Absinthe Angels Always Lie

 “I will get your money soon, I promise!” screamed the mayor as Delilah waved the flame of a blow torch closer to his groin. Blackwell used to find her antics funny but now it all seemed so sadistic. She turned the valve until the flame was blue, and the mayor reeled back into Blackwell. He pushed him back down into the chair like a disobedient child. Later this moment would sum up their relationship – Blackwell holding the world down while Delilah tortured it.

It wasn’t the first time negotiations had gone sour but Blackwell was starting to think Delilah had lost it completely. Just the week before she shot the owner of a 7-Eleven in the foot for being only a day late on protection fees. Blackwell was growing tired of her rash choices and violent impulses.

“Oh mister Mayor, this isn’t about money, it’s about respect.” She backed away and twisted the valve until it squeaked tightly. “The biggest commodity in my world is respect.” Blackwell watched the wrinkles around the mayor’s eyes expand. Delilah pulled her gun out and waved it in his face, “do you respect me?”

“Of course I do, I am doing everything you have asked, just a slight banking error that is all.” Blackwell could see big beads of sweat rolling down his neck.

“No! You failed, the police chief was supposed to be in our pocket, instead he has locked away twelve of my men.”

“Kill him then, take him out, but spare me, I have a family, a beautiful daughter. Please Delilah.” The mayor looked panicked, like a shrew pulled out of its nest into the light, he squirmed. Blackwell almost felt bad, he had a family once, and he wondered about how many fathers he had killed.

Delilah looked up at Blackwell with the same enchanting stare she had always given him, “Blackwell, go find Rico and then take care of the driver.” He didn’t move. Beneath her designer leather outfit and make up, under her fine white porcelain skin all Blackwell could see was a machine. It made him feel cold on the inside. “What are you waiting for, go already.” She said over the mayor’s unintelligible mumblings for salvation.

 To Delilah, Blackwell was just a weapon, an effectively crude blunt instrument, a relic.

He didn’t want to stay and watch so he headed for the door in long fast strides. He thought he might hear screams but he heard duct tape first, then metallic squeaking and then he smelled something similar to bacon fat sizzling in a pan. He rushed into the briny air of the docks, to taste the salt, and escape the smell.

Rico was outside watching the car, smoking a cigarette; he was the guy that Delilah got to do the dirty work: clean up bodies, distribute coke to the dealers, get her Kung Pow chicken from her favorite Chinese food place. To Blackwell, he was a Scarface impersonator who snorted to much of his own product. He tapped Rico on the shoulder and thumbed back into the warehouse,

“Mind the smell, Delilah is having a heyday with the blowtorch.”

“What’s she cooking?” he stamped out his cigarette and tied the red bandanna from his back pocket around his neck that made Blackwell imagine a bandito.

“Long pig,” Blackwell said walking towards the stretch limousine.

Blackwell’s heart sank when he saw the teenage girl in the back seat of the mayor’s car texting, and if he hadn’t already crushed the driver’s temple in with a brick he might have told him to drive her as far away as possible. Delilah has few rules but “no witnesses” was at the top of her list. The first thing he did was grab her phone and snap it, the first thing she did was punch him in the face and scream.  His nose hurt but didn’t bleed, it was something about the girl’s eyes that unsettled him, made him pause for another punch. Then she was trapped between his massive arms and left dangling over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. With each step towards the warehouse Blackwell felt like a demon.

The girl didn’t quit struggling until they passed Rico dragging something heavy wrapped in plastic and squeezing the trigger of a Mediterranean Lavender Febreze Aerosol can. He could hear her choking back tears.

The warehouse was dark and full of cargo crates, some with drugs and others with umbrellas, dim lights hung from rust fixtures that dangle from the ceiling like sleepy spiders. Delilah rolled her eyes and mouthed what-the-fuck at him.

“The daughter was in the car.” Blackwell said, and she wriggled between his arms.

“Let me go asshole! Was that my dad? What did you do to my dad?” They ignored her.

“Ugh! What kind of man would bring his daughter here. . . Fucking politicians,” Delilah turned her back on them. A singed hair, burnt pig aroma was barely masked under an almost visible layer of lavender scent.

