most base characteristics, one could argue sins really. For the cattle baron, Ryker it is greed, he wants the land and doesn’t give a damn about the families who live on it. As for Wilson, he just enjoys killing, so why not get paid for it? The bad man lacks empathy or scruples. He is fully engaged in his selfish desires. Neither man is capable of ever being a family man, that would require agape; sacrificial love, which they lack.

Now we come to the final archetype: the good-bad man. In Shane, this is the title character. What makes Shane this archetype?

Shane is a drifter, he wanders from town to town, looking for work but never really making connections or staying for long. The way he interacts with Starrett’s boy, Joey, you can tell he longs for a family on some level but is incapable of creating one.

He is clearly damaged or traumatized in some way. Some experience has fundamentally altered him, perhaps war? In Batman, it is the grisly death of his parents that permanently alters Bruce Wayne. Wayne will never be a content family man. It is clear Shane will never be a family man like his employer, he will never be respected by the community he lives in.

He is a rolling stone but he is also cool.

At the same time, he sees the value in community and family, he recognizes that these are good things, well worth defending. He is always prepared to engage in violence. Unlike the good man, who will only kill and use violence when absolutely necessary, often feeling terrible about himself when the violence is over. If he even survives the violence.

The good-bad man will kill to protect the community, without compunction. He rarely enjoys it but recognizes violence has a place as a useful tool.

Also, the good-bad man is superior at making war. This is the biggest difference between him and the good man and often the bad man. He is trained or a natural in the judicial application of violence. Most of the time, the bad man is just too ill disciplined to be anything more than thuggish. The bad man tends to rely too much on numbers rather than skill.

Here is an interesting note: you don’t need all 3 archetypes for a successful action narrative but you need at least 2 out of 3.

Donald E. Westlake, writing as Richard Stark, most famous pulp character is Parker. One could look at Parker, a professional thief and strong arm robber as the least heroic character that has ever existed. However, in Parker’s world (the criminal underworld), he is honorable, loyal and has a sense of duty. It may be twisted at times due to the world he inhabits, but he has virtues all of his contemporaries in that realm lack.

The other criminals are venial, dishonorable and mostly lazy.

These blackguards always double cross Parker and try to kill him...every damn time. Parker then seeks revenge on his former coworkers and kills them all. End of tale.

In the Parker series, you are not going to find any good men. As the reader, you are inhabiting this criminal underworld. Everyone has a price, everyone will betray anyone…except Parker.

There are only bad men in these stories, even the female characters fall into that archetype. Parker is the lone good-bad man. He lives by a code he will not betray, much like the samurai and their code of Bushido in feudal Japan.

You can also have a story where you have a good man versus bad man. I think of Charles Bronson’s architect character in Death Wish as being a good example. He doesn’t want to be a vigilante, he would prefer to be a regular middle-class family man but is forced by circumstances to leave this role for a bit (unless you include the sequels and then you could argue he eventually becomes a good-bad man).

As you watch movies or read action, adventure pulps, be on the lookout for these three archetypes.

If you are a pulp writer, do you utilize these three archetypes in your work?

The big black electric SUV slowed to a crawl as it passed Ezekiel.

The back passenger window rolled down and Ezekiel spied a very pale woman with long flowing black hair, full crimson lips. Her face, although handsome, was garish and clearly altered by the hands of man. The woman smiled with peculiar gleaming white teeth and blew him a kiss.

He stared into those dark eyes. The eyes of a serpent, he thought to himself.

Ezekiel had to dig his boots into the hide of his horse because it became suddenly spooked. The SUV passed on, heading south to the village of the English. For his part, Ezekiel felt a chill in the air. He slowly continued on his way to the church.

Meandering down the paved road, he maneuvered around the old pot holes. He finally arrived at an intersection and took a right onto a long dirt lane. A large, formidable barn arose at the end of the lane. Hobbling his horse to a post with 6 other horses.

Inside the plain white painted pole barn, finely crafted benches were set up. Several older Amish men sat on these benches listening to a speaker who stood in front of an old stained pulpit which sat on a dais. Ezekiel let the man finish his sermon.

“...that is all I have for today. Our own deacon approaches. He will make a report about the recent events at Tobias’ farm.” The elderly stooped man nodded at Ezekiel, who nodded back and stepped on to the dais as the elder left.

“For many years, we have had to defend our homes since the receding of modernity. Some of our brethren communities did not survive those early years, refusing to adapt to our Lord’s judgement on America. Since my father…may his soul rest with our eternal savior…made the decision to arm all Amish men and appoint a deacon arbiter in every local community in this region, we have not only survived but thrived in these new hostile conditions…”

A young boy came barrelling through the double doors of the Amish church. He was covered in dirt and sweat. The wet stains on his face showed he had been crying as well.

Ezekiel recognized him as the son of a local Amish carpenter who lived in the village.

“What is it boy?” Ezekiel’s deep voice boomed.

“It’s Jacob’s Country Store, deacon…it’s burning! There are bodies everywhere.” The boy breathlessly reported.

