Blood-Price of the Missionary's Gold: The New Adventures of Armless O'Neil

By Pro Se Press

A stranger with a glittering hook for a left hand. He came to the untamed wilderness of Africa to escape from a dark, troubled past to make his fortune. Yet his new life comes at an unexpected price. Wherever he goes adventure, danger, and death seems to follow... From Pulp Obscura comes brand new adventures of one of the most unique heroes of Classic Pulp! Armless O'Neil, explorer, adventurer, and soldier of fortune with his own unique view on life and a thirst for action like no other lives once more in the pages of Pulp Obscura, an imprint from Pro Se Productions in conjunction with Altus Press! In the Heart of the Dark Continent, the Man Known as Armless O'Neil Hunts for Legendary Treasures, but Discovers a World of Shadowy Secrets, Wild Danger, and Sensational Adventure! Thrill to Five Fantastic Stories of Savage Mystery, Amazing Action, and Incredible Excitement from Sean Taylor, Nick Ahlhelm, R. P. Steeves, I. A. Watson, and Chuck Miller! Follow Armless O'Neil as he makes his way in bold new stories from the finest in New Pulp today! Pulp Obscura Proudly Presents Blood-Price of the Missionary's Gold: The New Adventures of Armless O'Neil!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Jun 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476220673

Pro Se Press

Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

Book preview

THERE’S ALWAYS A WOMAN INVOLVED

by Sean Taylor

It was supposed to be an easy guard job for quick German money. But a murder reshuffled the cards, and as usual, at the center of it all… there was a Queen in the hand Armless O’Neil and Tommy had been dealt.

Chapter One

To hell with you, Tommy! Armless O’Neil shouted across the table, slamming down his fist in matching rhythm with that of the hook that made up the visible portion of his left arm. If God in his infinite wisdom had seen fit to have you born the lame runt of a Bedouin’s mangiest goat, you’d have been at least twice as smart and four times as useful as you are now.

That’s unfair, and you know it, O’Neil. Tommy stood tall and as handsome a specimen as O’Neil was ugly and squat—well, not exactly ugly, but at the very least undesirable in any modern romantic fashion. And it’s certainly no way to speak of the man who is offering a quick way to make two thousand German Reichsmarks for little more than babysitting wooden boxes.

What’s her name? O’Neil locked his eyes on those of the younger man and took a swig of cognac from a bottle with an Italian label. He tried his best to ignore that fact and pretend the lackluster liquor was the good stuff. Well?

What makes you think there’s a girl involved?

Because if I was as young and as stupid as you, there’d be a girl involved. O’Neil set the bottle down on the table with a loud clank. And every time I bump into you, there’s a girl involved. If I were to venture a guess, I’d say you’ve left a girl aboard every ship I’ve paid for you to return home on.

Now that’s just not fair.

Lucia?

Tommy huffed and coughed. That’s different.

Kathy Van Heest?

Tommy’s pale, youthful whiteness turned pink. Her family had—

Cleopatra?

Tommy stood up, slamming his open palm on the table top so hard that O’Neil had to steady the bottle of cognac. I never messed around with anyone named Cleopatra.

"And only because she’s a few thousand years too old for you, but God help Caesar and Mark Antony if you had taken a shine to her."

Tommy started to say something, but O’Neil shushed him, and he sat down again.

You’re a louse of a friend. You know that?

And you’re a bad investment, m’boy. O’Neil offered the bottle to Tommy, but the younger man refused. Don’t look so hurt. And don’t try to deny the times I’ve more than covered your return trip to the United States.

Tommy looked at the floor.

O’Neil drained the bottle of the last third of liquor. When he finished, he put the bottle on the floor beside him and called out for another.

You’re drunk, Tommy said. That’s why I’m not mad at you about all this mean-spirited nonsense you’re saying.

O’Neil grinned. "I’m not drunk. You are a louse. And you do fall in love too easily."

A dark-skinned man in a white coat and trousers brought a fresh bottle to the table.

But enough of your shortcomings, my friend. Tell me about the twenty-five hundred Reichsmarks."

I said no such sum.

O’Neil grinned again. Shall we make it three thousand? Time is money, as they say.

