For Mature Readers Only

# 2
February '07

Strange Tales Presents

THE HAUNT OF HORROR
featuring Ghost Rider

Ghost Rider '57
Part 2 of 6

Written by Mike McGee

The mechanic the citizens of Sunset Falls had called Coyote Bob as far as back as anybody could remember would be sixty-three come January of '58. That maybe didn't make him Methuselah, but damn if he wasn't starting to feel like it did.

Truth was, he figured he'd be dead already if it wasn't for Johnny. After Louise died...well, Bob had tried to put a brave face on things, but it got so that the only thing harder than getting out of bed in the morning was getting to sleep at night. The year between her death and the time when Johnny Ackerman had taken up residence at Coyote Bob's garage was the longest, blackest year of his life, and by the time it was over he'd been begging God to take him and spare him the burden of suffering through another one.

But then Johnny came along, and Bob found himself giving a damn all over again. Had he realized the identity of Johnny's father, Bob would have known right away what to expect from the kid - but Johnny had lied at first, given him a false surname, and although Johnny was already the spitting image of his old man, Coyote Bob's awareness of the world outside himself was too clouded with grief and a barely-acknowledged desire for death back in the fall of 1954 for him to have paid enough attention to catch the resemblance. So Bob got to know Johnny on his own terms, and he grew to like and even respect him. He was a crazy little bastard, to be sure...fearless...reckless, for certain. Bob recognized that to a lot of folks these qualities would be perceived as character flaws. But to a fella like him, they were downright admirable; especially when backed up with a sharp mind and, more important, a good heart. Johnny had both those, but they might not do him any good without someone around to look out for him. All of a sudden, Coyote Bob had a reason not to shuffle off this mortal coil after all.

However, he might do just that regardless if the kid didn't get back with dinner sometime soon. Bob's gut was starting to wonder if someone had slashed the old man's throat. Christ Jesus, Johnny was only going to Betty's; you'd think the kook had decided to motor over to PA for takeout.

Bob kept his mind off his appetite by playing the radio (WIXY 1260, rock n' roll earmarked for teenagers, but Johnny twisted the dial to it so often that Bob eventually just left it there...and, in spite of himself, Bob had grown so accustomed to it that he listened to it all the time, whether the kid was around or not) and reading a book Johnny had picked up for him on one of his off-day sojourns: An illustrated history of the legends of the Old West.

Bob was pretty sure the book was mostly bullshit, but it was fascinating bullshit. It focused on the gunfighters and peace officers of the day, and while the feats of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday and Wild Bill Hickok were all well-documented, Coyote Bob had a much harder time believing the tales of some of these others. Take this one here, the Rawhide Kid. The jagoff writer of this book expected him to buy a story about this guy having a showdown with a hypnotized gorilla, for Christ's sake. And then...

Well, this one even the author didn't expect anyone to take as fact, but it was just too good to pass up. There were no photos of this guy, but the oil painting of him... of a cowboy in an eerie white get-up, complete with a facemask that was only open to expose his pupilless eyes, astride a horse of the same color whose hooves kicked several feet above the earth of the otherwise-deserted Texas Plains on some dark, starless night...the sight of it sent chills running up and down Coyote Bob's spine. No one knew who the man was, and indeed it was likely (more than likely, Bob thought) that his very existence had been nothing more than a campfire tale invented to scare the shit out of little kids. But there were some who'd been around back in those days who were still alive (or had been as recently as 1955, when the book was copyrighted) and claimed to have had a brush or two with him, and most of them believed that he was not human at all. He might have been some Indian spirit, an angel or a demon, but most thought that he was a revenant of some wronged, vengeful lawman...one who came to be dubbed the...

"Ghost Rider," Coyote Bob said, and chortled. "I suppose him and Santa would rile up a posse of leprechauns in times of trouble and head out."

Coyote Bob noted the page where he'd left off and closed the book. There was only so much reading a body could do before his eyes got worn out, and the tremors in his stomach were making it too tough for him to concentrate. He took a slug of the black coffee he'd made a good half an hour ago to share with the kid upon his return and suddenly got an inkling that it would taste mighty fine with a nice big slab of cherry pie. He pulled a slim volume out from under the counter - the Sunset Falls telephone directory - and flipped to a dog-eared page near the top of the restaurant section. Since the kid was still there anyway, it wouldn't hurt any to call and add a couple slices of pie to their order. He hoped Johnny wouldn't think that he was checking up on him, because of course nothing could be further from the truth. He just wanted some dessert, that's all.

