Authors: J. Morgan
MisStaked (2 page)
After the systems check was finished, he was happy to discover despite the soaking, he was remarkably dry after the unfortunate experience. Besides, luck seemed to be with him for the moment, the leather had worked its way loose from its previous fit. Feeling better, he let his gawky frame prance down the sidewalk undisturbed by the stares his leather-clad form was beginning to draw.
To say Breathred Petrifunck was geeky would be putting the case mildly. He stood six four in bare feet. Most of it comprised of jutting bones with very little muscle poking out in any way, shape, or form. The only part of his body that had any definition was his stomach and the only definition befitting this body part was pudgy. Over the years he had tried to work on it, but never seemed to get past slightly pudgy before deeming himself fit enough to wear shorts and an oversized tank top to hide the fact his workouts had been less than successful.
He hadn't had to endure the perils of teen acne, so his face was clear of blemishes; his only redeeming characteristic. His eyes never could seem to settle on a color preference, so they shifted from blue to green before finally affixing themselves to gray. His nose was a little too pointy but otherwise defined his face quite well. He also allowed himself a makeshift mustache and beard, though the hair couldn't seem to grow in the places he wanted it to and flourished in the areas that didn't need the excess. He tried to totally forget the unruly mop of black hair all together.
In spite of all these flaws, both those named here, and those left out for the pacing of the story, Breathred saw himself as quite a dashing figure, which was all that mattered, anyway. It wasn't too much of a stretch of the imagination to see him in the same light as he saw himself, unless you were within twenty feet of him. From a distance he had a mysterious Johnny Depp quality that made people take notice. Up close was a different story.
His legs once again responded to nerve impulses, other than pain that is. Breathred found he was able to make good time to the distant corner of the street. At his destination, Breathred reached into his pocket, extracting a soggy piece of paper. Through the smudges he was able to discern the address leading to the eventual end to his quest. Looking at the street sign, he judged he was, indeed, on the right track and promptly turned down the next blind alley he came to.
The alley ended abruptly against a brick wall, which he would have seen if he had not still been reading the now-useless piece of paper. The impact was neither loud, nor was it painful when compared to the leather-wrenching groin injury of the earlier paragraph.
Still, the skull-jarring hit did give him one brief moment of conscious-altering euphoria enabling him to transcend his usual state of being. In that instant he saw answers to questions he had never even considered. As it is with such things, the feeling passed all too soon, but it did leave him with enough insight to realize he had made a wrong turn.
While not as intelligent as a moment ago, he was able to safely stagger back onto the sidewalk without further injury. From there he had little trouble accessing his meager mental database, ticking through the rough-hewn collection of numbers until finally settling on the newest in the collection. With the address firmly affixed in his mind's-eye Breathred headed in the proper direction, more or less.
After half an hour more, his search came to an abrupt end. In truth it wasn't all that abrupt, but for the purposes of story direction we'll say it was. As incredible as it is to believe, he had circled his destination four times without noticing it. On the fifth circuit, Breathred found the object of his search—102 Carrington Ave—nestled amongst the weeping buildings.
From the exterior the place looked homey. Its decor was from somewhere in the fifties. In the intervening years the city had grown up around it, giving the place the appearance of a willow among redwoods. An iron fence bordered the house, casting flickering daggers on the wet sidewalk. The ancient structure was broken apart by age and abuse. It was almost undetectable by the raging river of ivy that had already taken over the yard, with sights on the street beyond.
Breathred took a deep breath, idly fingering the signet ring on his right hand, as he always did at times of self-induced stress. This was no time to be nervous, but he couldn't help himself. Everything he had ever done in his sad, pathetic life led up to this moment. The ring was part of his journey, but he didn't like to think about it. Some things were best left forgotten, like he could ever be fortunate enough to become a victim of selective amnesia.
This adventure was to be his
trial by fire
. All the hours of study were finally going to pay off. He patted the handbook where it was situated right next to his heart beneath his black duster. It was his own private talisman. He wouldn't be able to whip the book out in front of his client, but he felt better knowing it was there. He pushed those fleeting thoughts of failure from his mind. A new life started for him at this exact moment.