Now who’s the louse, old man?

Guilty as charged, Romeo.

Her name is Bridgette.

Ha!

And it’s not what you think. She’s from a good family, and although her father is political, she’s not. In fact, she wants to attend an American university. She’s only in Ethiopia to—

Ha! O’Neil interrupted.

Ha yourself, old man. Tommy cleared his throat before continuing. Her father runs a shipping business in Germany, and they’ve had… issues… with theft at night from some of the shipments.

And you offered our services as security guards as a precursor to her heart?

It’s not like that. She’s in a bad way, O’Neil, and she’s worried about her father’s business.

And if you tell me she’s as homely as Bobolongonga’s mother, then I’ll believe you.

Tommy huffed. Just because she’s beautiful doesn’t mean she’s not concerned about her father.

O’Neil laughed. And just because she’s beautiful doesn’t mean you’re not concerned about her father too. The older man shook his head and rested his hook arm on the table. But I know you too well, Tommy. When are you meeting her, and how full did you promise to make the moon?

You’re awful.

O’Neil raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Damn you, you louse. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body, do you?

He raised the other eyebrow.

Tommy sighed. Tonight. At the pier. But only to let her know we’ve taken the job.

If we take the job.

Tommy grinned. Well…

Oh, O’Neil grunted. The hell with you. But it’s going to run you twenty-seven hundred of those Reichsmarks, and if you’re lucky, I’ll loan you a few to buy her one of these awful bottles of cognac to get her romantic.

You’re a good man, O’Neil, Tommy said.

I’m a patsy, and you know it, he said.

Lucky for Tommy, O’Neil thought, he knew better than to agree.

Chapter Two

Bridgette! Tommy called as he led O’Neil into the large, but mostly empty, warehouse.

Maybe your new love got a better offer. O’Neil’s eyes wandered the warehouse and found a stack of wooden boxes in the far corner, and a single row, stacked two high, of crates in roughly the center of the room, then a square folding table near the door, covered in strewn papers and playing cards halfway into a game of solitaire. Or maybe she—

He saw the boot, then he reached into his coat for the .38 and stuck his hook up in the air to signal Tommy to stop.

What? Tommy said, either ignoring or missing the motion.

O’Neil cut him a glare.

He got the point that time.

O’Neil pointed at the polished boot sticking out from around the row of crates in the middle of the warehouse. I think we need to leave, he whispered.

What about Bridgette?

The hell with Bridgette.

You don’t mean that.

Damn it I do, but you’re right. We can at least check to make sure.

You don’t think…

I don’t think anything that I could say in front of the Mother Superior right now.

O’Neil led the way with the .38 taking point. As he got closer to the crates, he could make out the black trousers that tucked into the top of the boot. He caught a lump on its way down his throat and let it fade into a deep, heavy sigh. He really didn’t want to see the rest of the uniform.

O’Neil? Tommy asked in a whisper.

Shh.

Two more steps and the full figure came into view.

Exactly what he had feared.

The trousers poofed out at the knees all the way to the waist. The unconscious man wore a matching black coat with a leather belt and shoulder harness, both polished to rival the shine of his boots. But it was the red armband with the swastika that sent a new lump directly into his stomach.

We’re leaving, Tommy.

Not until I see, the younger man argued, edging around O’Neil toward the fallen figure. O’Neil followed—just to stop the impetuous idiot, he told himself—and saw the other figures lying on the pavement just beyond the first one.

A closer view only confirmed O’Neil’s fear—he was Allgemeine SS.

And from the looks of the scene, one of the other figures on the floor was too.

The third though was a female. Blonde. Legs just the right length. Curves in all the right places. Wearing a tailored dress designed to show them off.

Is it her? O’Neil asked.

Tommy tried to speak, but apparently the words were stuck in his throat. He nodded instead.

Are you sure?

Damn it, yes, O’Neil! I can recognize Bridgette.

I only ask because you just met her.

Tommy glanced at the ground.

Right. I forget I’m talking to the Romeo of the unexplored world.

Tommy ignored him. Are they dead?

Those two are. O’Neil pointed at the woman and the man farthest away. The blood pooling beneath each proved that. But him? He knelt beside the first SS man. I’m not sure.