Coyote Bob picked up the phone and dialed Betty's. It didn't even finish a full ring before someone on the other end fumbled the receiver off the hook.

They must have been busy: He could hear some kind of commotion coming through over there, and there was a split-second too much pause with no voice on the other side of the line. Taking the initiative, the old man started to say, "Hello - "

"Help me!" a woman screamed at him.

Bob's pulse quickened. "Hello? Hello? What's happening there, who is - "

The crashing noises and the sounds of deep, harsh male voices intensified in the background: "Oh, God, please, they, call the sheriff, they're killing us, oh, God, Johnny Ackerman is dead, they shot him in the face, J—"

The line went dead.

Coyote Bob stared into a vast nothingness. The busy signal squawked in his ear like an air raid siren. He blinked, shook his head, shook off the paralysis that gripped him, then reached for the body of the phone. His shuddering hand toppled the mug to spill coffee all over the Old West book on its way to the cradle. He clacked the plunger down over and over, trying to bring the voice of the woman back on the line, but the call was gone.

Okay, Bob thought. Okay. He had to pull himself together now. His broad chest was starting to rise and fall faster and faster, he felt himself hyperventilating, but he had to regain control. He dropped the receiver on the cradle, then looked at it for a time much longer than he realized as he tried to remember what it was he was supposed to do with it. Howard. Yes. He had to call Howard. Coyote Bob blinked rapidly. He let out a lengthy, trembling breath, then reached for the receiver. There was a strange numbness in his fingertips, but he couldn't let that stay him. He struggled to regulate his breathing; he had to catch his breath in order to talk. His fingers folded around the receiver, and he noticed how cool and smooth and black the plastic of the receiver was, like ebony, like onyx...it was as if he had never seen so exotic an object before, not ever in all his days. Howard. Coyote Bob closed a fist that had no strength in it, closed it around the receiver, and a white-hot streak of lightning blazed its way up the entire length of his arm. Foam flew from between his dry, cracked lips. The universe tilted and went dark and the old man fell from his chair to collapse on the gritty stone floor of the garage.

Three minutes earlier:

The revolver went off right in Johnny Ackerman's face. There was a cloudburst of skin and blood and bone, and what was left of Johnny spilled to the floor.

Reptile, the shotgunner who'd done the number on Gladys, looked at the one they called Redbeard and pursed his paper-thin lips as if to whistle. "Fuck, look at you ," he said. "You gotta step back from them when you pull some shit like that."

The hulking biker had more than earned his nickname now: His thick beard was soaked through with Johnny's blood. The dark lenses of his Foster Grants and his bared teeth were spattered with it. He turned to Reptile and the other biker suddenly got a whole hell of a lot smaller.

"Warpaint," he said. "You wanna say something else about it?"

"No, sir," Reptile said.

There were four people in Betty's Grill who were behind the counter, but only three of them were alive. Gladys, the retarded girl who worked the register, had already had her skull sprayed all over the wall. The remaining staff - Kevin, the dishwasher; Matt, the cook; and Mallory, a carhop - all stared in astonishment and horror at the seven bikers who had invaded their workplace. Mallory could not take her eyes off poor Johnny's body, but she made not a sound, not even as the muscles in her throat worked of their own volition, not even as tears made dark trails of mascara down her cheeks. Neither man moved or said a word.

Briefly, there was absolute silence.

Then came the unmistakable sound of someone pissing all over the floor.

Redbeard burst into hearty laughter. Once they were sure it was cool, all the rest of his pals did, too. "Feelin' pretty ballsy over there, huh, tough guy?" the biker leader said.

It was Matt, the big, blond-crew-cutted ex-Navy guy. Any one of them could have done it - Mallory was relieved it hadn't been her - but the angry flush of red in the cook's cheeks gave him away.

"Fuck you," Matt said, not sobbing, keeping his voice steady even as tears of humiliation poured from him. "Fuck you, you stupid fucking biker fag."

