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Dark Days, Cold Breakfast
It was a dark day in the Umbra* today.
Of course one would expect a realm composed entirely of empty space with only faint pink and green flecks of what appeared to be aurora borealis to have issues with the lighting, but today was somehow different. Today, no candle, torch, or even the grooviest of lava lamps could extinguish the foul darkness that crept upon the ancient rift. Save for the gaunt man with deathly ashen skin and vague Indo-Aryan facial features clad in black sleeping apparel.A faint orange flame emanating from his left palm being the only light source in the immediate area. This was not a new experience for Ed. After one-hundred-and-fifty years (give or take several thousand, dimensional rifts are a tricky thing, after all) of traipsing the line between the realms, you tend to notice when things are a little off.
As he lurched over the translucent construct making up the Luminous Altar (as the proprietor of the Umbra required all who ventured here to address it as), he made sure to first announce his presence by uttering the sacred words:
"Ordnum N'ghalta Ph'lawakti Shanti", in an other-worldly baritone.
He then launched himself into the vacuous chasm. As he plummeted towards an oddly conspicuous semi opaque vortex, Ed made sure that his jet black mane was perfectly coiffed with the silvery tuft near his widow’s peak styled into a familiar lightning bolt-esque shape and his clothes were unwrinkled from the velocity. Even when you're in two-hundred mile-an-hour vertical drop, one has to look their best when dealing with the universe's ultimate arbitrator. Especially when your intent is to shake him down for crucial insights into the future.
"Lord of Order!" , a booming voice suddenly shouted in a hearty bass. "Prithee the edict of which you claim that disturbs our slumber-Oh, shit, it's you...", said the now somehow annoyed look-affixed giant floating, violet-irised eyeball surrounded by a harsh chartreuse and golden tinged glow illuminating its posterior like an enormous Mardi-Gras figurehead made by Green Bay Packers fans on a PCP binge.
"Now is that any way to talk to your boss, Ace?", quipped Ed, now floating directly in front of the entity and illuminated by the garish lights in a strobe-like manner.
"You are no boss of mine, mortal, and the fact that you are not a smoldering pile of ash for insinuating that you are even remotely superior to me is a testament to my mercy" , fumed the entity.
*: The third layer of the Universe (the other two layers being the Antumbra, the known universe according to NASA, a majority of Earth’s scientists, and anyone who doesn’t believe humans rode dinosaurs like horses two days after an omnipotent being resembling Jeff Bridges created the Universe. And the Penumbra, the realm of the dead), home of horrific- extra-dimensional monstrosities, heavens, hells, purgatories, deities relegated and regulated, and of course, the glorified lobby housing the proprietor who speaks for them all.
"Yeah, well if it weren't for the fact that I'm part of the little club you seem to answer unflinchingly to, you'd actually have an argument there", replied Ed. "Maybe I'd get a little more respect around here if I hung around in a toga and spoke entirely in Olde English while flinging lightning bolts at people I didn't agree with more often".
"Or you could consider not comporting yourself like an insolent little shit who transcends the fabric of reality into a sacred realm dressed like a Suicide Girl working the late shift at Hot Topic after a shoot.", said the Eye, calling attention to Ed’s “Flight of Icarus” t-shirt.
"Fuck you, I like this shirt!", barked Ed with a harsh tone usually reserved for protecting one's children."And I’ll have you know that Led Zeppelin did more for the well-being of the universe in their twelve years as a band than any one of your ineffectual pan-galactic boardroom ever has!”
Ed, for all the wisdom and knowledge that comes with over two centuries' worth of being, still got as miffed about people talking down his favorite bands as your average teenager. The unmarked graves full of mostly non-human mercenaries and spies that had the audacity to mock Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band to his face alone could attest to that. The Eye, having witnessed two of these clandestine burials personally, brushed off the apoplectic fan rage and annoyedly declared:
"Right, well do you have any inquiries, or are you just here to fellate the legacy of Jimmy Page and Robert Plant for my amusement all day?".
"Well, now that you mention it, I do have a bone to pick with you about that little thing that happened in Mexico", smugly replied Ed.
The creature stood (or floated, more appropriately) aghast at this statement and with a nervousness absent in his previous declaration stammered:
"M..m..Mexico, yes, what about it?"
Generally, trips to Mexico are pleasant affairs involving margaritas, "genuine" imitation sombreros, random one-night stands and several gigabytes worth of embarrassing pictures (give or take one or two drug-related beheadings). This, however, was not one of those trips, much to Ed's chagrin. In fact, this one of the more horrifying experiences one could have in a Latin American country without the involvement of leftist guerrillas and dysentery. The only saving grace was the discovery of a particularly odd device. A device that reduced the all-knowing, all-powerful, All-Seeing-Eye to act like a befuddled sitcom character whose wacky shenanigans had blown up in his face yet again.