“Take a deep breath and tell me what you saw.” Ezekiel ordered the boy. The boy did just that and reported on the horror show he had just witnessed.

“I was headed to the store, on Shiloh, when I heard gun shots coming from inside. A few English stumbled out of the store, they was bleeding all over, deacon. They fell down and just died.” The boy briefly let out a sob and then continued. “Then I see two dark men and a pale woman coming out of the store. Both the men held Mr. Jacob between them. The woman began asking him all sorts of questions. She beat Jacob real bad, deacon. I..I think he’s dead.” The boy broke into more tears.

“I turned Shiloh around to get away. She shot at my horse! He stumbled aways, then laid down and never got up! I had to run the rest of the way here!” He began wailing, some of the elders tried to comfort the traumatized prepubescent. The rest of the elders stood up in shock and as one turned towards Ezekiel.

Ezekiel issued his orders, knowing they would be followed.

“Everyone stays here, bar the door after I leave. I am going to investigate.” Ezekiel put on his long black duster and went outside. Ezekiel saddled up his retired racehorse and flew towards the village.

The Hershberger boy wasn’t exaggerating, it was pure chaos. The store had been set ablaze and was now a raging inferno. Several men were trying to keep the fire from spreading to other buildings. Jacob’s store was located in the village green and there were other commercial buildings there; a cafe, Troyer’s leathercraft shop and King’s bakery.

A few Sheriff’s deputies stood outside their armored SUVs. The emergency lights were flashing but the female deputies were frozen in place; dumbfounded, unsure if they really wanted to investigate and find who was capable of such horrific wanton violence.

As he slowed his horse, the deacon spied two bodies laying face down in the dirt. Blood flowed freely from several gunshot wounds. They weren’t Amish and Ezekiel didn’t recognize them but he found Jacob stretched out by a nearby oak tree.

Ezekiel took his canteen from his saddle and went to the wounded shopkeeper. He didn’t have any gunshot wounds but had been worked over with a blunt object; pistol whipped Ezekiel thought. The bruises were ugly, purplish red and spreading, he had sustained a lot of internal bleeding.

Jacob’s eyes fluttered open and he recognized Ezekiel.

“Ezekiel…I am so sorry…I tried to lie…but she knew it…like she could see into my soul…” the older man sputtered with cracked bloody lips.

“Quiet, now. We need to get you to the medical clinic and they’ll bring you to the hospital in the city.” Ezekiel tried to reassure the man. Both men knew he wouldn’t survive the long ride from the clinic to the city hospital. Ezekiel gently lifted Jacob’s head and gave him some water.

“You got to find Tobias, Ezekiel. They’re headed to his farm. I told them where he lives, God help me. They’re after something…” Some of the water sputtered up from Jacob’s mouth…it was a deep crimson. Ezekiel tried to comfort the dying man but he was no preacher, he was an arbiter.

“You had no choice, Jacob. They are a nest of pagan vipers and would have murdered the entire village if you had refused them. It’s all right, just rest now and I will make sure you get to the clinic.”

It was too late, Jacob’s eyes were open but they no longer saw Ezekiel, or anything else. Ezekiel closed them with gentle fingers and said a short prayer aloud. Jacob may not have been Amish but he had been a friend to his community for many decades. He had been a fair businessman and a kind soul.

If someone had been standing next to Ezekiel, they would have heard the deadly whisper coming from his lips: “These pagans will suffer for their deeds.”

Ezekiel mounted his horse and took a short cut through the old state park. If the Lord was on the side of righteousness, he would get to Tobias’ farm just in time. He spurred his horse when he got to open ground and pushed her to her limit. After crossing the state park and a few open fields, he was finally on to Tobias’ property.

He knew he was too late when he heard the gunfire. Ezekiel dismounted and retrieved his Mossburg 590 shotgun from its waxed canvas scabbard. It was an old Mariner edition with a synthetic stock but 8 round tubular magazine capacity. Ezekiel always kept it loaded with a combination of double 00 buckshot and solid slugs.

The horse was left in the field to graze while men warred upon one another. Silently, Ezekiel crossed the freshly cut field, and into a small gully behind Tobias’ farmhouse.

A few hundred feet in front of the gully was a large wood pile where Tobias and his sons chopped wood for their furnace. Tobias was behind this wood pile. He was pinned down.

The three Cartel members were spread out. They had handguns and were shooting at the woodpile as they hunted their prey. They were so confident and lackadaisical that they hadn’t bothered seeking cover. They were slowly approaching the woodpile while shooting, the two male thugs were slowly flanking the woodpile, while the woman simply came straight on.

For his part, Tobias was frantic and panickingly trying to reload his Shockwave, sometimes dropping shells from quaking hands. When he did manage to shoot, his aim was comically off.

Ezekiel decided to put the fear of the Almighty into these pagan sicarios. Putting the barrel bead on the chest of an overweight thug who was the closest to Tobias he squeezed the trigger. The shotgun barked and the solid slug smashed into the sicario’s thick chest, chunks of organ meat flew out his back. He fell and immediately became one with the dirt.