"Oh," Redbeard said. "I'm the faggot now. I'm the faggot, and not the guy with his pants full of piss."

"His pants ain't full of piss," Great White - the one with the huge scarlet swastika tattooed on his naked hairy stomach - put in. "The piss is all over that Mex bitch's skates."

They all started laughing, and that was when Matt hit his breaking point. He was frozen, stock-still with terror, but burning rage swelled up within him; cords popped out in his neck and his temples, and he shouted: "Go! Just go!"

The laughter died down after a few more moments, and, still chuckling a little bit, Redbeard asked, "I'm sorry, man...what'd you say?"

"Leave!" Matt cried. "You wanted Johnny's bike, just get the keys and get the hell out of here, goddammit! Leave us alone!"

"Ohhhhhhh," Redbeard said with exaggerated calm. "Oh, I see your point. We did just want Johnny's bike, didn't we, fellas?"

"Not me," Russell said. Russell was a hairless troll of a human being who might have stepped whole from one of the grimmest of Grimm's fairy tales. The pasty skin at the sides of his head was blighted with dark, ragged scars where each of his ears had been taken off with a hacksaw. But he appeared to hear well enough. He saw just fine, too...through shades that had been stuck to his head with a black X of electrical tape at each temple. He looked at Mallory and smiled, a smile that made her want to throw up.

"Not me, either," Great White said. "I wanted to kill some niggers."

Kevin stared back at him, his gaze unwavering, but he was shaking all over.

"Now, that is convenient - very convenient," Redbeard said. "Because, if you look, that looks a whole fuck of a lot like a nigger standing right there."

"Kill him," Matt said with quiet desperation.

Kevin's eyes closed.

Mallory whipped her head around to look at Matt. "What?"

"Do it," Matt urged them. "Yeah, just do it, kill him, he's only a nigger, he's useless, kill this piece of shit and leave us alone."

"Goddamn you, you motherfucker," Kevin said, eyes still shut. "You lowdown dirty goddamn motherfucker."

"Kill the nigger and leave you alone," Redbeard said. He turned to Great White. "White, what do you think?"

"Well," Great White said, "I definitely think that we ought to kill the nigger."

"Okay," Redbeard said. "But you know what else is, I gotta say for myself that a fella who responds to trouble by whizzing all over himself, and in front of a woman to boot, even if she's Mex, and then would sell out his brother to save his own little faggot ass, to me that ain't so much better than a nigger."

"Sounds worse," Reptile acknowledged.

"If you look ‘em over," Russell said, "it's the nigger who's behaving like a man and the man who's behaving like a nigger."

"Damn, Russell, you are one sharp sonofabitch," Redbeard said.

"Got my moments," Russell said.

"Then I guess that's that," Redbeard said. He looked Matt's way. "Congrats. You're an honorary nigger."

Matt went pale. "W...what?"

"What about this other one?" Redbeard asked Great White. "You think, on account of his behavior, we can promote him to honorary white man status?"

"No such thing," Great White told him. "Nigger's a nigger. Sorry, Sambo."

Kevin opened his eyes and looked right at Great White.

"Burn in hell, peckerwood."

Mallory dived.

Some cold, lizard-brain part of her knew just when the guns were coming up, and just what to do when that happened. Seven guns barked explosive death at Kevin and Matt in unison, and as they began their bloody marionette dance, Mallory was crouched low and flying into the kitchen just as fast as her rollerskates would carry her. Twin streaks of liquid crimson were left on the checkerboard tiles in her wake.

But she was locked in. Management didn't want them sneaking a smoke out in the back alley, and the only key to the back door that Mallory knew of was on the big brass ring in the hip pocket of Matt's pants. There was nowhere to hide that the bikers wouldn't uncover within seconds. There was only one thing she could do, one hope she had, and even that faint hope had more to do with seeing justice done after they'd killed her than saving her own life.

Her momentum sent her rocketing forward. She stood on her skates and flew headlong at the telephone; she came to a stop only when she crashed into the far wall, where it was mounted. The shooting ceased behind her, and she heard the bikers hollering and laughing. She pounded her fist against the wall, the tears finally coming as she tore her memory banks apart for the magic numbers that would put her in touch with the sheriff's office. They came to her in rapid succession, and just as the last of them clicked into place and she started to lift the receiver, the telephone rang.