“You take care of her, I need some fresh air,” she looked over her shoulder at him and gave him her look that always meant kill. One sinister well plucked eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other, and her ruby lipped smile was crooked as a scarecrows. He looked away when normally he would watch her walk out of the room. The girl’s nails dug into his back and he slammed her into a metal chair and sat in another one facing her. They sat in a tense silence.

“Don’t try to run, I’ll catch you.” Blackwell said to her pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. The girl was smart and didn’t move, although Blackwell could notice her tendons strain in her legs like a deer about to bound away. She crossed her arms defensively.

“What brand do you smoke?” she asked him abruptly. Blackwell wasn’t shocked but he paused to light his first.

“Marlboro Reds, let me guess . . . you want one?” It was the first time he had looked at her directly. It took him back twelve years, as if fashion for 16 year olds hadn’t changed in a decade. Partially dyed blond hair, grey hoody, jeans weathered and torn, and black high-top converse. He sucked in on his cigarette until she spoke.

“Sure,” she said confidently, “you’re going to kill me aren’t you?” He couldn’t bear to look into her eyes so he sat sideways like a crab, and handed her a cigarette that way.  “Light me?” he flicked a new flame out of his lighter, the only thing he kept from the war.

“What’s your name?” she stifled a cough after she inhaled the first time, but only then.

“Rebecca, yours?”

“Blackwell.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“My last one,” Blackwell said, staring at a bubbly black spot graphed onto the dirty concrete floor, he rubbed his cigarette there and remembered the smell.  He stood and removed his heavy jacket so all he had on was a black tank top, his massive arm bore an eagle perched on the world, with Semper Fidelis on a ribbon in its beak. Rebecca nodded silently.

“Well, Blackwell. Are you going to kill me?” he felt her eyes burrow into his skull, blue eyes with wisps of grey that reminded him of too much. “That’s what she meant by take care of me right? It is like bad guy code-word for kill.”

“I don’t know”, he was surprised that he said it, he normally didn’t talk to hostages at all, but Rebecca had struck some human chord within him.

“Then why would you?”

“Because Delilah told me to.”

“And do you do everything she says?”  Blackwell Zoned out. Remembered the first time he met Delilah, how he winded up in this spot, it was in France six years ago.

He’d just drunk some absinthe and chased it with half a bottle of tequila. He was about to finish the rest when a Frenchmen decided to pick a fight with him. He was too gone to remember the guy tell him in the best English he could that American pigs like him were ruining the world, he just remembers getting punched in the back of the head and seeing red.

Blackwell turned to see demons, green skinned, forked tongues, spitting at him and charging him with pitch forks. He couldn’t help laughing, great big bellowing laughter that only a man his size could muster, he had seen worse in war. His fists struck like he was wielding fire, cracked. Delilah had been watching from the floor above, and told him later she saw potential. But that night, when he could taste colors and feel sound, he saw the most devilish women, as an angel, sent to take him back to America. He now thinks that it was just because she was wearing white.

Since their meeting in France Blackwell was never far from Delilah’s side, once or twice they even shared a bed. He loved her amber eyes, her rose perfume, and the way she smiled like she ruled the world. She made him feel something for the first time since the Army discharged him. He threw their plane ticket back at them and hopped off an aircraft carrier near Kuwait. He was only good at killing and drinking, Delilah liked him that way.  

Falling out of a daze he turned to Rebecca and said, “Usually.”

“Huh, well, thanks for the cigarette. . .” she said, looking sullen and hopeless, tapping her foot. Blackwell noticed the sharpie marks, his daughter had written on her shoes too, carpe diem, followed by squiggly lines.

“No problem,” he mumbled.  He could hear the clicking of Delilah’s heels growing near. Blackwell didn’t know what to do. 

 “Jesus Christ Blackwell kill the little bitch already.” Delilah said, always having a better place to be then wherever she was at the moment. Blackwell looked at Rebecca, and could sense the natural tension that built in her muscles, animal choices of fight and flight all but removed. He looked at her, and was paralyzed by her storm colored eyes. He didn’t want to kill her but didn’t know what else to do.  He flicked the top of his lighter back and forth like a metronome.

He disappeared into the past, to the day his daughter died, four weeks before her 17^th birthday. She wanted to get a lip ring, he said no, they fought, she stormed out. It still hurts him to think the last thing he said to her was, “No.” He repeated it over and over to himself after he saw the news that evening. He had hidden this memory in his nightmares, usually drinking it away when he could, but this was a sober moment.  