"Oh, you know how it is Ace, just the usual vacation gripes.", replied Ed. "The room service was slack at best, the locals were rude and unhelpful, the tourists are all idiots, the clock on my Escalade refuses to adhere to Daylight Savings Time. Oh and there's that little matter about one of my employees being slaughtered by zombified werewolves at the behest of an antedi-fucking-lluvian alien construct!", he yelled at the now slowly diminishing Eye."You know, same old same old".
"You were seeking divine intervention perhaps?", nervously quipped the Eye in an attempt to change the subject, "You are well aware that Earth's affairs are beyond our jurisdiction, even if said intervention is requested in assistance to...one of our own", said the Eye with a shudder.
The other Lords weren't too keen on allowing a mortal into their ranks, even an ageless one. And to know that a lowly dhampyr was a part of their power structure was considered a great insult to the internal machinations of the universe by the Eye and many of the inhabitants of the realm. Especially one from a house of ill repute.
"Really?", exclaimed Ed. "Even when, and bear with me because you're going to love this, said construct who, might I also add, had more consonants in it's name than any Earthly known Lord should, identified itself as being one of the team?", he inquired through clenched teeth, visibly angry at the Eye's attempt to skirt the issue.
"We have no recollection of any of our number being amongst your dimension's inhabitants at the time", said the Eye, who was beginning to show signs of tears near the top right of its sclera, which Ed recognized as a tell that it was lying to him."Perhaps you were mistaken."
"Oh no, you're not backing out of this one", excoriated the now furious Ed,"Do you want me to come back here with Shamus next time? I'm sure there's still a few spots he missed from the last time he visited".
"Alright, alright look", said the visibly frightened (well, for a giant eyeball, anyway) Eye, who was still picking out splinters from the last disgraceful encounter with the foul imp."It's one of the Banished from a dimension that is alien to your kind, and that's all I can infer without incurring anyone's wrath".
"You seem to be perfectly content with incurring mine", replied Ed.
"Yours is more the contemptible annoyance of a petulant child than the wrath of an all-powerful deity. Hell, you even need your little doll just to walk these halls with some semblance of security", confidently replied the Eye.
"Then I suppose you won't mind when we drop by next time", said Ed."He's been itching to rekindle the old flame, as it were".
"If you knew what he just put in your mouth just now, you'd probably change your tone", said the Eye devilishly."I do hope you bathed well, a lot of your orifices have some company at the moment".
"Come again?", blurted Ed as he disappeared from the Umbra in a puff of uneasiness (and black smoke).
The now lone All-Seeing-Eye nervously pondered the implications of Ed's discovery. Qtt’rkzgha, the Cradle of the Dead had been found once again, and the only one who could eradicate this menace was a two-hundred (give or take a few millennia) year old dhampyr riding a lucky streak a century and a half long. A lucky streak that was bound to end sooner or later.
"All things are bound to end", thought the slightly despairing Eye,"but not like this, it can't..."
Truly, it was a dark day in the Umbra today.
A radiant beam of light shone through Ed's line of sight as he found himself transported back to the darkened bedroom in his Baton Rouge home on a warm April morning. The 1500-thread count black Egyptian cotton sheets with blood red velvet inlays and matching goose-feather stuffed pillows on his king-size bed were barely disturbed. Everything had been exactly as he left it. Everything, that is, except for the two Mystery Masterpiece pens (the sapphire and emerald encrusted ones given to him as a gift from his trip to Switzerland from a very grateful barbegazi* politician embroiled in a career-threatening sex scandal) protruding from his nostrils, with the ruby pen (his favorite, no less) wedged firmly between his slightly exposed cheeks.
In each ear, someone had placed two sterling silver Tiffany fork's, tines first, as if to toss a salad that had somehow found its way into his brain. He had begun to curse the fiend who would dare befoul the sanctity of his bodily cavities before coming to the realization that his mouth had been occupied by a rather cumbersome Magic 8-Ball. Ed calmly removed the offending objects, making sure not to leave any unsightly scratches or stains, walked to the window and opened his shades, which revealed the slightly dusty hardwood floors with a mahogany finish and black wall-papered walls adorned with framed Polaroids of the company he kept throughout the years as well as classic sixities era posters ranging from a pristine original copy of the first Woodstock's lineup to Jimi Hendrix's last concert at the Isle of Wight Festival. In the corner of the far right of the room, he found his culprit, enveloped in an inky, black substance that seemed to let out small puffs of acrid smoke.