Mallory was so startled that the receiver slipped from her grasp and rebounded several times off the wall. She heard a gruff whisper of a man's voice come out of the dangling phone, then succeeded in reeling it up to her by the cord and shouted the only words that made any sense: "Help me!"

The voices of the bikers were getting louder, drawing closer...she could hear them moving in, coming behind the counter, stepping on the bodies...

"Hello?" The old man's voice seemed to be coming from someplace very far away. "Hello?"

Mallory saw the first of them approach her. Fifteen, ten feet away, slow and implacable. Redbeard.

"What's happening there, who is - "

Mallory screamed: "Oh God, please, they, call the sheriff, they're killing us, oh, God, Johnny Ackerman is dead, they shot him in the face, Johnny - "

But before the last word was out of her mouth, Redbeard had yanked the cord out of the wall.

His gun was again holstered. Instead, a gleaming switchblade was pointed just underneath her chin.

"Don't get the wrong idea, you whore," Redbeard said. "You're dying, too...but first we get to play."

"Stop it!" Johnny Ackerman screamed.

And, to his amazement, the biker stopped.

To be more exact, the biker froze. Right there, with the point of his knife poking Mallory's soft flesh: PING! He was a statue. They all were. The bikers, Mallory, everything in the diner that moved came to an absolute standstill. The telephone receiver that had slipped out of Mallory's hand was suspended in air. A rivulet of freshly-spilled blood that was oozing off the countertop up front stopped just short of splashing the tiles. One droplet had broken away from the stream, destined to land a nanosecond sooner, but it hadn't - that tiny orb of blood waited.

Johnny was back behind the counter, standing midway between the front of the diner and the kitchen. He'd run back there to keep the bikers from going after Mallory, but they'd just brushed past him, and he hadn't been able to land so much as a punch on any one of them. Johnny felt dazed, like he was on another planet...he couldn't imagine how his words had had this kind of effect on the world, but somehow the question didn't much bother him; he was too relieved, and suddenly too exhausted, to care.

Matt's pack of Winstons rested on the countertop. The package was covered in blood, but Johnny imagined at least one of the smokes inside had to still be okay. He could use a cigarette right now. Johnny reached for the pack...

"No, no, never mind those," a smooth male voice told him. "Here: Try one of mine."

Johnny turned. And standing there, just as cool as could be, was that one guy, the guy from the four-hour movie Johnny's Mom used to drag him and Dad to every time the Rialto revived it, he used to hate going to that damn thing because by the time it was over he thought that his bladder was going to explode, but Mom loved it and, much to his father's chagrin, she loved it most of all because of the leading man, you know the guy, what was his name...

"Clark Gable?" Johnny asked.

"I've been called worse," Gable said, his killer smile spreading tightly underneath his pencil-thin mustache. In spite of everything, Johnny couldn't help but dig on Gable's crushed red velvet smoking jacket. The matinee idol offered forth a black box of cigarettes and said, "Here, kid: Spark up."

Johnny glanced at the box: A cartoon horned demon used a pitchfork to poke at a naked woman who had been crucified upside-down. Before Johnny's very eyes, the little pigsticker actually jabbed back and forth to make a small impression on her bare flesh, then retract, then stab at her again; each time the demon poked her, her mouth opened to emit a little "eep." The brand, in the same blood-red ink that had been used to color the creature, was INCUBUS.

"No thanks," Johnny said, and it began dawning on him that something was very, very wrong. "I smoke Luckies, but Winston always does it for me in a pinch."

"Not this time," Gable said. "Johnny, do you remember what happened after that biker stuck his gun in your face?"

"Oh, that," Johnny said. "Well, I guess I must have been kinda shell-shocked, because no, I don't, not really. There was a flash of white light, and I figured I was done for. But then the next thing I knew he was talking about how Matt, uh, well..."

"Matt pissed on himself, yes. You don't have to censor yourself around me, Johnny - I'm a regular guy, just like you."

"Great," Johnny said, with real enthusiasm. "I like the movies a lot. I always thought that you guys were probably just plain folks, when you came right down to it."