“Blackwell, if you don’t kill her I will.” Delilah said, gritting her teeth. She drew her silver embossed handgun from her purse and cocked the lever back, a click echoing into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling.

 “No” Blackwell whispered, and even though the only other noise in the room was the hushing of air conditioning overhead Delilah didn’t believe she heard him correctly. He stared at the rose that was so finely detailed around the barrel of her gun and noticed how sharp the tiny thorns looked under the flickering halogen bulbs.

“What did you say Blackwell?” she gave him a look that she hadn’t given him in months, since the last time he hesitated to kill a witness. 

“I said no Delilah.” The last one was a girl, maybe nineteen. She was unfortunate enough to be in her dealer’s bed with him when Delilah chose to pay a visit.

Normally she would have just sent Blackwell, but she enjoyed getting personal on matters of product. Blackwell crushed the dealer’s sternum with one punch before snapping his neck with a snap that reminded him of fried chicken. Fetally tucked in the corner the girl looked despicable. Hair that hadn’t been washed in days, streaming mascara, face sunken and scarred by meth, wrapped in a dirty sheet, Blackwell felt pity for the first time in years. Even though he had just dispatched a man without thinking twice something about that girl’s frailty made him pause. Delilah got mad at him, shouted like a drill Sergeant until he drew his gun and fired. The next day the front page of the newspaper read: Meth addict gunned down in L.A. Gang-war.

Delilah marched closer to Blackwell her gun still aimed at Rebecca, who glared past the barrel defiantly. Delilah’s nails were painted the color of her hair, somewhere between Maroon and blood orange.  She said, “Too young? You’ve gotten soft Blackwell, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“She is innocent Delilah, I can’t let you kill her,” despite her comment he was feeling strong. He rubbed his jagged block thumbs on the concrete calluses of his palms, and balled them into fists. Blackwell watched Delilah think. He could see the robotic gears grind in Delilah’s head like molars trying to chew the question of what to say, how to win Blackwell back to her side.

“Innocent? How many ‘Innocent’ people have you killed Blackwell? When you were in Iraq pulling triggers for uncle Sam?” She smiled when he winced as if shaking off ghosts.

“That doesn’t matter; I’m saving this one.” He didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. He was almost as shocked as Delilah whose jaw loosened in frustration. He had never denied Delilah before, and in his years as her body guard he had never seen anyone deny Delilah and live. Blackwell noticed Rebecca grin wildly in his peripheral. Looking into Delilah’s eyes he could see fuses popping as she realized she had to kill Blackwell, her favorite toy soldier.

“Look at you!” Delilah snorted; turning her gun on him, gripping its pearl handle tighter, “Big bad Blackwell having a little change of heart? Do you really think saving this little Skank will make up for all the bad you’ve done.” She walked closer towards him, and for the first time Blackwell realized how tiny Delilah is compared to him, he wasn’t afraid of her anymore.

 She was a smart woman, strong willed, ruthless, she rarely made mistakes, but something in her wiring must have gone bad. She underestimated her enemy. Suddenly Rebecca chose fight over flight and with a move like lightning she had knocked the gun out of Delilah’s hand, just as the trigger was pulled. Blackwell recognized the familiar sting, sunset red drips running towards his knuckles. The fire that burned in him once long ago was re-lit. He breathed in and felt the world grow silent as a tide of adrenaline washed through him.

In a split second his hand was on Delilah’s wrist, her face froze skyward in a silent scream, there was a crunching sound as he made the back of her fingers touch the top of her forearm. He lifted her screaming into the air like a gutted swine, and slammed a fist of granite into her side, once, twice, three, four times. She kicked at him and raked his arm with her working hand. She would have been screaming if she wasn’t already coughing up blood. Each impact grew more merciless than the last. With every strike he removed a layer of self-loathing, unpacked an emotion, remembered something beautiful about his life before the war.   

Blackwell thought about how beautiful she once was, how she first enchanted him in the bar in France. She had him wrapped around her finger for so long that he felt like an alien to himself in the moment before he slammed the red haired bitch to the floor, her head made a thud and her eyes rolled back in shock a moment. She wasn’t struggling anymore.

He moved his hand from her wrist to her porcelain neck.