He ran down his mental checklist and judged that he was as ready as he would ever be. He pushed the rusty gate until it whined in protest. It lodged against a mass of ivy and came to a screeching halt, leaving Breathred with less than twenty inches of space in which to squeeze his lanky frame through.
Drawing a deep breath, his oversized chest popped up, allowing a mountain of pudge to suck in. Rising up on his tiptoes, no easy thing to do with wet leather grabbing at hair and other assorted epidermal extremities, Breathred slid between the two rusted gateposts.
At the last minute a bulge (his modesty prevents me from revealing which bulge) caught on the gate's heavy iron latch. He tugged and slipped free, throwing him clear of the confining opening. After his own momentum took over, Breathred spiraled down the cobbled walk. He was able to regain his balance just as he slammed into the peeling paint of the front door.
Thankfully the brass door knocker dominating the thirty-six by eighty inch panel stopped his headlong advance. It rang with a muted thump, as it struck the middle of his forehead. The sound was followed by dull echo Breathred was sure came from a back molar he had been meaning to see a dentist about.
The throbbing ring subsided just as the door creaked open. A chain stopped the door an inch from the frame. Breathred bent down to peer through the meager sliver. A cobwebbed eye glared back at him. It unnerved him somewhat, but being in the profession he was, he decided it was best to become accustomed to disembodied eyes.
"What'd ya want?” a voice croaked.
"Oh great floating eye, there are many things I want, but I guess world peace would be a good start,” Breathred answered in a clear and distinct voice. He hoped he had chosen wisely. It was so hard to know for sure in these situations.
"Dumb-ass,” the voice stated, before slamming the door, which added a new crease to the tip of his nose.
Rubbing yet another damaged piece of anatomy, it dawned on him the floating eye must have an owner. This epiphany was indeed a jump for his beleaguered mind. In someone else, it might be a breakthrough. In Breathred, it amounted to a blank spot in need of filling. Giving his nose a final twist, he decided to take a different approach to this turn at knocking on the door.
"If you're a Moonie, I have mace,” the muffled voice shouted through the door.
"No, madam. It is I, Breathred Petrifunck, fearless vampire slayer,” Breathed announced, deciding to overwhelm her with his magnetic personality.
"Vacuum salesman. Already have a vacuum. A Eureka, which is better than the swill you're probably hawking."
"No ma'am. Vampire slayer!” Breathred shouted through the keyhole. “You answered my advertisement."
He listened to the sliding of locks and assorted other attachments. This went on for several seconds before the door finally creaked open again. This time the floating eye was joined by another eye to match it, as well as a face and a body.
"Well, come on in, but don't try any funny business. I won't stand for any funny business, do you hear me?"
Breathred nodded and moved past the woman who looked about eighty (a hundred and seventy-five might have been closer to the truth) standing framed in the pale light filtering from the pasty interior. A flashing blue wig sat cocked on the left side of her chubby head. If you crossed a shar-pei with a spoiled lemon, you would come close to describing the look of the woman's face. The rest of her enormous form was covered in what could have been a tent if not for the stylized flower patterns that gave her the appearance of a Rose Parade float.
Noting the presence of an aged and cracked Louisville Slugger gripped in her left hand, Breathred thought it best to set the woman's mind at ease. How to accomplish the feat was the problem. Despite her gruff exterior, she was obviously a haunted woman. Otherwise, she wouldn't have called him in the first place.
"Okay, dingleberry, you have five seconds to explain yourself before I start swinging,” she said, testing the air with a sharp swing that belied her age-worn appearance.
"As I explained outside, you rang me this afternoon in answer to my advertisement in the
Weekly Probe
,” Breathred said, deciding caution was the best course to follow.
"You bastards aren't getting another penny out of me until Elvis sends me my child support check,” she screamed, brandishing the bat viciously.