"I hate to disappoint you, Johnny, but everyone in Hollywood would think that you're poor white trash. They're nothing like you at all, and they'd hate you on sight. And, while I'm giving you the straight scoop, I should also mention that I'm not really Clark Gable."

"Wow," Johnny replied. "I think I should tell you, I feel like I'm about to puke up my guts."

"You won't."

"No, Mister Gable, I'm pretty square on this one."

"You feel that way because you're dying, kid."

Johnny blinked. "I am?"

"You bet," Gable said. "But the reason why you aren't about to heave is because you aren't in your body anymore. Your body is suspended in time, just like everything else in the diner. I culled your soul from its shell at the precise moment that you had one second to live."

"That was righteous of you."

"But I didn't really stop time, per se. It's beyond me. I just slowed it down. Little by little, you are still dying."

"Oh, no."

"Yep. When the biker shot you..."

"I got shot?"

"...The bullet destroyed a sizeable chunk of your brain, as is growing increasingly obvious. All kidding aside, there isn't enough of your corporeal mind left for you to successfully fry up some Jiffy-Pop. But that doesn't matter, because I'm addressing your astral body. The reason why you make Gladys look like Albert Einstein right now..."

"Gladys," Johnny said mournfully. He'd forgotten all about her. "Oh, poor Gladys..."

Gable sighed, impatient. "Yeah, yeah. The reason why is because you really are in shock. I could fix that, but if I did, the surreality of this situation would so overwhelm you that we would be incapable of holding an intelligible conversation - not that we're having much of one right now. Believe it or not, however, our rules say that you're still in possession of enough of your right mind to make an informed decision."

"About what?"

"Whether you'd like to come back from the dead."

Always with the shit detail. Reptile could hear the other guys back there in the kitchen, making noise like they were having a blast with the carhop. Meanwhile, what was he doing?

You got it. Feeling up a dead man with his face blown off, trying to dig up his bike keys.

Fine, sure, he was the fucker who was short a cycle, but that wasn't his fault. He'd had a bike of his own up until he wiped it out trying to do right by his brothers. He could have just split when the going got hairy, lit out for Canada, but no. You had to stick by your bros, or what the hell good were you? Anyhow, that was Reptile's philosophy, and all the rest of them were skilled enough at paying lip service to it -- but could they wait a minute to bang some bitch so that he didn't wind up in seventh place?

"Fuckers," he said bitterly. The closest he was getting to the action was an unavoidable brush-up against this dead dude's wanger as he rooted around in his jeans pockets. Hell, he was the one who blew away the waterhead. Sure, what was she gonna do, right? Still, a dead fucking retard had to count for something...

A fist clenched tight around Reptile's wrist.

A fist connected to the arm of the man they'd murdered five minutes ago.

"Oh, holy mother of fuck," Reptile said.

Reptile looked up and discovered that Johnny Ackerman had a face all over again...and the look on it was not happy.

In a moment, the face that the Other had given back to Johnny would melt away once more. But by the time that happened, Reptile was going to be way too far gone to see it.

"Stop," Johnny said.

Reptile felt hot tears spring into his eyes as he tried to squirm out of the iron lock on his wrist.

"Touching," Johnny said.

"No," Reptile begged him, "please..."

"My," Johnny said.

The hand tightening to break the bones in Reptile's wrist burst into flame...a terrible, unearthly flame that burned cold.

"Cock!"

Reptile threw his head back in screaming agony as whatever mind he had was shattered forever.

Mallory thought that no one could terrify her more than the men who were gathered around her now.

As Redbeard held her under her chin and kept her up against the wall, Russell was employing his knife to the task of slowly slashing her blouse off of her in strips. She tried not to look at the men, but Redbeard forced her head erect, and she was scared of what he might decide to do to her if she were to dare close her eyes. Now her top was removed completely, and the hoots and whistles coming from the mass of bikers at the sight of her breasts in the bra filled her with a horror-struck nausea. The knife slid up under the brazier to cleave its cups...

And they heard the scream.

The knife was withdrawn, and a petrified Russell turned his full attention to Redbeard.

"Boss...what the fuck was that?"

"I don't know," Redbeard said. He evinced no dread, but any trace of his high spirits of only a moment ago was gone.

A booming footstep echoed through the silence of the diner.

There was a jingle of metal, as of spurs.