"Boule, ou dyabolik vajen**!", shouted Ed, his pupils glowing as he pointed his index and pinkie finger towards the obsidian vortex and shot a small fireball into it.
** Translation from Haitian Creole to English: Burn, you demonic cunt!
"Ah, for fuck's sake!", screamed a gravelly voice with an Irish brogue that seeped from the vortex, gradually revealing itself to belong to an outlandishly dressed oak-finished ventriloquist dummy with heterochromatic pale blue and gold eyes decorated with large Alexander De Large style eyelashes on his left eye and a black painted-on spike a-la Alice Cooper under his right eye.
"Shamus, you fiendish little bastard", yelled Ed, "I should bind you to a colostomy bag for this!".
"Oh, don't be such a pisser, Ed, at least I didn't shove anything up your ass this time", snidely replied Shamus as he removed his bowler hat and shook the soot of his wild reddish-blonde hair and put out any lingering flames on his black leather coat, which was ironically decorated with a red-orange blaze.
"That probably had more to do with the fact that I was sitting in the lotus position instead of lying down this time, and you still fulfilled your obsession with rectal violation, you conniving little shit", barked Ed as he picked up the Magic 8-Ball he almost had for breakfast and threw it at Shamus, who made the object phase through him and reappear from a void which formed on the roof that allowed it to plummet down onto Ed's cushy bed.
"Don't get cross with me just because you forgot to switch the roof", replied Shamus."Be happy I wasn't one of the other denizens of the Infernum, and that your Faberge eggs were well hidden this time".
Usually at this conjecture, the offending party would be maimed or otherwise comically dealt with, but Ed and Shamus' relationship was special. An ongoing and fruitful business relationship spanning over a century, each decade more teeth-gratingly annoying than the last. Of course these annoyances, no matter how disgusting or degrading they appeared, were just that to Ed. A temporary and ultimately forgettable slight. After all, even if he had found a way to shove the entirety of the Louvre into all of Ed's bodily cavities, nothing quite compares to the indignity of a Grand Marquis of Hel being forcibly bound to a pre-vaudevillian theater prop. Ed had an upper-level demonic entity by his diabolical little balls, and that was all the satisfaction he would ever need (other than a few temporary soul bondings to a few undesirable items).
"Right, well I'll thank you to continue your sick obsession with penetration on someone else. Yourself perhaps?", replied Ed with a yawn as he stretched for a moment.
"Ugh, can't you even tell me to go fuck myself properly?", sneered Shamus. "Go get some coffee in you before you go full-blown Mormon on me", he finished before teleporting himself from the room in a puff of acrid, brimstone-tinged smoke.
Agreeing with this notion, Ed made out of the bedroom and into the hallway, which was sparsely decorated with a few old photos and paintings of Ed with former associates and family. As he began the descent toward the kitchen, he pondered the All-Seeing Eye's revelation.
Who is this Qtt’rkzgha?
Why was it banished?
What was its ultimate goal?
Can it teach me to do that neat zombified werewolf trick?
How do you kill it (provided it refuses to teach said zombified werewolf trick)?
He swished these ideas around in his head as he made it down to the thankfully immaculate kitchen. Being used to finding this area engulfed in grease, dust, and flames (especially on meatloaf night), the sight of the black and white checkerboard patterned linoleum floors, beautifully gilded mahogany cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and the Victorian era cast iron sink were not only spotless, but shining almost as if they had just come from the showroom floor. In the center of the room, seated at the large marble island was the unsightly culprit.
"Well, somebody's trying to secure himself an iPhone", happily announced Ed to the hulking, horribly burned colossus of a man wearing a sky blue, kawaii-styled panda bear t-shirt, black and matching pajama pants, his face obscured by a family size box of Cocoa Crisped Rice.
"No, me saving your ass from being digested by a zombie werewolf got me the iPhone", replied the charred, dark-skinned hulk in a rasp that was equal parts childlike innocence and a harsh, gravelly, truck-stop killer grunt,"For this little labor of love, I'd like that Silly Panda mask I've been asking about for months now".
"Timmy, you're supposed to be my bodyguard.", said Ed as he walked toward the cabinet and pulled out the distinctive blue tin foil bag that held his favorite, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee,"Writing checks my ass can't cash is your responsibility!".
"Well, all I'm saying is that it would be nice if you sent one of those checks my way", said Timmy between mouthfuls of the sugary chocolate cereal,"It would be a shame if my lack of Panda mask somehow caused a delay that prevented me from saving your bacon".
"Mmm, bacon", replied Ed as he finished turning on the stainless steel air-pump espresso machine he had received as a Christmas gift,"that, two slices of cantaloupe, and some wheat toast and we’ll call that breakfast with a possible new mask on the side, please ".