Both of the surviving sicarios were surprised by this unexpected turn of events. The woman in black immediately dropped to the ground but increased her rate of fire. Ezekiel felt her pistol rounds ripping overhead. The other sicario, a lean scarecrow of a man, dressed in a flamboyant colored track suit was slower to follow but also ended up on the ground.

While the sicarios were busy reloading, Ezekiel fired all the rounds he had left in his shotgun to keep them grounded. After the last round had been spent, he whistled to Tobias and waved him towards the gully.

Tobias abandoned his now empty Shockwave and sprinted towards the gully. He slid down the short dirt wall and came next to Ezekiel. For his part, Ezekiel put down his empty shogun and took up a colt revolver from his crossdraw holster. Tobias was bleeding from a wound on his left shoulder, adrenaline and fear kept him from noticing the slow leaking wound.

“They kilt everyone, Ezekiel! My whole family’s dead! They were so fast. They came barreling into my home and were just shooting, just shootin’ an’ laughin’ like they were at a church picnic,” he bawled.

“Quiet! You’re not helping their souls by blubbering…how many are there, Tobias?” Ezekiel commanded.

“It’s just the three of them but that woman ain’t normal! She was chanting the entire time she was shooting, like she was talking to someone.”

“She’s making sacrifices to her unclean gods,” Ezekiel opined.

“What do we do?” Tobias whimpered.

“I will pronounce God’s judgement and send these heathens to their fate. I want you to stay here, start screaming and yelling to get their attention.” Before Tobias could ask any more questions, Ezekiel was running down the gully towards the barn.

Tobias picked up the empty shotgun and racked the slide to get the sicarios attention. He began screaming and cussing at both of them. Javier jumped up and ran to the woodpile, taking cover behind a low cord of chopped wood. He fired a few rounds, providing cover for Valeria to stand up and glide towards a nearby stone well. Even while moving, she never stopped chanting.

She briefly closed her dark eyes. When she reopened them, she took aim and fired her long barreled pistol at the bobbing form in the gully. Tobias let out a blood curdling scream.

“My ear, my ear…Lord help me, Ezekiel my ear been shot off,” Tobias shrieked. He dropped the shotgun and was holding a mound of blasted flesh against his bleeding head.

Javier did not see Ezekiel as he came round the barn and moved towards the woodpile. Valeria seemed to sense Ezekiel’s presence and she turned to her right and fired at the exact time Ezekiel fired two rounds from his Colt.

Unfortunately for Javier, he was in the middle of a spiritual duel. Both of Ezekiel’s rounds slammed into his right side, spinning him around and knocking him off balance; he inadvertently got in the way of a 10 mm round that had been speeding towards Ezekiel. That round blew a bloody piece of skull off his head.

Javier hit the ground hard, he simultaneously squirmed and puked, his thoughts no longer held to this realm. Sainta Muerte welcomed him into his dark empire after several seconds of immense suffering.

It was just Valeria and the Amish deacon now.

Wordlessly, they began slowly advancing towards each other, shooting.

Both of them empty their pistols. Valeria loaded her last magazine, Ezekiel took out his second Colt.

“Christ, guide my hand, make me your instrument of justice.”

The second to last round of the Colt found its mark.

Valeria’s head snapped back. A small hole appeared in the center of her forehead and a few drops of blood fell into her mouth.

She smiled with red stained teeth…then she died.

Ezekiel came forward and stood over her body, mesmerized by the unholiness she radiated even in death. Tobias crawled out of the gully, still holding on to his ruined ear, he stood by Ezekiel, slack-jawed, staring at the sicario’s corpse.

Ezekiel holstered his Colt, picking up the body of the sicario, he pitched it into the well.

“Drown, witch.” Ezekiel turned to Tobias and gave him a forceful stare.

“Where is it Tobias? I know you took the devil worshippers’ property. If it was drugs, you would have told me. Was it money?”

Tobias’ eyes went hard. The grief and physical pain being replaced by something far more disturbing...greed.

Tobias quickly bent down and reached for the sicario’s fallen pistol but Ezekiel had been expecting this betrayal. The Colt round punched through Ezekiel’s chest, right through his sin eaten heart. Ezekiel lowered his revolver and stared at the cooling body of the Amish farmer. He searched his pockets and found a small plastic device with a screen, when it was turned on, it showed a series of letters and numbers.

“Cryptocurrency,” he simply stated. Ezekiel didn’t know much about these things but knew that in the city, such devices were used to buy and sell expensive things, sometimes, even people. Tobias had sacrificed his family’s life to Mammon. The deacon sighed. He pitched this device into the well too.

“Lord, accept this sinner and his innocent family unto thy kingdom, Tobias was a weak, foolish man but we are all tempted by Visht Mann through our pride. He rebelled against your ways and paid the price. As for these others, let them burn with the damned demons they worship.”

Ezekiel strode back into the field and mounted his horse. He headed back to his community’s church. He had another report to make and then bodies to bury.