Another footstep. Another.

"Guns at the ready," Redbeard said. "Whoever this is, he ain't put off by a shitload of dead bodies."

"If anything," said a voice like the crackling of dry autumn leaves set ablaze, "I'd like to make more."

A burning skeletal figure stood at the threshold of the kitchen, its black leather biker jacket stained with blood gone bone-dry. Where its face should have been, there was a forbidding skull haloed in fire. A length of rust-colored chain - part of Reptile's arsenal - was stretched taut between the skeleton man's fists.

It looked at the bikers, who trembled with fear and the desire to kill that which stood before them...looked at the terrified girl, half-naked and defenseless, perhaps more scared now than she was before their adversary's arrival...looked at the leader, the man who would give the order to fire any second now, the man who looked back at the demon with even less emotion than its fleshless face could summon...and it almost seemed to smile.

"Let's rumble," it said.

END OF PART ONE

For Mature Readers Only

# 2
February '06

Strange Tales Presents

THE HAUNT OF HORROR
featuring Werewolf by Night

"A Night in the Life of Jack"

Written by Thomas Moses

The metal top clicked past its boundary and kept open as a spark ignited the gas spewing from the black metal Zippo that I love more than life. Not that I can remember where I stole it, or whom I killed to get it, but none of it matters anyway. I bring the flame up the white stick hanging from my lips, the end cracking and smoldering with a bright cherry amber. The ashes aren't immediate, but they soon fall off after a long first drag.

It's been a long day, slept 'till noon and ate some lunch at three. Now that the night is finally here I can worry about who I might eat next, and god I hope it's not another prostitute. I once thought the clap was painful, and then I experienced the joy of trying to digest the shit, not my finest hour. Memories, damn they are fun shit, always sneaking up on a fucker.

The streets are quiet for this hour, at least by nine the college kids are too drunk to rant about their hippy polices, much too concerned with spreading their seed into some poor girl with shitty esteem problems. I'm mostly on this side of town as a favor to someone I owe cash, try as I might I just cannot seem to stay away from other people's family drama. Though I have to admit, it's safer than my own.

I look down at the photo the guy slipped to me alongside the hotel room key. I knew this was going to be trouble, coming to him for a place to stay, but being as short in cash as I am right now there wasn't much choice in the matter. The picture is pretty good, recent, but it seems this teenaged father could learn a lesson on how not to dye his hair so many damned colors. The guys' head looks like some Arabic flag, he's just some piece of shit punk kid who doesn't understand the movement. He's out for attention, probably because mommy and daddy loved him a little too much.

I hate him already.

Keeping to a normal walking pace, I pretend not to keep the guy in my line of sight. He's surrounded by girls, all skinnier than a broom handle and dressed as if they're ready kill themselves. I give a slight smile, at least he knows how to talk to women and get laid when he needs…no, wait. What is this? I study the figures a little closer as I walk nearer, either those are some ugly women, or some really effeminate men, this is sad, at this distance and all the traffic I can't even smell the difference.

There's definitely one woman in the mix, and damn she's ready to go. Her hormones hit my nose even before I should be in range to smell them. Fifty feet or so left to cover and she's hotter than a whore in church.

The closer I move, the more my disappointment grows. Three scrawny boys all dressed in their sisters' pants laughing at everything this asshole says, not even paying attention to the chick ready to finish off any one of them. I tap her on the shoulder, and offer her a cigarette.

“Thanks,” she says, trying her best not to appear interested in my sexiness. She's not very good at hiding the glances she gives my way, “got a light?”

“Not a problem,” I flip open the lighter and shield the new flame from the wind. Her stick flares up and she drags long. “What's the special occasion, aren't they supposed to be all over you?”

She groans, “hell no,” exhaling her frustration with a cloud of toxin. “They said they could get me some X, but once again nobody can deliver. Just a bunch of shit-talkers, always promising shit but they can't ever deliver.”

The last bit is just to annoy the audience paying her no attention, her voice is loud enough to carry but not man in the group even turns their head. “Want to piss them off?”

“Sure, do you want to fuck right here, or go somewhere else.”

“I just need their attention, not venereal disease.”

She blows a cloud in my face, “You sure know how to talk to a lady.”