"With apple butter?", growled Timmy as he grudgingly left his soon to be soggy cereal with a loud thump of his chair.
"Yes, please", replied Ed as the bubbling from the espresso machine died down, allowing him to grab his favorite black (you sense a theme here, don't you?) coffee mug emblazoned with a fanged yellow smiley face seeping blood from its enlarged canines. He then grabbed the piping hot coffee pot and served himself a slightly overfilled mug, holding it carefully to his nose in order to savor the rich aroma. He then slowly, brought the cup to his mouth and took his first, mellow sip of the slightly molten brew. “For sixty dollars a pound, you may as well enjoy the moment before it's filtered through your kidneys”, he thought as he let out a rare smile and let the mild, velvety flavor coat his throat.
* Barbegazi are dwarves of Swiss folklore known for their distinguishingly large feet that are used as snowshoes and even skis to traverse the frozen mountains they call home. Outwardly friendly and known to assist lost travelers, barbegazi are also known to have foot fetishes that border on obsession, so god help you if you run into one while wearing open toed shoes.
"Hey, we're all out of apple butter, do you want cinnamon butter instead?", inquired Timmy, his heavily scarred scalp with more than a few bits worn down to the skull the only part of his head that was visible behind the refrigerator door.
"Eh, I'm not in the mood for anything too sweet today considering I just had to dislodge a Magic 8-Ball from my goddamn jaws a few minutes ago, and yes it’s Shamus-related so don’t pry. Do we have any peach preserves left?", asked a slightly disappointed Ed.
"Yeah, but I'm not sure if it's still good", said Timmy, who lifted his head above to emphasize the point, only to realize that he had forgotten to wear his mask today. Said realization came when Ed suddenly, and without warning spat the hot coffee onto the recently mopped floor with a loud "Ptoooh-", then, after hyperventilating for about 3 seconds (which most psychologists agree is the perfectly normal response when being greeted by a gigantic, hideously scarred undead creature at 7:30 in the morning) exclaimed:
"Sweet Jesus, Timmy, what have I told you about wearing your mask at the dinner table?!", exclaimed Ed as he wiped the searing hot liquid from his chin with his shirt.
"I lost my eating mask in Comalcalco! Do you have any idea how hard it is to eat cereal through a two-inch wide slit?", complained Timmy, turning his frightful visage away from Ed in shame.
"Well then cut some holes in an old t-shirt or something!", retorted Ed."I don't need to be the nuthouse roommate of that pizza guy from last Halloween, whose therapist bills I'm still paying, might I add".
"I don't even know why I have to wear that thing around the house anyway!", screamed Timmy as he began stomping on the floor like an angered child appealing a timeout.
"Because I don't need to look at that when I'm trying to have a decent breakfast!", argued Ed, who almost immediately felt deflated by the pangs of guilt when being met with the sight of Timmy's heavily scarred visage contorted into what can only be described as a ghoulish parody of a sad puppy dog face.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry about that Tim", apologized Ed as he went and gave the still upset Timmy a reassuring pat on the shoulder, kicking himself internally for being such a prick to the poor kid."I'm just stressed with that whole Piotr being turned into a zombie werewolf thing and waking up with office supplies lodged in my butt crack, and I guess I just lost my cool for a second there".
"Well, that doesn't mean you have to take it out on me", replied a calm, but still emotional Timmy.
"Tell you what, champ...", said Ed in a fatherly tone,"...if you take it out on Shamus I'll buy you two masks".
"Can I get the matching backpack too?", asked Timmy with a hopeful smirk.
"Don't push it", replied Ed as he sauntered to the espresso machine and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. "I'll take my breakfast in the living room, skip the toast and fruit".
Timmy wiped away the slight tear that had begun to form and walked over to the fridge to contently prepare Ed's breakfast while daydreaming about how great his mask would look drenched in the blood of those he had vanquished (as undead behemoths are wont to do). Meanwhile, Ed walked into his surprisingly flashy deep-red carpeted living room, carefully sipping his beloved java the entire way through while enjoying the wafting smell of bacon sizzling on the frying pan. The cherry oak walls were adorned with Caitlin-like paintings of what appeared to be a blue-eyed, olive complexioned Ed in a well-groomed, Late Georgian silk navy suit standing beside a slightly older light skinned black woman in a white dress with a black striped V pattern down the neckline, her hair wrapped in a yellow zan and several others that had been covered under a fine sheen of dust with barely any recognizable features.