 He squeezed until her eyes began to bulge. As if the screws had come loose near her retina, and the gears inside her head were overheating. He thought about how even in her last moments her eyes were machine like, her expression telling him she had someplace better to be.   

He felt Delilah’s windpipe collapse like an empty tin can.

Blackwell was lost in the moment, he didn’t notice how fast his heart beat raced, the tremble in his hands, the tear that formed in one eye and down the long vertical scar that curved from brow to chin. He didn’t see the blood drip from his arm to join the growing puddle of hers on the floor. He didn’t even notice when Rebecca grabbed Delilah’s gun and hid behind a box. He only noticed the rose tattoo on Delilah’s left breast, and how red it was against her pale flesh. For a few moments he was a statue. He thought back to the day he lost himself.

He refused to believe his eyes when he first saw his daughter upon that cold metal table, draped in a thick white sheet. Eight hours after an angry Muslim boy blew up half of the food court and part of the J.C. Pennies. He shook, and beat his fist against his chest, and heaved tears that no one would ever expect from a man his size. They didn’t try to hold him back. Only half of her was recognizable, just one of her beautiful blue eyes glazed over like a marble the color of thunderstorms. A month after he buried his daughter, he left her roses, joined the army, and learned how to stop feeling.

Blackwell heard a click next to his ear.

“Okay, you killed her. So you’re the boss now right? But what if I kill you?” Rico stammered, but Blackwell began to laugh because all he could picture is Rico trying to snort a mound of cocaine and overdosing.

“Go ahead,” he said defiantly, he turned to face Rico and grinned. He hadn’t smiled in years, and Rico would have been afraid if he didn’t think Blackwell was insane.

“You are a crazy old man.” Blackwell felt the cold of Rico’s barrel on his forehead, his arm going numb. He smelled Delilah’s rosy perfume. He closed his eyes and heard the shot echo, the reeking cokehead drop to the ground, then Delilah’s gun hitting the floor. Rebecca didn’t miss.  

Outside the warehouse they watched as the fire they lit leaped from crate to crate like a creature on fire. Blackwell lit a cigarette with his lucky lighter and breathed in the smoke.

 “Do you have somewhere to go Rebecca?”

“I would call my mom but you broke my phone,” Rebecca replied kicking the shrapnel of her phone under the limo. Then she looked up at him and said, “where you gonna go?”

He handed her fifty cents and said “I’m tired of California, was thinking of heading north.” He thought of the vast deserts he had crossed and how he had longed to go home to the rain and the pine trees. He looked back at Rebecca, in her blood spattered grey hoody and said, “Thanks kid.” She didn’t say anything, just stared down at one spot of red that was glued onto the white rubber rim of her shoe.

“What is your real name?” Rebecca looked up at him then shivered as a cold wind blew in from the docks.”

“Sampson,” he said, handing her his heavy trench coat, still reminded so much of the daughter he lost so many years ago. He thought of the beautiful strong girl who had eyes like thunderstorms and streaks of red in her blond hair, who listened to grunge music and colored on everything in black sharpie. Who’s mother’s favorite flower were roses.

“Thanks for saving me Sampson.” He nodded at her one last time, and smiled before he disappeared down a dark alley just as he heard the sirens in the distance. 

A hungry Kind of Jelous

Strobe lights have a strange effect on the brain, especially when mixed with techno music and a legion of sweaty, glow stick wielding humanoids rubbing up against each other like worms in a cup. Donna thinks of them as flesh bags, blood packs, or two legged buffets. She wades through the waves of wriggling worms, licking her voluptuous lips, famished.

In these underground raves, where people pack together like mating salmon, you can feel at least three heartbeats at all times, more depending on your species. Alaric knows Donna is looking for him, he knows she hates coming to these things, there is too much temptation for her. With every tasty lamb the fire haired girl crosses, she considers the fastest route to the nearest exit. She looks for a filthy bathroom or shadowy alley where she could really sink her teeth into someone.  She sees Alaric; he is in trouble, because she is mad at him, again.

Alaric has no problem with the crowds; hell, he is cold blooded. There’s nothing better for his kind than the friction of several hundred warm bodies pressed closely together. He loves the heat of it all and loses himself in the trance-like music and thriving bodies. Then, suddenly, he sees Donna and she locks eyes with him. His stare is stronger even with her rage, and she looks away and huffs up the spiral staircase to the second bar.