“You're not much of a lady, maybe if you stood straighter; people might confuse you for one.”

Her hand reddens the skin of my face, the slap burns a bit; but I laugh it off, “got anymore, you might even turn me on.”

“Fuck you!” She screams.

“I'm free at Four-Thirty, but I can't get you in a minute before, sorry.”

Her face is ready to explode, even competing with the red in a neon sign. She wears her anger very well.

“Hey, you got a problem shithead?”

The fucker I was sent to find is the first one to utter a word, and he continues to ramble on about something, but I'm more interested in cleaning out my nails. I'm almost curious at what the wolf left for me to find, I can still smell some blood that didn't come off in the shower.

“Hey, I said…”

“Yeah I heard what you said.” He wanted to continue, but the fist in his mouth stopped anything from coming out. I punch him two more times for good measure, just to make him fall down, and I take a knee beside him. “My problem isn't with her, dickless, you owe a friend of a friend some money and I'm here to collect.”

“I don't owe anybody shit!” He spits blood into my face.

The wolfs' appetite grows the second I feel the blood spatter on my skin, “Probably not a wise move, get blood on my jacket and I'll take it out of your ass.” I let my words simmer in his mind and he shuts the fuck right up. “Now, you're supposed to pay Ashley eighty bucks a week, you haven't done shit for a year and a half. Do you do math well? Or maybe some of your pussy friends here…”

I look up and not a soul has stood around to claim to be his friend in need, “guess they know when to get the hell out of dodge. It's you and me junior, let's say we go find an ATM.”

“I ain't got no money,” he lies, his voice stammering as he fights back tears.

“You also speak as badly as you dress,” I laugh at him, standing I pluck him up right by the collar and set him on his feet. “You're supposed to be some kind of hardass right? Tears aren't doing your reputation any good.”

He stumbles with every push I give him, “There's a machine a block down, let's get moving so I can get this shit over with.”

The third push sends him slightly further than the others, and I hear a switchblade release from its handle. He turns, quick for a human kid, and tries to stab me. My eyes go pitch black and I move out of the way, my reflexes being much stronger than his the poor kid doesn't even know what he's done.

I glare into his face with the inhuman eyes of my counterpart, my instincts tell me I should gut him and leave his intestines on the pavement to rot or the sanitation department to clean up tomorrow. I'm tempted, but I'd never hear the end of it if I killed his sorry ass. “Listen,” I give his hand a little squeeze, popping a digit or two, “you've got jack shit of an idea what you're dealing with. Let's get this money.”

The kid nods, doesn't even utter a sound about the pain I know I gave his hand. Much more cooperative he turns and moves down the block. Even passing a cop he doesn't say a word, the cash machine is barely three minutes down the street. “That wasn't so hard, now was it?”

He mutters something under his breath, not that I can't hear him, but I'm not sure the language he spoke. Something sounding half-Spanish, but it's been forever since high school and I just let it go. He pulls a hundred out of his account and hands it over, “Yeah this will cover my courier's fee, hand over that receipt.”

A crinkled piece of paper finds its way into my hand and I open it. Whistling at the amount of money he's stored away, “Mommy and daddy make a nice living for you to run around and do nothing on, don't they?”

The kid doesn't say anything.

“How about you give me another four hundred in cash and you visit Ashley with another five hundred tomorrow.”

“Man, that's crazy, I'm not giving that whore…”

He chokes on the air rushing into his face, bloody bubbles forming as he still tries to exhale from his nose. “You misunderstood, I wasn't requesting. Now, give me that card and your pin number, Jason.”

Handing it over, he's more afraid I know his name than if I were to hit him again, kids are funny like that; he probably thinks I'm going to run home and tell his mommy about his kid if I don't get the money. “And I'll tell you what,” I laugh and slide the card in my jacket pocket, “you change this pin number, and I'll cave your face in.”

Jason tries to stand up, but he's slightly dizzy and can't stand. He curses me and it's laughable that he still calls me Jack. He doesn't know my name, he doesn't know who or what I am, but the punk kid still gets my first name right. I turn down the street, looking back to see Jason still sitting against the cash machine. His head in his hands, I'll make sure Ashley dumps the account tomorrow; at least then, her father will let me have that room for as long as I need it.

THE END