Demonic Double Cross

By B Branin

Conman Arthur Broker believes he has finally become a permanent resident on easy street while posing as a paranormal investigator to separate superstitious suckers from their money. Unfortunately this cozy lifestyle shatters after the beautiful and possibly unstable Fiona Ambrose shows up on his doorstep. In her quest to find her sister and prove her sanity, Fiona accidentally throws Broker headfirst into a conspiracy orchestrated by the Daughters of All, a mysterious cult with a knack for drug peddling, kidnapping and murder. With both mundane and arcane assassins on his trail, Broker uses his despicable talents, underhanded expertise and plenty of dumb luck to topple the cult and defeat the ravenous devil they worship...all while making a profit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B Branin
• Release date: Oct 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301405855

B Branin

Luckily I'm an expert on myself so writing a personal bio is easy. Especially if you lie. A lot. So, with that in mind I'd like to inform all of you that I began my writing career in the year 2323, which happened to be a thesis on time travel. After getting the funding from Uncle Sam (not the personification of the US government but a relative), I built the world's first time machine. After a few comical mishaps and action packed ninja fights, I ended up here in this day and age after my time traveling device ran out of fuel. But why cry over spilt chronomancy? I'm making the best of this era by hopefully becoming an accomplished writer...with your help, of course.

Book preview

Demonic Double Cross

B. Branin

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 B. Branin

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Dedicated to my father, the greatest man I’ve ever known.

Chapter 1

Evidence on murder, abduction, and transgressions so twisted they won’t be mentioned here, collected dust on my desk. As usual this evidence declared, with flamboyant lunacy, that yeti, ghosts and goblins were the true culprits in these savage crimes. Sitting behind these letters from whackjobs and conspiracy buffs, I cursed myself for getting into the wrong line of work.

Which line of work deserved the brunt of my anger was up to debate.

According to my borderline bogus degrees on the wall, as well as the shiny plaque on my office door, I’m officially a Paranormal Investigator. Everything from aliens to decedents of Zhu Bajie (one of the rare monsters that begin with the letter z) is fair game for my field of expertise. However anyone with a lick of sense can tell you I’m just your run of the mill conman, flimflammer, swindler, crook, and down-to-earth cheat.

Or at least I had been.

Now you can go to any used car dealership and find a cheat, but to find a true conman like myself, you gotta look pretty hard. First off, you never know a con is a con until it’s too late. Secondly, we are damn good at avoiding unwanted attention. At least that’s how it had been for me before I put together my tour-de-force scam involving the paranormal.

I first hatched my Paranormal Investigator scheme with a single goal in mind: a paycheck in exchange for zero work. With some seed money that I had left over from selling converted toasters (that steamed bread) to some health nuts, I got busy. Thanks to the glorious internet, I practically purchased a few degrees in parapsychology and psychophysics.

The con was beautifully simplistic. I make up some mumbo-jumbo about the paranormal, and then got some university professors to push it through to receive grant money in exchange for some kickbacks. We all go home happy. On occasion I’d even go perform a bogus exorcism or ghost hunt for a dirty property owner who claimed my services as a business expense/tax dodge.

Of course there were fraud investigators and government suits demanding to know that the grant money was being well spent. They could get tricky, but usually bribes or blackmail kept them out of my hair. If any particularly stubborn suit hounded me, I’d simply state that ghosts, poltergeists and other such phenomenon were not expressly specified in the Bible, Quran or what have you. That observation accompanied by a thinly veiled threat concerning a lawsuit of religious persecution got them off my back.

To sum it up, life was good.

I had enough tax dodge donations and grant money to fund a cozy lifestyle as well enough coin left over to piss away at the track or pool hall. Hell, I didn’t even mind putting up with all the crazy emails or letters I received from spiritual mediums or supposed alien abduction victims. Yup, it was great being a Paranormal Investigator... until the paranormal literally came knocking at my door.

Cleverly disguised of course.