Two stories up and it’s just as hot, she smells too much:  sweat, vodka and a slurry of perfume. It hurts her head. The second floor is where people go to watch the crowd and snort coke off of tits. In one corner, a group of frat pledges check off another task on their ridiculous list. They just finished getting a girl to blow two of them at the same time on the dance floor; there is no telling how high they are. But on the second floor everyone is high.

Alaric tips a martini glass of absinth back as Donna stomps to his side, the green fluid rushes into his stomach, but he doesn’t even cringe.

“You bastard. . . . You fucking prick.”

“Donna, please have some grace, grab a . . .”

Her open palm connects with enough force to spin his head seventy-five degrees the wrong way. He pops it back into place before anyone sees and rubs his glowing hot cheek.

“Come now, darling . . . such brute force is so unbecoming. We are in public.”

“Don’t patronize me your spineless dick! I am not the kind of woman you can cheat on and not deal with the consequences.”

“It meant nothing.”

Donna rolled her eyes at this, shaking her red curls and closing her eyes in rage. She closes the space between them and angrily whispers into Alaric’s ear.

“To you. It meant nothing to you. But to me it means everything, to me it means I can’t trust you.”

“Babe. . . It was politics.”

“How is fucking Electra Spendal at some castle Frankenstein swinger party “political”? She is only a familiar too. . .” She raged.

Alaric shakes his head, chuckling. He pulls out a cigarette from his back pocket and lights it with a small flame from his tongue. He inhales a deep puff as ashes drop onto the dancers below.

“Donna, do you remember Marcus Zelphet? “

“Of course I do. You’re running against him for city council . . . what does he have to do with this?” Her eyes narrow. If anger didn’t blind her, she would have known Alaric always has a plan. He is the kind of serpent that always schemes. He turns to her with his silver and blue hair partially glowing luminescent under the big black light that hangs overhead, showing the remnants of coke sprinkled on all the tables around them.

“I fucked the skank because she is Marcus’ Mistress, and everyone, except you, knows that. Do you see?” He winked and put his arm around her hip, his face still stinging from the earlier slap.

Their eyes lock again, but she looks slightly relieved, although still sweating from the heat and hungry from the many tantalizing scents.

“I should have known it was a power play. . . I can forgive it.” She shrugs.

Alaric smirks and leans towards her for a kiss; he winces in pain and gulps.

“Do it again, Alaric and these are mine . . . permanently.” She winks and grins up at his tortured face and watering eyes, her hand squeezing his balls in a death grip. He coughs up a “yes,” remembering how strong his feral woman is, and how his smooth, silver carved tongue fails to calm her all the time. He gasps for air after she releases.

Donna smiles a catlike grin, winks at her sagging tired love and begins walking away.

“Where are you going?” Alaric follows a few steps, and feels the liquor slosh in his stomach, his cigarette burned down, scolding his clammy pointer finger.

Donna turns back, flipping her fire curls out of her eyes and wiggling her nose, “To find some dinner. I’m hungry, care to join?” 

He shakes his head and then looks away down into the mass of squirming meat puppets, hopping like grease to a dub-step track. He wonders which poor, ecstasy drunk, horny guy will she flay and devour.

“Suit yourself, babe. I’ll see you later.” She grins again at him before taking off back down the stairs. With each couple of steps she feels another dozen heartbeats, and smells a different flavor of flesh. Sweet meat shining with sweat, saliva, ecstasy, and sin. She is a careful hunter, and combs the crowd for the juiciest lamb.

Duck and cover

I was on 4th and Main Street when it happened, it was cold out and I had just lit my last cigarette. Picture the sun falling from its usual spot, except its night, and the sun is leaking a trail of fire. It grows bigger as it descends; breaking clouds and then it disappears behind buildings miles away, then the blast. The beautiful- blinding- boiling- blaring blast, the kind of thing you expect to see and then die.

But I didn’t.

That night the city nearly fell. I braced to be blown away by a shockwave, anticipated being incinerated by the blast, but all I felt was a gentle quake beneath my feet. That moment was when I knew that whatever just hit the city was not something Bert the turtle told me about.