In the middle of the room was a black velour couch with two matching loveseats surrounding the 38-inch black plasma television that was seemingly held up by three Buddha statues (Tara on the left, Siddartha on the right, and Budai in the middle as part of the support beam), which was already turned to the cartoon channel Timmy always insisted on watching. The solid oak front door had an odd trail of red brick dust lining the bottom which stopped at two small identical mahogany tables etched with strange symbols at the base near the windows. There were also two doors, one covered in carelessly chipped white paint that lead to the home's basement, the other a large mahogany door with a bronzed skull for a door knob which lead to Ed's office.
With a short sigh of relief, Ed opened the silk burgundy curtains and basked in the warming glow of the Louisiana sun's rays, a privilege few of his kind knew. One he enjoyed rubbing in their snarky, faux-cultured faces every second there was an opportunity to. Centuries of existence had begun to harden Ed's feelings towards the plight of his fellow monsters (or the official term, Monstrum sapiens). The only difference between the Opus and the humans they so detested nowadays were nothing but petty squabbles over land and money when it came right down to it. Vampires, werewolves, goblins, all of them were as dumb and vicious as the average human to him.
Ed took another sip and watched the loudly chirping sparrows barrel down to the freshly mowed lawn, scooping up wriggling earthworms in their beaks, then rapidly flying away into the awaiting sky with their newfound quarry. He smiled as the sprinklers popped up and sprayed the stragglers, who lapped up the droplets that had formed on the driveway. This quickly turned into a scowl when this scene of tranquility was interrupted by a rather rusty orange Jeep that had darted too quickly around the corner of the street entrance and rammed into his steel mailbox at full speed.
"What the hell was that?!", screamed Timmy as he rushed from the kitchen, nearly dropping Ed's bacon.
"Apparently fate decided my day wasn't shitty enough", replied Ed as he walked toward Timmy and took a slice of bacon from the plate.
"I heard metal contorting! Is someone dead and can I have their stuff?", inquired Shamus excitedly as he emerged from a dark vortex next to his compatriots.and floated mid-air with his legs crossed in the lotus position.
Ed removed the plate from Timmy's hands and opened the curtains to get a closer look at the driver, who from his viewpoint looked very much alive and quite attractive to boot. She appeared to be a gorgeous blonde, bespectacled Caucasian woman in a purple and yellow LSU tank top who was screaming obscenities loudly while punching her steering wheel in frustration.
“No, she's alright, for the most part.", said Ed, replying to Shamus' question,"And from the looks of her, I'd say her presence here has your influence written all over it."
"Look, Ed...", interjected Shamus."It's been far too long since Percy's death and frankly, I feel an injection of new blood into the company will really help with the healing process".
"First of all, it’s Piotr, and he’s been dead for less than a week.", replied Ed."Secondly, I don't think Craigslist, or wherever the hell you found her, is the proper place to find a qualified replacement for an ex-Spetsnaz agent, who could crush beer cans with his pinkie and make a godlike macchiato.”
"Yes, but she has quite a few qualities that mesh well with our stated business model.", pleaded Shamus.
"Shamus, great tits, though they are a blessing, are not sufficiently useful for battle with the supernatural", said Ed, lecherously admiring her well-formed bosom as she continued beating the steering wheel in frustration, "But seeing as she's already proven to be a ruthless killer of mailboxes, I suppose I can grant her an interview".
"And ease up on the brooding and glaring this time, we haven't had a hot blonde around here since your fourth ex-wife finally came to her senses", remarked Shamus.
"Timmy, remember what we discussed?", inquired Ed. Timmy motioned a slight nod in agreeance and swiftly punted Shamus into the kitchen.
"Thank you Timmy, I believe I'll take my breakfast to go", replied Ed, smiling and silently laughing under his breath at the sounds of Shamus cursing loudly mid-flight and then crashing into the sink,"You go do whatever it is you do on a Saturday morning".
With that, Timmy handed Ed his protein-rich breakfast and made a mad dash for the basement to his room before Shamus could seek vengeance. Ed picked another piece of the crispy bacon off the plate, took out a pair of black and red Oakley sunglasses from the bureau, which he immediately put on, and made his way out the front door to examine the damage, blissfully unaware of the unearthly forces amassing their -strength in secret. Unaware that zombified werewolves, rectally contaminated fountain pens, and the scrap heap that was now his mailbox would now be the least of his worries.
The Men In The Black Miata
Nearly two blocks away from Ed's house, two pale-skinned men (the passenger being two inches taller than the driver) each in matching black Armani suits with black ties, Ray-Ban Wayfarers, black ties, and close-cropped brown hair. Both well-dressed men were enjoying two large cups of McDonald's decaf (both with two creams and two sugars) in perfect synchronicity as they sat attentively in their seats listening to their subject, one Ed (aliases too numerous to fit onto the space provided) berate his mammoth compatriot over his lack of facial attire from a sophisticated, quite literally out-of-this-world remote listening device attached to their quarry's mailbox two weeks prior to his fateful trip to Mexico. This continued until suddenly, the shorter of the two looked angrily at his cohort and inquired:
"Is it really necessary to mimic my drinking mannerisms, Number 64?", asked the driver.