For all of you who (God knows why) wanna become a Paranormal Investigator, here is your golden rule: Those who show up in person are dangerous! More often than not, they’ve escaped from a loony bin and need to be detained before their meds wear off. But occasionally (as my tragically long career can testify) some cases might be the real deal.

That’s right. Authentic supernatural phenomena.

That’s usually when things get…weird.

My relationship with the paranormal began on a Sunday evening. I had just woken up (painfully hung over) to discover I was at my office, using my desk as a bed. I would often make a clerical error when boozing and spend my cab fare on cheap domestics, forcing me to stumble home or to my office. It depended on which was closer to the bar I had been thrown out of.

As it turned out the pounding wasn’t just in my head, but coming from my office door. To say I was upset was an understatement. The people who usually knocked at my door were either maids who wanted me to sign up on their office building discount plan (for their prices I could get me a girl in a sexy maid outfit and then subtract the outfit) or some whip-lash victim looking for the lawyer who, for whatever reason, specialized in illiterate clients.

How else could you get Attorney At Law mixed up with Paranormal Investigator?

To my chagrin the person at my door wasn’t the usual annoyances. I threw open the door, ready to fire off several stinging barbs that reeked of liquor, when I was rendered speechless. An experience I wasn’t by any means used too. A strikingly beautiful young woman (who was about half my age, but that still made her legal by at least a year) stood outside my office. Though her figure was more than enough to ignite lust in any man, her face was so angelic I was almost ashamed to consider her a curvaceous floozy.

Let me tell you that all of her features were breathtaking, but one feature in particular held my attention. No, not those. It was her eyes! They were a mesmerizing emerald hue that held my reflection like tiny mirrors.

You’re the investigator? The young beauty asked, taking a step away from me (no doubt thanks to my current cologne that mixed the odors of spilt booze, vomit, and cheap skank into a graceful fragrance of offensiveness).

I was still scrambling to collect enough cognitive thought to force my tongue into action. This was my first person-to-person chat about my career that didn’t involve tax fraud or corrupt professors writing up a grant proposal. Trying my best to recover with what grace and tact could be salvaged, I forced a reply.

Yeah. I mustered.

Tactful I know…

The gal looked doubtful as she took in my ragged appearance, but any quips or comments milling about inside her mind were kept in check. Instead the young lady cleared her throat nervously, her skepticism just about to propel her as far away from me as possible.

How does one… She asked, those emerald irises full of uncertainty, Hire you, exactly?

There were only two things that could instantly bring out the best in me; one was a loaded gun and the other was money. The thought of greenbacks slapping against my palm immediately expelled my hangover and brought back some of my articulate nimbleness. Offering her my most charming smile, I waved her into my office. She hesitated a few moments before accepting my invitation but who could fault her for that?

Well there are several ways to go about it, I explained as if I were the authority on the subject of investigation negotiation, As my services are unique, so are my payment methods. Compensation can vary from the expenses needed to the results I find.

With a dancer’s grace, I guided my potential client through the small mounds of trash that haphazardly occupied my office floor (I made a mental note to actually listen to the maids next time they offered their services) and over to my desk that, moments before, had been my bunk. Once we were both seated I tried to appear as presentable as possible, operating purely on greed and instincts developed over years of swindling.

Looking back on it now, it never occurred to me how I might have falsified a paranormal investigation. Unfortunately for me, there was no falsification needed in this particular case. If there had been, it would have saved me much bodily harm, all of my sanity and countless sleepless nights. Instead, I said the dumbest thing I could to the sweet young woman seated across from me as I extended my hand to her.

The name’s Arthur Broker. Paranormal Investigator.

* * * * *

I’d like to take a break and introduce you all to a very wise man that, if he weren’t neck deep in matters that didn’t concern the living, I might have called a friend. I am speaking of Dr. Roy Martin Spriggan, who is a bottomless well of knowledge and the authority on all things paranormal. Unlike yours truly, Dr. Spriggan actually takes pride in his paranormal work and has a genuine interest in the supernatural.