If you haven’t seen Bert the turtle, you are probably too young or didn’t have the cool history teacher I did. He was a cartoon drawn to re-assure the American masses that there are ways to live through a nuclear blast. He is all I thought about in the dark moments between when I was sure I would die to when I didn’t. Bert the turtle taught me how to live – duck and cover . . . hide under your desk. . . Burt the turtle has kept me alive through three years of war, ten years on the beat, and now this . . . whatever this is.

I was a detective before that night; I solved murder cases because that is what I was good at. I had a nose for evil, and I usually followed it. I shouldn’t have followed it that night, but I did. I could see the buildings burning from miles away, hear the sirens of the cruisers and fire engines, and feel my right hand twitch.  I felt it was my civic duty to head towards the crash and help any way I could. I climbed into my car and headed toward the glow.

The first mile was full of people fleeing the other direction, in cars packed with supplies, on bicycles, or with shopping carts filled with loot. After that mile of slow panic the streets were empty except for me, I figured most of the other emergency vehicles had beaten me there. What bugged me was the radio silence; I figured the impact must have messed with the radio waves or something. I’ve never been a tech guy at all so I didn’t fret too much.

I finally arrived at the impact site, or the outside of it. The boys in blue were there waiting tape up and everything, fire men packing up their hoses, and three EMT’s loading body bags into the car. I then spied my asshole captain angrily waving me over. He is the kind of old school hard ass that has been around since the dawn of time- bald white and taking out his insecurity on everyone else. Most of the bystanders left sat staring out at the glowing ball that fell from the sky, others stood in circles and whispered. As I drew close to the captain and the police line, I saw them, the black suits, the black suburbans, the black glasses, Ghosts.

 “Ghosts”, is a nickname I have given them. They arrive before you know they are there and leave before you know they are gone, sometimes leaving you dazed and with a headache. The FBI doesn’t talk about them; neither does the CIA, so no one does. To the public they are myth and smoke, Hollywood bullshit, but they are there, they have been around. First they show up at your crime scene and steal your case then you are told to not mention it or lose your job or worse.

I approached Captain Ecklend near his cruiser, “What’s up Chief? Some fireworks show tonight huh”. Ecklend, a man of large stature, stood a head taller than me, and preferred to amplify that by always looking down on me when he barks,

 “JESUS CHRIST! Where the fuck have you been Flynn, the Whole Damn city is falling apart and you are nowhere to be found. A God damn meteor has dropped from space; half our units are out trying to crack down on looters and for some damn reason our radios are out. Then of course the fucking Suits showed up so we have been sitting here like a bunch of God Damn boy scouts sitting around a campfire waiting for the forest to burn down.”

He finally shouts himself breathless and leans against the cruiser to catch himself. His big red nose always shakes his cliché cop-stache when he is in an exasperated rage.  I take pleasure in his tantrums so I wait a beat before responding, “I was on 4th and Main Street, smoking my last cigarette on a stakeout you had me start three weeks ago . . . what are the Ghosts up to?” He glared at me, just like he always did when he knew I was lying about something, “No one can tell for sure, they brought in some professor looking types not too long ago. They went down into the crater . . . fuck; there is a god damn crater in my city. . Surprised it didn’t do more damage, Jesus . . . the thing was like a damn missile. Of course the water boys had to put out some of the fire, but those suits showed up fast made us tape the whole area off and form a damn perimeter. ‘No one gets through’ they said. Fucking Spooks.”

I get tired of listening to him quickly, “cap, I got it. . . I am going to go find out more” He grumbles something beneath his mustache, telling me not to stir up to much trouble.  I headed for the closest Ghost, a stocky clean cut marine type posed close to the tape between two suburbans. “Hey ace got a cig?” I ask, staring into those creepy dark lenses. He cocked his head slightly “No, Sir, please step back, no one is allowed beyond the perimeter.” Feeling shut down I prod a little more, “come on buddy I am just asking for one cigarette, can’t you hook me up?” he looks annoyed, but before he has a chance to talk shouts echo from his earpiece, and we hear gunshots fire down in the crater.

The guy spins around and I peak over his shoulder to see the side of the Asteroid open like a strange mouth-like door, and out from it was pouring . . . tiny red creatures. From where I stood they appeared to have 4 legs and some kind of upper claw arms, they made strange squealing sounds, like dying pigs.  We watched as several Ghosts were overrun by the beasts, killing only a few, then screaming loud enough all could hear. We watched in horror as the things collected the bodies, dragging them back inside their . . . ship.