"No, My Lady. I am here for your vampire.” Breathred rose up to his full height, but was more than ready to run for the door.
Don't worry, no one hits a home-run their first time out. The secret is not to look like a fool while doing it
"You're here for Bruiser.” The old woman let the bat drop to her side. Breathred couldn't help but notice her grip on the bat had in no way lessened, in spite of it dropping.
"I guess I am, Ma'am,” Breathred said, nervously moving out of swinging range. “Before I get started, what was the first clue letting you know Bruiser was one of the undead?"
"It was your ad. He had every symptom you listed—bad breath, fangs, the whole works.” She shuffled over to an ancient armchair. With an immense sigh, she let her massive bulk plop onto the protesting Lazy Boy.
"How long has he been acting like this?” Breathred asked, wishing he had brought a notepad to make him appear more official.
"Well, a week I reckon. He likes to go out just after Jeopardy for his constitutional. Normally, he's home in time for the late news. This one night he never came home. How I fretted over him being out there all alone! He's such a delicate soul. Then, the next night he came strolling in like nothing happened,” she explained, mopping a strangled tear from her cheek with a dingy washcloth she pulled from the folds of her muumuu.
"Did he act strangely when he returned?” Breathred inquired, making mental notes.
"Well, he just curled up on the couch and started licking himself, as pretty as you please. I let it slide, seeing as how grateful I was to have the dear home again. So, right before Jeopardy—he never misses his Jeopardy—I brought him his dinner, like usual. He wouldn't touch it. I fixed his favorite, and the ungrateful little shit wouldn't even nibble it!” she screamed at the swinging door behind her.
"And you found that odd?"
"Usually, he gulps it down and whines for more. So, when I went over to get his plate, he tried to bite me!” She slapped the arm of the chair in disgusted fury.
"What did you do then?” Breathred felt the excitement of the hunt taking over.
"I kicked the little fucker. Try to bite me and I'll give you the same,” she warned, cocking a painted-on eyebrow toward him, just in case Breathred felt froggy.
"Well, yes Ma'am. I don't think that'll be necessary. Back to the vampire—where is he now?” Breathred hoped to change the subject. The thought of another assault on his person might diminish his credibility as a vampire slayer.
She motioned behind her. “He's in the kitchen. Last time I went in there he was sitting on top of the freezer, hissing at the light bulb."
"I'd advise you to vacate the house until I've dealt with the vampire,” Breathred stated, eyeing the door he assumed led to the kitchen.
"Bullshit!
Storm Stories
is coming on. That Jim Cantore sho’ butters my muffin. Do what you got to do, but my butt ain't moving.” She ended her statement by grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV.
Breathred thought about forcing her to leave. That thought lasted about as long as it took to think it before evaporating from his mind. It wasn't that he thought she could take him. Well, probably couldn't take him. If it wasn't for the bat, he might have given it a harder try. She was a civilian and, as such, deserved his respect. If she wanted to stay here and see to it he did the job correctly, he couldn't stop her. She was footing the bill after all.
He slapped his forehead. He forgot to mention his fee. According to the handbook, fees should be discussed up front. The possibility of not surviving an encounter with the undead also increased the possibility of the client not paying death benefits to the slayer's family.
It was too late now. Surely, the vampire couldn't be too powerful. Otherwise, the old lady would have been running and screaming from the house. Then again, considering the woman in question, the direct opposite might be true, which would have the vampire running for his life. His fears aside, this was going to be a cakewalk. He had the handbook, the garlic, the holy water, and enough silver-tipped stakes to throw the Dow Jones into a recession. Breathred steeled his resolve. It was time to get down to business.
His hand roamed under his duster until it settled over the crucifix he had specially blessed for tonight. It felt warm to the touch. Strange, it had to be about nineteen degrees outside. The old lady had the small house set at about ten thousand degrees below freezing. He dragged the golden crucifix from the heavy covering of his jacket, allowing a soft glow to shine in the dim light. In the end he decided its warmth comforted him. As well it should, he had bought it from the EBAY window at the Papal web page after all.