The good doctor has plenty of degrees (the majority of them PhD’s) in psychology, philosophy, sociology, theology and to wrap it up, an IQ that brushes two hundred. Basically the man is an authentic genius. He has been the host of many talk shows that discuss the afterlife and created several documentaries about the origins of the paranormal. All these accomplishments pale in comparison to his writing career, which, thanks to a cult following of several million, ensure his books are always on the best seller’s list.

Now with that semi-modest introduction wrapped up, allow me to insert a few excerpts from Dr. Spriggan’s various works on the subject of the supernatural. I have always found these tidbits entertaining and often relevant to the situation(s) I find myself in.

Please enjoy.

Excerpt from Dr. Spriggan’s book Mind Haunt: the Ghost of Disbelief.

I always find it amazing so many people disregard the possibility that there are some things in life that just cannot be explained by scientific or religious means. It seems that the general public has dubbed anyone who believes in such matters as superstitious, stupid or insane. This makes me laugh because the same public who condemn those of us who believe in the paranormal, also spends millions of dollars on books, films, and other media that involves ghosts, goblins, spirits, and specters.

Why does the general public find the thought of another, hidden world right in front of our very eyes so deplorable? For the majority of the public, there are a few universal aversions to the paranormal. First and foremost being religion. If the paranormal brushes up against the subject of life after death but cannot be found inside holy script then it’s considered blasphemy. The second culprit is science, which demands that all unexplained phenomena must have a logical and formulaic answer.

The last culprit, I strongly believe is fear. If the entire world suddenly learned that our daily lives were shadowed by paranormal instances such as ghosts, other dimensions of existence and unexplainable phenomena, what would happen to the masses? Unquenchable panic? A new thirst of knowledge that shatters old stigmas?

Who can be certain?

I'm certain that there are a select few amongst us that are brave enough and responsible enough with the truth concerning the supernatural that they guard it dutifully, allowing us to continue on with life as we know it. Perhaps in time, they might be willing to share what they have discovered if we are willing to listen…

* * * * *

So my very first official, non-fraud (so far) case of the paranormal was given to me by Miss Fiona Ambrose, the green eyed beauty. Throughout her time spent in my office she seemed to be a special blend of worried, frightened and unable to believe she was actually hiring a Paranormal Investigator.

Hell, I was the Paranormal Investigator (okay, posing as one) and I could hardly believe it myself!

Fiona had come to me because, to put it bluntly, everyone else had turned her down. The police wouldn’t handle her case because they thought she was just some sorority sister pulling a prank for admission to some party. Private Detectives wouldn’t help her out because they had other cash cows to milk (mostly suspicious wives who wanted their husbands shadowed). There were a dozen or so other options she had tried to no avail.

Bottom line, I was Fiona’s plan Z.

Though I acted offended by the fact she came to me last, I didn’t blame her. In fact, if she had came to me first, I would have showed her the door and tell her to get psychiatric care. Anyway, I could see why she was turned down by everyone else save for yours truly. Her case was rather…unique. You see, she wanted me to investigate some sort of religious group that seemed to be cropping up here in the city. I guess these fanatics had a real Jonestown vibe to them, which wasn’t illegal just worrisome. Fiona didn’t have a real interest in the cult but rather someone who had gotten too close to the fanatics.

Her older sister, Faye.

Now snooping around after someone is relatively easy for a gentleman with my snake-like morals and chameleon talents but this wasn’t going to be a paid-to-stalk gig, much to my disappointment. Yes, I was supposed to track down Fiona’s sister, but there was one slight problem.

Faye had been dead for the better part of a year.

Now the alarms began to ring in my head. Despite being positively beautiful and extremely flexible (my mind had wandered during our conversation several times and I came to this conclusion on my own), I realized that Fiona must be crazy. Now I’m indifferent to people’s…eccentric behavior, or even their unstable mindset, but you gotta understand my position: Excluding certain celebrities, crazy kooks are short on cash.