Their “ship” was still partially on fire but I could see parts of it . . . It is best described as most definitely not fucking made in china, let alone on this planet.

  The guy I was just talking to shouted into his wrist watch, “Hostiles have made contact, we have a lot of bystanders here, what do I do?” then drew some kind of high caliber pistol from within his suit.  All of us on the perimeter including Cap had our guns out and trained down on the side of the rock as one of the things stared up at us and the several surviving suits stumbled up the side of the mini crater.  I felt my heart pounding in my chest, my hand twitched like mad; I knew that thing was evil.  I swear that little bastard looked right at me and grinned, but that doesn’t matter now.

 Shouts echoed from the ghost’s ear bud, he shouted back into his wristwatch, “I don’t know sir! I haven’t seen this kind before; we need a Task team and a Bio team down here now! They got Hendrix, Jackson, and Beck and several more wounded . . . uh huh, contain, yes Sir. I have the Local PD with me guarding the perimeter, what should I do? Ugh. . Yes Sir! You can Count on me Sir, I’ll take care of the problem.”

He turned to look at me, then everyone behind me, and spoke, “As you all just saw this is no normal threat. I am Agent Silva, of an unnamed Taskforce assigned to deal with threats like this one; unfortunately half of my men just got taken into that hell-pit! I am going back in to get them, so I need some volunteers who can shoot straight, and aint afraid of little Red Space guys.” He stared blankly at our mob of coppers all frozen by fear. Then for what reason I did it, I don’t know, but I Raised my hand.

In my head Burt the turtle shook his head furiously at me then withdrew into his shell.

Two minutes later and I have a riot vest strapped to my chest and a gun like agent Silva. Four other cops joined our little hero squad, including the Captain. He explained that the gun shoots like any other, except you don’t need to reload. I felt like every twelve year olds dream, a super cop about to take on an Alien threat to the world. Silva told us we had to moved fast so he didn’t brief us much, he explained that they didn’t know much about this kind of alien, seemed to be hive like, oh and of course that we might all die a painful brutal death.

The Six of us, armed to the teeth with guns, grenades, and high-tech glasses, advanced towards the smoking rock. We couldn’t see anything inside, but I had that gut feeling that you get when you know somebody or something is watching you. I could feel their lightless eyes deep within the darkness ahead. Silva whispers to us, “night vision on”. I press a button and the world turns green.

What happened in the next few seconds is a blur. They were waiting there in the dark, lots of them. Some clinged to the ceiling like bats and others just stuck on the wall, maybe two dozen of them.  Silva then whispered again, “ready. . . Fire!”  We all opened fire, blasting open their carapaces and creepy soulless faces, their fried bacon screams blaring in my head. We felt successful, they underestimated our firepower, and we made it inside the rock. The living aliens retreated flailing their arms and panicking.  

The entrance was short and split into two corridors, the smell was awful enough that it made one of the others hurl. We took a short breather. No aliens were in sight in either direction, Silva examined the remains of one of the goblin faced – four legged –iguana crabs. Upon further inspection the things were nothing like any single creature on earth, more like hybrids. “Okay guys they have no armor, but our guys are in here somewhere, hopefully alive. Form two groups and track them down if you can. Group 1 come with me, and Captain Ecklend will be in charge of group two. Meet back outside in 5 minutes and stay in radio contact.” We all nodded, there was no time to ask this man questions. I looked at Cap and the other cop with us and nodded towards the right corridor.

The thing I remember most about the inside of the ship is the walls. Covered in a strange almost living substance, like something you would find in a petri dish. I determined that it was the source of the prevalent odor.

With the cap on point we only proceeded down the hallway so far before we heard the screams, not the alien screams, but men. We turned a corner and witnessed a horrible sight, 3 of the men they took were tied down to a little alter, and in front of them was a monster different than anything I have ever seen, more hideous than any nightmare.  It loomed over them with its giant gaping mouth grinning and dripping red wall slime onto them. The beast was around 11 feet tall, had 6 massive legs and a long dragon like tail, its long furry fat rat face wriggled and writhed over the fallen agents who screamed for help.  It had a strange arm with long fingers and another arm with a huge lobster claw that scraped the floor.