"In order to function as an efficient tandem, our actions must act as though it were through a single unit, Agent Orion", calmly replied the taller agent in a monotone timbre.
"Well, it's freaking me right the fuck out!", exclaimed Agent Orion as he pounded on the dashboard in a rage.
"Patience, sir.", replied the stoic Number 64, "In due time, when the need for combat arises, you will come to understand the intricacies of a perfectly synchronized offensive. Until then, our orders are to draw out the target and neutralize him before F-6 recovers the tangent."
"All I know is that fucking gypsy piece of shit is going to pay for what he did to me, him and his little doll.", seethed Agent Orion as he quickly took another sip of his coffee to ensure his partner would not mimic his actions, “Those goddamned Pyramid Group sons of bitches are gonna have to stitch ‘em back together when I get through with them.”
"You know, the lesser ones of this world have a surprisingly enlightened proverb about patience being a virtue", replied Number 64, “Your previous encounters with all parties considered.”
"Coming from a species that murders its own over parking spaces and puts fast food restaurants across the street from other restaurants of the same chain, I'd take their advice with a grain of salt", scoffed Agent Orion.
"Even the most primitive of species can cultivate an understanding of the universe that bridges the gap between them and those who have been elevated", said Number 64 in as disapproving a tone as you can manage when your voice sounds like Ben Stein under the influence of ketamine-laced opium.
"Look, pal, if I wanted a lecture on mysticism with my coffee, I'd go to a community college-area Starbucks with a bag of weed and a pair of bongo dr-", began Agent Orion before being suddenly jarred into a surprised jumping motion, which Number 64 copied down to the exasperated gasp, of a 1996 Jeep Cherokee plowing into a bugged, remotely-monitored mailbox.
Agent Orion, now slightly frothing at the mouth and turning an odd shade of purple while large veins formed on his forehead, brought his hands down on the steering wheel hard and screamed:
"What the fuck was that?!"
"Apparently our listening device has been destroyed", calmly replied Number 64 as he wiped some errantly spilled coffee on the dashboard with a napkin he procured from the glove compartment,"Perhaps the mailbox wasn't the most ideal location to place it in. But considering that the house has some sort of magickal shroud barring entry to those with less-than-good-natured intentions as well as F6-issue scrambling devices embedded into the bedrock, the mailbox was the most logical option".
"No, I mean you did it again!", fumed Agent Orion. "How is it that you were able to copy a reflex reaction? What are you going to mimic my sleeping patterns now?"
"Actually, I observed many of your nuances during your hibernation phase", replied Number 64.
"Please tell me this is some sick attempt at humor", shot back a suddenly anxious Agent Orion
"One cannot accurately gauge the tandem's potential unless all details are assessed, even the most minute", answered Number 64, making sure to place the slightly sopping napkin in the console's cup holder for future disposal.
"Well, that's all I need to hear", said Agent Orion as he undid his seatbelt and exited the car, slamming the door loudly in the process.
"Sir", yelled Number 64 in a projected, but still monotone voice as he exited the car and slammed the door in the same manner as Agent Orion. "May I inquire as to what your next course of action is?'
"Besides getting as far away from you as physically possible, I figured I'd just head over there and lure the bastard out so we can at least capture him out in the open and away from his house of tricks", said Agent Orion, turning around to face the surprisingly quick for his size Number 64.
"Sir, we have not received clearance from HQ, or what’s left of it, and he may be back at full strength", interjected the taller agent as he placed his hand on his mildly surprised partner's shoulder. "This course of action is far too rash at this conjecture."
"Seeing as I outrank you and that I was personally selected for my previous experience with the target on this mission while you were getting unboxed and put up for display before I chose your sorry ass to back me up, I'd recommend shutting the fuck up and not doing anything until I say so" said Agent Orion as he violently brought Number 64 to eye level by his tie,"Are we clear?"
"Did you remember to load your weapon?", inquired Number 64 in a deadpan manner.
Agent Orion coolly released his grip and produced a magazine of what appeared to be a 9-mm round magazine from his jacket pocket and loaded them into his Beretta, all while angrily staring at the calm 64 as he fixed his slightly ruffled tie.