Upset about being disturbed by some penniless nut, I took a deep breath. Figuring the best course of action to get the charmingly insane Fiona out of my office was to come up with some extravagant bill. I did this with gusto. While making every effort to seem sincere, I rambled off several fees including police cross-reference costs. By the time I finished my expense report, she was looking at a five hundred dollar payment before I even stepped out of my office.

No problem, She responded, reaching for her purse.

I nearly fell out of my seat.

After digging in her purse for a moment, Fiona finally produced a thick roll of legal tender. If I had been a lesser man who hadn’t spent a lifetime cheating people, I wouldn’t have been able to conceal my surprise. Luckily for me, I was able to slip on a carefully neutral expression during this exchange.

With a bank teller’s speed, Fiona slapped down several stacks of bills which quickly added up to five hundred dollars. I know in this day and age cash in such bulk was becoming a rarity (another reason I’m glad I gave up pick pocketing when I was in grade school), so this cash was rather telling. The fact that the majority of it was in small dominations like singles or fives was even more informative.

My aloofness must have cracked some what because Fiona caught the suspicious look in my eyes.

I know what you’re thinking, She stated frostily, And I’m a waitress, not a stripper. These are my tips.

Though a brief image of Fiona’s pleasing figure twirling about a pole crossed my mind, I didn’t let my neutral composure slip any further.

No, it’s not that. I lied, I was just grateful that you would bring cash. Many of my clients write out checks which more often then not bounce after I render them my services.

So, Fiona asked after clearing her throat, You’re…experienced at this kind of thing?

Fleecing a young, misguided woman out of time and money? Yes. Finding a dead relative for someone who was probably in desperate need of medication? No. Luckily, my silver tongue was greased and ready to spout off what she wanted to hear.

Well each case is unique, as I said before. I explained with a wave of my hand as if we were discussing the weather, But missing persons, or presumably missing persons, are somewhat my specialty.

To her credit, she still looked skeptical but slid the five hundred bucks across my desk. Doing my best not too seem to eager, I scooped up the cash. Being the gent I am, I did not insult her by counting it right away. Instead I placed my fee in the drawer of my desk until it could be safely blown at poker night.

I’ll get started on your case right away, I told Fiona with the appropriate amount of sincerity and sympathy, How may I contact you if anything comes up?

Fiona jotted down a cell number and gave it to me, then continued looking at me with anticipation. Realizing she was expecting me to ask more than just contact information, I reached for a pen. I kept the illusion of professionalism intact by taking a few notes until Fiona seemed satisfied I had asked all the right questions.

I will call as soon as I get a lead, I promised as I stood and began walking her to the door, Might I suggest that you stay with a friend for the next few nights?

Why? She asked suspiciously, obviously sane enough to pick up on the fact I thought she belonged in a straitjacket.

What I might uncover could be rather upsetting, I informed her with more false sincerity, I would feel better if you were with someone you trusted, for your safety and emotional well being.

She nodded thoughtfully, apparently buying my lie wholesale. With that, I opened the door and was just about to show her out when she did something even more unexpected than hiring me to hunt down her long dead sister.

She hugged me.

I know you must think I’m crazy! She exclaimed, her voice on the verge of becoming a sob, I did too at first! I even checked myself into an institution but they told me I was perfectly alright! I-I-I just don’t know what to do! Thank you so much!

Though I didn’t want to, I managed to untangle myself from the young woman with an awkward smile. As I bid her a silent farewell and shut the door behind Fiona, another feeling was beginning to worm its way into my gut. I couldn’t place the alien sensation for a moment but when I did identify it, I was appalled.

The feeling was guilt! Or so I assumed due to other people’s description of the emotion. I let out a long sigh and made my way back over to my desk, a movie-reel of mixed up thoughts/feelings racing through my heart and skull.

This wasn’t going to be as easy as I had thought.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Though I felt like shit the next day, I learned that you can drown that damnable feeling called guilt in hard liquor, several games of darts, and one local barfly named Terra. It was a lesson that I took to heart though I privately vowed I would do my best to never fall victim to guilt again.