Burt the turtle danced in my mind shouting, RUN, RUN, RUN, you cannot hope to hide or duck from this. And my hand shook so hard my arm quivered and my body shook.

I whispered into the radio, “Hey a Silva . . . we got a situation here, a very big one.” He quickly replied, “We have found the egg pods, setting bombs. Be there in five, hold tight” and I told him, “I hope you’re talking seconds because we ain’t got that long”

Cap looked over his shoulder at me and motioned to open fire, I shook my head a pointed to the group of alien minions that massed near the large one, clicking and purring, all their dark eyes focused on it, their master. There had to be about 50 of them all together, the toys agent Silva gave us are strong but I had no idea how to use them. Cap grimaced but nodded, we needed time . . . but time was something our endangered agents had little left of.

The beast grumbled and reached quickly for one of the agents, ripping him off the alter with its long scaly digits and rapidly cramming the man into his mouth, his screams muffled briefly before they ended. Cap couldn’t stand the waiting and opened fire on the gigantic creature. Blood rained down onto the crowd of furry critters who began rushing towards us. I tossed a grenade into their midst and began firing at them. Cap, fearless and gritting his teach in his rage was blasting the massive alien in the face causing it to howl. In one swipe of frustration it landed its huge claw on top of the other two agents, crushing them entirely, destroying all hope of saving them. In the middle of the fray and just as the other cop with us was overrun by four of the red furry abominations Silva arrived shouting, “holy fuck boys, we need to get the hell out of here now . . . what is that? Oh god.” And he grabbed me by the back to pull me into the corridor.

He only had one guy with him so I assumed the other was lost. Agent Silva looked up at the massive creature that Cap was keeping at bay. The captain in a glorious blaze of laser fire and a cloud of obscenities such as, “you giant fucking piece of shit, people gobbling raspberry jelly slobbering…” and so on as he bashed every red critter that came at him. The confused beast finally charged and swung his giant claw barely missing the cap and denting the wall me and Silva hid behind.

I shouted, “Cap we need to get the hell out of here now” as agent Silva showed me 30 seconds and counting on his wrist. Although there weren’t a lot of alien forces left the hefty creature staggered towards us and we flew down the hall. 15 seconds left when we reached the entrance. Cap was wounded by some shrapnel in his leg and hobbled, the massive rat dragon gaining and minions in tow, our 4^th companion fell beneath the horde, devoured in one gulp by the monster.

10 seconds and nowhere to run but out, the bombs would blow soon incinerating everything inside the rock and some outside. Silva halted and fired, shouting, “Primary mission is the destruction of hostile species, we have to hold them here!” he was asking us to die. Cap looked at me, with the kind of look that says, ‘I have lived long enough, it’s your time now’ the corny kind of look that counts as the ceremonial, silent passing of an invisible torch. I nodded at him and grabbed Silva rushing the both of us out the opening, 3. I looked back for a moment to watch Cap unpin a grenade and ram his arm right down the razor-jaws of the chimera 1.  I leaped with Silva just like in a Hollywood movie, and did exactly what Bert the turtle taught me to do.

Unfortunately the blast and the rocky earth knocked me out. . .

When I woke up I was in the back of a black suburban, I had been hooked up to a few machines and I felt like I had been hit by a piano. “Don’t move” a voice said, “not yet, just listen”. It was Silva, but I remained silent. “I have a choice to make, either I erase your brain and you spend the next 9 to 13 months in a mental hospital, OR, I recruit you into our organization. I am hesitant to do the former, I don’t like scrabbling gray matter and you seem to have a good head on your shoulders. So slick, what do you think, would you like to get to play with top secret toys, never pay taxes again, and be on the alien greeting committee ?” I sat in silence for a second and then sat up and looked at Silva, “I’m in, but I have one question.” He stared at me blankly, “what?” And I asked, “Do I have to give up smoking?” Agent Silva only laughed, he then handed me 3 things- a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a pair of dark glasses. “Hey pal put those on quick, they are about to start the lightshow” and everything went white.

Officially on that night I saw and heard nothing. Officially I am dead- just a Ghost. Before that night, when the city nearly fell, I was a detective - I solved murder cases because that is what I was good at. Now I just kill aliens.