He shoved his fingers under the man’s collar and felt for a pulse. Nothing.

No pulse, but no blood either.

Then how did he die?

I’m not here to play detective, Tommy, so I don’t know and I don’t care. He stood up. Like I said before, we need to leave. Now.

O’Neil led the way toward the door, all but dragging Tommy behind him. The boy felt like he weighed an extra hundred pounds of disappointment, but the hook-handed man knew from experience that Tommy would recover quickly enough at the sight of the next traveling angel.

It doesn’t seem right, old man, just leaving her here like that. He pulled his arm loose from O’Neil and stood his ground. We should call the authorities or something.

Might I remind you of two things? One, we are not in the free world, so the authorities in Ethiopia are more prone to answer to the Fascists than to any sense of justice. And two, I’ve got a few more bottles of cognac waiting for me at the hotel.

Tommy didn’t respond.

So let’s get the hell out of here.

There were only a few steps left between them and the door, but they only made it halfway before four black-dressed SS men blocked the doorway.

Kindly put down your weapon, the one with the ranking insignia said, his English passable but still thick with German vowels.

It’s not what it looks like, O’Neil said, not putting down the .38.

Kindly put down your weapon before I have my men remove it from your lifeless hand.

Whatever you say. O’Neil tossed the gun gently to the floor.

Who are you?

I could ask the same of you.

The man stamped his foot on the pavement. Two of his men pointed their Mausers at O’Neil’s face.

The name’s O’Neil, and this young buck is my friend Tommy.

The man motioned and the two soldiers lowered their pistols. The armless one whose stories have spread across Africa.

Exaggerations, mostly, I’m sure.

I assumed they would have to be for American stock. The SS man smiled, not with warmth, but with something that reminded O’Neil at least a little of respect. "I am Zellenleiter Johannes Hertz."

Tommy cut in front of O’Neil. We don’t have time for this. He faced the leader of the SS crew. Listen, there’s a dead woman over there. Her name’s Bridgette Drechsler, and she’s—

At the mention of the girl’s name, all three of Hertz’s soldiers targeted Tommy and O’Neil again.

Please stand over there, Hertz said, pointing toward the table. Then the Nazi officer said something in German to the men, and two followed him to the bodies while one remained behind to escort O’Neil and Tommy to the table.

This is all your fault, Tommy, O’Neil said. As usual.

Don’t be a louse.

I feel like a louse, and I’ll be whatever I damn well please.

Silence, barked the soldier.

As O’Neil watched, Hertz and his men examined the bodies for a couple of minutes, turning them over and checking pockets, discarding papers and other odds and ends onto the floor. Then one looked up at Hertz and shook his head.

After they had examined all three and failed to turn up whatever they were looking for, Hertz walked back toward the Americans.

Where is it? he yelled. What have you done with it?

Done with what? O’Neil asked.

Don’t play dumb with me!

I don’t know—

Smack! The grip of Hertz’s pistol bit into the armless man’s forehead, but he held his balance and refused to let the ground have him.

Hey! O’Neil shook the cuckoo birds out of his line of vision and rubbed the place where the bruise would soon be forming. I told you I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.

Smack! The pistol spoke again, reminding O’Neil how much he hated one-sided conversations.

Do not play dumb with me, American. If I know one thing from the stories, it is that when trouble happens and precious things are missing, you are always involved.

And I told you already th—

Hertz’s arm flew up and crashed down again, but this time O’Neil was ready. He caught the Mauser’s muzzle in his hook and twisted it from the SS man’s grip. Then he brought his right fist to connect with the man’s temple.

Hertz didn’t go down quickly, but he did go down, dropping first to his knees and then over onto his back when O’Neil’s knee spoke to his jaw. Blood and two teeth leapt to freedom as he fell backward.

But he was getting back up almost as soon as he hit the ground.

Before O’Neil could take another swing, he felt the distinctly unfriendly barrel of a Mauser pressing against his cheek.

As Hertz brought himself back to his knees, he spit out a third tooth and more blood. Well played, Armless O’Neil.

O’Neil nodded.

You just earned yourself a fitting conclusion for your stories, at the end of a German firing squad.