Despite soothing my conscience, I still had a particularly curvaceous problem to over come. All of last night and most of this morning, I couldn’t get Fiona off my mind. Not only because she was a pleasing image to mentally conjure but because, like it or not, I was stuck with her.

It had dawned on me that I had broken my personal dogma when committing a con. Avoid face to face interaction! Over the years I’ve avoided scams that require face time with the individuals you were ripping off. Sure, I’d done it before, but never enjoyed it. I preferred to take money from some rich snob who wouldn’t miss it, a faceless corporation, or the government.

So of course scamming Fiona felt different. It didn’t feel like a con. It felt like shame. I actually took money from a young woman at the end of her rope and most likely mentally and emotionally disturbed. I might have exceedingly low standards, but picking on the weak or mentally ill managed to slip under the bar on my dented moral compass.

I decided the best way to wash my hands of this whole affair was to discover if Ms. Fiona Ambrose was some sort of crazy and inform the proper authorities that she was a danger to herself and others. I might even return her money (or at least the sum I hadn’t blown last night).

That’s why I went to see Buggy, the informal information broker.

My good friend Buggy had been born with only two things worthy of note. First was the horrible name on his birth certificate which read Mark Marko Marcus. The second being social skills that any ape could rival (if the first contributed to the second, I had no idea). Despite his off-putting nature and variety of extremely eccentric behavior, I liked the guy.

You see, regardless of his various shortcomings Buggy was extremely intelligent (perhaps not as brilliant as Dr. Spriggan) and excelled at his own field of expertise which happened to be computers. If it could be decoded, hacked or cracked, Buggy was the guy to do it. If it existed in cyberspace, virtual reality, or in some poor sap’s hard drive, it was free game to the master hacker.

Though I swallow my pride in admitting this, if Buggy hadn’t received a 2.6 million dollar bribe from some big corporation executive that had been illegally reading their employee’s emails (ironically that’s exactly how Buggy discovered the dirty little secret), he might have become a better conman than me. What Buggy lacked in charisma and social skills he made up with ingenuity and an abstract thought process. That coupled with his internet wizardry, would have led Buggy into cyberspace scams whose magnitudes would have shaken even Wall Street.

Armed with my usual tribute of pizza, a six pack of cheap soda and a baggy of pot, I knocked on Buggy’s door. As usual, I waited for about five minutes while the master hacker realized that reality was calling. I really shouldn’t call these goodies a bribe. Buggy and I were friends after all, but it always helped to bring a special house warming gift each time I saw him. Ironically, the pot actually relaxed Buggy from his usual level of paranoia long enough for me to get some good info out of him.

Four minutes into my wait I heard the familiar sound of locks being turned followed by a scraping sound, which would be the 2x4 that was always braced against the door. This was followed by the jingling of chains being unlatched and tumblers to deadbolts being thrown. Five minutes on the dot, the door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of a pasty face and a single, scrutinizing eye.

Are you or have ever been, associated with any law-enforcement agency including the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, or similar organizations? Buggy asked, sounding as grumpy as a baby being woken from his nap.

I’ve known you for years Buggy, I replied with a sigh, And you ask me that every time I show up.

Every day is a new day, Buggy replied, Yes or no?

I am currently working for the FBI… I started.

Buggy paled even more than usual and a look of stark betrayal made his eye open wide.

…the Female Body Inspectors, I finished, Strip searches aren’t mandatory, but encouraged.

Stop doing that! Snapped Buggy, opening the door and moving to one side so I could squeeze past him, That one is even less funny than the CIA acronym last month.

C-Cup Investigative Agent? I laughed as I entered the basement apartment, It was great!

Upon entering Buggy’s little domain my nose was assaulted by various smells that thankfully lacked a known origin. Far be it from me to claim the title of the cleanest individual, but compared to Buggy I was the authority on spotlessness. Despite being a millionaire, Buggy lived like a ten year old who hadn’t learned the wisdom of cleanliness. His basement apartment was small and confined, with a single bedroom and single bath. If you could see his floor through the layers of discarded clothing, food wrappers, trash, and other less-then-sanitary substances, then you had better eyes than me.