"If he doesn't fall for the DHS spiel, and he probably won’t, we'll have to lure him out the old-fashioned way", advised Agent Orion as the pair began their walk to the stately, two story ebony and deep chocolate brown Gothic-style manse where Ed lived, "And so help me, if we so much as breathe in unison, I will empty the entire magazine in you without hesitation."
"As you wish", replied Number 64. "Though, you should be forewarned our chances of survival without a cohesive and seamless offensive drop forty-five percent according to my internal calculations."
"If it means not being watched while I sleep, death sounds like a decent option", said Agent Orion as they crossed the street to the block across from the mansion to observe their target from a canopy of oak trees that obscured the pair from eyesight.
"Maintain radio silence, Operation Herald Rising is underway in t-minus twenty minutes", ordered Agent Orion. "The end of days is coming to Zeta Reticuli, whether they're ready or not."
"What of the others?", asked Number 64 as he brought his wrist, adorned with a silver Omega watch, to his chin.
"Kill them. Ed and the puppet are the ones we need to bring back to them...", coldly replied Agent Orion with a devilish grin. “...though I’m sure they’ll understand if we’re unable to bring him back alive as well."
The Girl In The Orange Jeep
"Oh Christ, you would do something like this on the first interview!", thought Lucy as she continued walloping the steering wheel in frustration.
She was like any normal, twenty year-old well-toned, well-endowed, gorgeous blonde college student with piercing blue eyes hidden under a pair of Buddy Holly-esque horn-rim glasses that seemed to populate Louisiana State University during the spring like an overcrowded hipster Barbie convention. Generally, this lot had come to settle within the halls that housed luminaries such as former Vice-President Hubert Humphrey, Shaquille O'Neal, Will Wright, and that guy who played the tech expert in Ocean's Eleven* to immerse themselves in the bacchanalia of sports, drugs, art and free Mardi Gras parking that they had previously been denied by their loutish, Crimson Tide-loving fathers.
Lucy was not one of those students. She had come to Louisiana to experience the thrills and chills of being a paranormal investigator in arguably the most supernaturally active state in the Union. After enduring three long years of sleepless nights, required courses, several amateur-hour ghost tours and the consumption of enough chili-lime shrimp ramen to salinate Lake Michigan, she was forty credit hours and one field project away from her Master’s in Paranormal Psychology. Of course, that was before she became a vehicular assailant of mailboxes. Now, crumbling under the stress of pre-finals induced insomnia, augmented financial burdens, and perfectly normal nineteen-year old woman problems (hormonal and so forth), Lucy quickly gathered her thoughts and, as any well-educated and responsible adult would do, declared:
"Maybe if I pull out really quick and park a few blocks away I can blame this on the mailman", as she adjusted her rear-view mirror.
She then turned the ignition a few times, the sputtering engine and desperate jingle of her keys serving as a mocking echo of her failure with each attempt. After thirty seconds of repeating this, the ignition finally turned over. Just barely rewarding her persistence as she let out a huge sigh of relief and put the woe-begotten Jeep in reverse. The car, however, would have none of it as it remained entwined with the mailbox as if it were being forcefully removed from its lover's embrace against its will. Her vision veered to the rearview mirror, where she found nothing but a cloud of white smoke and the same landscape as the Jeep shook violently in its futile effort.
"What the fuck?!", she exclaimed as she stuck her head out the window to get to the bottom of the phantom obstruction. What she found was a pasty, tall man with jet black hair, a black Led Zeppelin shirt and trackpants wearing expensive-looking black and red Oakley wayfarers that could only belong to someone with a highly developed sense of douchebaggery calmly drinking from a black coffee mug. One slippered foot was firmly placed on her rear bumper and the other on the ground, where a small clump of mud had been forming where the he had dug his foot into the ground to somehow wedge her in.
*Though it should be noted that it also housed some of the most vile creatures ever to plague humanity with every breath that filled their fetid lungs such as Nick Saban, David Duke, and former Vice-President Hubert Humphrey.
"You know, generally it's unwise to flee the scene of an accident in broad daylight, especially when the owner of the afflicted property is right behind you!", exclaimed the slightly annoyed Ed over the roar of the Jeep's engine as raised his mug in an attempt to alleviate the shaking of the mug as well as to avoid getting any grass and mud into his beloved cup of joe.
"I...uh...", stammered Lucy as her brain fervently tried to work out how he had gotten behind the vehicle so fast, and more importantly, how he was able to stall a Jeep going 30 mph and upwards with one foot.
"Not to worry, I'd probably do the same thing had our roles been reversed, although I'd have been kind enough to take my foot of the gas by now!", replied Ed with a grimace as the coffee began trickling down his arm.
"Oh my God, I am so sorry, Mister...", began Lucy, over the sputtering of the engine being finally turned off.