Chapter Three

You and your temper, old man, Tommy said, leaning against the wall on the back legs of his wooden chair. O’Neil sat with all four legs on the floor, but his own feet crossed over the top of the metal table in the SS interrogation room. We’re really in the thicket this time.

And I’d do it all over again. O’Neil popped his neck and shoulders then tapped the tabletop with his hook. The bastard had it coming.

I don’t think he saw it that way.

Well, regardless, we still don’t have any idea what they were looking for.

And that matters because?

Because they think we have it. Think, Tommy. Think for once. If we can convince them that we do, and that we’re playing dumb about it, we just might be able to bargain our way out of this mess.

But we don’t.

Would you understand it better if I had a pretty brunette brought in?

O’Neil!

Just listen and follow along, okay. The armless man scraped his hook across the top of the table and it screeched like a rabid wildcat. Tommy covered his ears and scowled. O’Neil laughed.

The door swung open, and he lifted his hook from the table.

Thought that might get you boys’ attention, he said.

The soldier—a new kid, couldn’t be older than eighteen, was tall and only sort of blonde(truthfully more of a mousy brown, but apparently Hitler didn’t mind cutting a few corners if the rest of the gene pool was right)—entered the room and looked over each corner and all over the floor and ceiling. He said something in German.

That was me. Sorry. O’Neil held up his hook hand. Makes an awful racket when I get bored.

The soldier glared at them both, then stepped out and slammed the door behind him.

And just what was that supposed to accomplish? Tommy asked.

"I’ll give it two minutes before Zellenleiter Johannes Hertz pops in to say hello."

O’Neil counted the seconds out loud just to annoy Tommy.

The door crept open at only one minute and twenty-three seconds.

Herr Hertz? he asked.

"Zellenleiter Hertz," the German corrected him.

You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to.

"Zellenleiter, Mr. O’Neil."

Right.

Hertz walked to the back wall and leaned against it. So, where is it?

Where is what?

You know what I want.

I don’t have what you want. I don’t even know what it is you’re talking about.

Tommy coughed and brought his chair flat on the floor. I don’t see how any of this is helping us.

Your young friend is correct.

My young friend is an idiot sometimes.

It seems to me you are being the idiot, Mr. O’Neil.

I’ve been accused of worse. O’Neil popped his neck again. Still doesn’t change the facts.

You are being what you Americans call obtuse. But I assure you that I can loosen the tongue of even the fabled Hook-Hand of the Jungle.

O’Neil laughed loudly. Is that what they call me? He slapped the table with his good hand. Or just a limitation of translating native-gibberish into German?

Enough! Hertz pushed himself off the wall and walked to stand over O’Neil. I’ll tell you what the situation is for you and your friend since you insist on making light of it. He rested his hand like a rusty vise on O’Neil’s shoulder. You and Mr. Huston were discovered with the dead bodies of two SS operatives and a murdered daughter of a high-ranking German. The bullets do not match those of your .38, but that doesn’t matter. It is an easy task to dispose of a murder weapon for one as cunning as you.

Go on. You’ve got my attention.

Hertz nodded. Good. Very well. We could have you shot as murderers at any moment, based purely on the way you attacked your superior.

We’re not in the same army, Nazi.

As you say, that still doesn’t change the facts, does it?

O’Neil started to speak, but thought silence the better part of valor for the moment. Instead, he shifted in his seat and tried to twist out from under the German’s grip. But Hertz held firm.

But I do not believe you killed my men or the Drechsler girl.

So what are we still doing here?

You are still here because someone will need to be charged with the crime, and unless you give me what I’m looking for, that someone will be you and your friend.

Hertz stopped, and said nothing for almost a minute, obviously intending to let the impact of his words sink in. O’Neil, though, waited without caving in to the urge to fill the silence with more words, tapping his hook on the table.

It was Tommy who cluttered the empty air. Look, we don’t have the damn thing, and whether you believe that or not, it’s the truth. And there’s no reason for us to kill Bridgette because O’Neil wanted the job and I wanted her attention.

No one spoke for a moment, so Tommy continued.

So I don’t, for the life of me, see what charging us for the murders will accomplish.

O’Neil turned to Tommy, cleared