However there was one corner of the apartment that bordered immaculate. That was, of course, his shrine of computers. An enormous oak desk held three computer monitors (top of the line plasma screens of course) while its belly held three powerful computer towers. There were several other devices placed here and there, including a laptop computer and a palm pilot. I had always been curious how the hacker switched between machines so easily but never bothered to ask.

Sometimes genius is best left to the geniuses.

Pepperoni, olives, chicken, pineapple, and double cheese, I announced holding up the pizza box to Buggy, then dropped the baggy on top of it, With some additional herb and spices.

A smile broke out on Buggy’s pasty face. Despite having known him for so long, Buggy was still nearly featureless to me. He was simply one of those people who stood out because they didn’t stand out at all. He wasn’t exactly chubby but wasn’t skinny either, and always wore the blandest of clothing. It was as if his body and face were almost as indefinable as his thought process.

So what brings you by my humble abode? The haphazard hacker asked, taking the pizza box and then flopping down on a couch, or at least what seemed to be a couch underneath tons of old magazines.

I haven’t heard from you in a while, and wanted to see if you had any heads up on any new scams out there. I replied. Now this wasn’t quite a lie because Buggy kept me well informed about which scams were being cracked down on by the cops or if the DA was on the warpath.

A few pyramid schemes have been targeting tree huggers and earth friendly groups, Buggy replied with a shrug, opening the pizza box and inhaling with relish, But nothing that really concerns you. I mean, you’re pretty much retired now thanks to the money rolling in from your…ahem… ‘paranormal research.’

Laugh it up, dopey. I shot back, exchanging the friendly barb, I have a better chance of getting big foot to co-sign my car lease than you have on cracking ‘the conspiracy!’

Buggy gasped in mock horror as he selected a slice of pizza.

Go ahead and mock me but you’ll see that I’m right! Buggy vowed, I am onto something big. Bigger then the moon landing! Bigger than Area 51!

Other than cracking codes and punching holes into internet security, Buggy’s favorite past time was conspiracy theories. Why or how he got into them was unknown but he tackles them with uncharacteristically rare enthusiasm. I really didn’t mind listening to the rants or supposed evidence of the Illuminati because I found Buggy’s stories much more entertaining than the letters usually addressed to me.

But seriously, The hacker asked around uncouth chomps on an enormous slice of pizza, What brings you by? I know something is on your mind when you visit the Master-of-All!

Is that your new internet handle? I asked with a genuine smile, pulling out my trusty switchblade and beginning to clean the dirt from underneath my nails.

Yeah, my Master-of-the-Universe accounts were tagged by a Swedish security biz, Buggy shrugged, For the next few weeks I can’t even send an email from those accounts without it being flagged.

You don’t seem too upset, I said, surprised, Last time someone black balled your accounts you gave them that virus that changed their home page to porn sites for a month.

It was a wormhole not a virus, Corrected Buggy, then shrugged and tried to hide a smile, You win some, you lose some.

Buggy…

What?

C’mon, spill it!

What?!

I know you! I prompted, There’s gotta be a reason why you’re not going cyberspace Rambo on this security biz.

Well, Buggy began, his face flushing a bit red, presumably a blush, The chick that caught me did a really good job. I got sloppy.

Oh a chick, eh? I laughed stabbing the air in triumph, It all makes sense now! Nothin’ hotter than a nerdy girly right?

Shut up! He huffed defensively, then sighed as he continued, She’s really good. I think I’m gonna try a few other things against this security biz to see if she catches it.

Does that count as foreplay? I asked, twirling the knife and slipping it back into my pocket.

Shut up before I max out all of your credit cards by ordering a few thousand blowup dolls. Buggy warned, Delivered right to your door of course.

Knowing that if he had half a mind, he would make good on his threat, I gave up the little game.