"Ed's just fine", replied Ed as he shook the sod that had collected on his pants and slippers while licking the coffee from his arm.
"Like the talking horse?", inquired Lucy, pretending not to notice Ed's slightly coffee-stained, elongated canines.
"You really want to get insurance involved, don't you?", snapped Ed as he shot Lucy a disapproving glare.
"No-no!", replied Lucy, almost in tears,"I just wanted to interview for the position and I know that there's probably no way I'm getting it now so I'm just gonna grab my things and go now..."
"Relax...", said Ed reassuringly as he placed his slightly sticky hand on Lucy's shoulder,"...if everyone lost out on an interview for crashing their car into their potential employer's mailbox, no one would have a job. Besides, I've been bothering the mailman about all that junk mail about refinancing your house and herbal virility supplements I've been getting for weeks. Now he'll know I mean business."
"Thank you so much...", said a grateful Lucy, barely containing her joy as she opened the Jeep's door, which let out a metallic groan from years of exposure to the humidity, “....by the way, that’s a strange name for a company, Death Head, you guys aren’t Nazis are you?”
“I assure you, we share no affiliation with any member of the Third Reich or any of its associated entities...”, replied Ed, sneering ever so slightly at the indignation of being compared to those sauerkraut gobbling, goose-stepping baby killers, “...in fact we beat them to copyright by over forty years.”
“Oh, well that’s good.”, responded Lucy, weighing how this probable scene kid could represent such a prestigious investigation firm with breathing a sigh of relief that she wasn’t about to trade working for a metaphorical Nazi for a literal one.
She looked more like a back-up dancer for "In Living Color” than a paranormal investigator to Ed. Below the LSU tank top, she was wearing skin-tight black denim shorts that cut off at the upper thigh with ankle-high, scuffed black combat boots protecting her delicate feet. Ed had noticed a navy blazer, white silk blouse and navy blue pants hanging on the coat bar of the passenger side with a pair of off-brand black stiletto heels resting on top of an overly filled cardboard box holding several manila folders. At least she shared his view on appearances, he thought.
"You know, my accidentally crashing my truck into your mailbox doesn't give you carte blanche to ogle me like I'm a piece of meat!", snapped Lucy as she exited the vehicle with the cardboard box, sans heels, nestled in her arms.
"Don't worry, I'm only attracted to women who know how to drive", shot back Ed with a smirk.
"Are you always this charming?", responded Lucy, barely hiding the middle finger she had flipped at her prospective boss behind her fumbling box of impedimenta.
"Only after I've had my coffee", said Ed with a condescending smirk,"Now hurry up and get inside before the neighbors think you caught me cheating on you or something, Miss..."
"Lucy's just fine", she answered, slightly harboring her contempt for what seemed to be another chauvinist masquerading as a professional.
"Parents were big Beatles fans, were they?", inquired Ed.
"Actually, they were huge 'Peanuts' fans, but usually I'll tell people I'm named after the song anyway just to humor them to be quite honest with you", replied Lucy.
"Well you can't go wrong with Lennon and McCartney or Charles Schultz for that matter", replied Ed.
"I prefer Calvin and Hobbes, personally.”, replied Lucy, who had recently developed an affinity for newspaper comics.
Bored with her life story already, Ed shrugged this statement off and ambled towards the house with Lucy in tow. The vestigial sting of being ignored in Lucy's mind had rapidly been replaced by the sight of the expansive, Victorian-era mansion that, despite it's apparent age, looked as if it had been recently constructed. The mahogany siding appeared to have never known a termite or raindrop in it's long existence and the elegant, French-style windows had been dutifully kept spotless. The sloped ebony roof's shingles appeared to be recently replaced as not a drop of mold or bird droppings had been present.
"You seem to take very good care of this place", remarked Lucy as she stopped to climb the short marble steps to the ornate mahogany door that had been engraved with wood carvings depicting a great battle between a largely outnumbered medieval army holding back an invading horde of demons and a bronze winged skull-shaped door knocker with ruby eyes and large fangs silently observing of this scene.
"Well, mailbox notwithstanding, I try to make this place look as presentable as possible", explained Ed, "Appearances count for a lot in this business and life in general."
"A little friendly advice for the new blood?", inquired Lucy with a hopeful grin.
"More like a friendly reminder to invest in some proper business attire", replied Ed, unaware of the relatively well-dressed evil that had been silently observing him less than a block away from the house.
“Well I was going to change in the car before-”, tersely replied Lucy before shutting herself off lest she implicate herself of vehicular mailbox-slaughter once more.
With a barely audible sigh, Ed unlocked the door and graciously invited his prospective new employee in for what promised to be a very eventful interview.