Okay, there is a reason I came to see you, I admitted, It also involves a chick.

I don’t condone stalking, Buggy warned.

Nothing like that, idiot! I huffed, and then continued, She actually hired me as a Paranormal Investigator.

If my friend had any note worthy features, I’m sure the face he made was quite comical. Since he lacked any outstanding characteristics, Buggy squinted his eyes and stared at me with a hard frown, almost as if he wasn’t sure whether or not I was lying. I don’t blame him. Lying was as much apart of me as my hair or fingernails.

You were actually hired as a Paranormal Investigator? Buggy asked, then his nondescript eyes lit up as he grinned, That’s classic! Why in God’s name would you actually agree to that?! Why not lie and say you were going to Mexico to hunt a chupacarbra or something?!

I was wondering that myself. Shrugging, I continued on as casually as possible.

She paid me five hundred bucks cash. So I’m hoping to milk this for all it’s worth…but, just so I’m not taking advantage of anyone here…

Buggy snorted and I gave him a harsh look. He threw up his hands in defeat and then hauled himself up off the sorry sofa and moved over to his leather seat that rested comfortably in front of the computer monitors.

You wanna make sure she’s sane so the cops don’t find such a respectable character like you preying on the disabled? Buggy asked, hitting the nail on the head.

If it’s no trouble. I asked politely, Her name is Fiona Ambrose. Supposedly.

Of course not, He shot me a grin, It’s what I do best!

This time I was the one who gave a snort of laughter which he chose to ignore. After ceremoniously cracking his fingers, Buggy leaned forward and began to hammer away at one of the several keyboards that littered the desk. Seeing that he was having a good day (meaning he wasn’t going off on conspiracies or swearing me to secrecy over something or another), I walked over to the couch-like creation and carefully sat down.

I was just done wiggling me a niche in the paper-covered cushion when the sound of Buggy’s furious fingers pounding on the keyboard stopped. Assuming he had something, I stood back up and walked over.

Well, this is interesting. Buggy said with a click of his tongue.

A sinking feeling manifested itself in my gut.

Seems this isn’t some fake name or alias. Fiona Ambrose has a birth certificate, social security number and medical records that all check out. As far as I can tell at least. Buggy announced, meaning they were as authentic as you could get, She seems to working as a waitress at some really classy social joint full of big spenders…

Buggy scrolled down and a picture of Fiona appeared on screen. He whistled.

"But with those looks it’s no wonder she is working at the Maison de délicieux." Buggy whistled, lingering on her picture just a second too long to be considered appropriate, then caught himself and continued on, Never mind that. It’s her medical history that’s the most interesting.

At last, sweet freedom. I was moments away from getting rid of my first and hopefully, only legitimate client. Fiona was about to be announced insane, then I will refund what little remained of her money and go back to being a scoundrel.

Everyone wins.

Says here she is perfectly sane. The hacker finished, tapping the screen that held medical reports.

"Impossible! She hired me as a Paranormal Investigator!" I exclaimed, gripping the back of the leather chair, She wanted me to hunt down her dead sister for God sake!

Well according to this, she checked herself into the city hospital’s mental institution a month ago. She stayed there for about a week and was cleared by her shrink. The official diagnosis was fatigue and stress at work, Buggy continued, scrolling down the page, Maybe she had like a stress relapse or something. Or maybe she just wants attention?

She’s an eighteen year old girl with the body of a goddess and the face of an angel, I snapped back, enjoying the poetic flare I gave to Fiona, as if I were somehow doing her a small favor, She should have more attention than she could ever want.

First off, she’s twenty. Buggy corrected, And hey, personality disorders affect a wide variety of people.

How do you know? I dared to ask.

Well the illuminati categorize all people who are not completely absorbed by the system, Buggy replied as if stating a well known fact, Personality disorders affect people outside the system. For example did you know that schizophrenics-

No and I don’t wanna know. I snapped harshly but was in no mood to humor my friend, Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go hunt down some cult who is apparently running around with my client’s long dead sister.

As I stomped angrily away from Buggy and his cyberspace throne, he called out helpfully before he relapsed into complete paranoia.

Look on the bright side! He offered mildly as he finished a piece of pizza.

What’s that? I asked as I cracked open the door, thankful for the breeze that lessened the stale smells inside the basement apartment.

Well she’s sane so you can take her money. The hacker commented with a shrug, And she’s legal!

Thanks, Buggy. I replied, exiting his domain.

I hate to say it, but that last comment did cheer me up.

* * * * *

An excerpt from Dr. Spriggan’s best seller Morbid Memoirs and mega-pixels: Ghosts in the new Millennium.

We live in an age where technology has turned modern man into gods. Could you believe what people from civilizations like ancient Babylon would think of us? We are able to communicate across the world at a touch of a button. We are able to turn journeys that would take years on foot into a day’s travel.

Despite being so advanced, we still find ourselves fascinated with the unexplainable even though it goes against our new, scientific and logic oriented culture. Every year reports of alleged paranormal sightings pile up and there hundreds of pages of testimony from honest, god-fearing people claiming to have witnessed the paranormal made manifest.

Why?

Is it because we feel that we are indulging in some sort of childish activity that we were suppose to shed upon entering adulthood? Is the unearthly nothing but a vent for some impropriate activity of individuals who should know better? Or is it something deeper that compels us to seek out the paranormal? Is there something inside man that yearns to discover the truth of the supernatural?

I suppose it’s not unfeasible to assume that, as descendants of ancient man, we are conditioned on perhaps even the genetic level, to fear the unknown and conjure some reason for it. Why would a goat quit producing milk? Create a mythical creature such as the Broxa, blaming the unknown with the unknown.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps it’s because there is a small cornel of truth to even the most blasphemous lies. Maybe we enjoy seeking out the paranormal and the unexplainable because on some instinctual level, we know and hope that there might be a small cornel of truth to a world beyond imagining.

* * * * *

Upon learning that my client was as sane as they come, or at least, as sane as anyone who wanted to find their dead sister can be, I was at a loss. Having spent so many years gambling away what little money I could cheat people out of, you’d think I would have been a little smarter than putting my entire haul on one roll of the dice.

Nope.

My gamble had been that Fiona Ambrose was a raving lunatic. A shapely raving lunatic sure, but a lunatic none the less. Right about now I was wishing that I could go back to the office, pick up the phone and call her and tell my client to get back on her meds.

But I couldn’t. Well, I couldn’t call her up anyway. I was still heading back to my office though.

There was a bottle of whiskey in my desk that I had been saving for a special occasion, like when I won the lottery. I decided that having my first official paranormal investigation was just as special…only less satisfying, more confusing, and a whole lot more frustrating. So caught up in self pity and asking the powers at be why they had nothing better to do then pick on an honest conman like myself, I didn’t even bother hailing a cab. Instead, I walked the nine or so miles from Buggy’s apartment all the way back to my office and by the time I arrived the moon was nothing more than a sliver of sickle-shaped bone in a sea of inky blackness.

The office building where my illustrious business HQ resided was too small to hire a professional security guard outfit to watchdog the place after hours. Instead our security guards were Independent Contractors which basically means they answered an ad in the help wanted section. So we got stuck with a retired cop who needed the extra cash to pay for his medication and a young student who was too eager to jump at shadows.

As usual they both failed to do their job as I was greeted by two thugs the moment I stepped onto the parking lot. Apparently the fence and signs announcing the presence of security cameras weren’t enough to scare off these two imbeciles.

Hey Broker! Hissed a voice from the shadows, Good to see ya.

As I’ve admitted plenty of times, I am a coward. Cowards live longer! But in my defense, I am wise enough to know a genuine threat from street trash bravado. Since I didn’t see the flash of a knife or a glint of a gun as two skin-headed wannabes stepped into the poor illumination of the street lamps, I wasn’t too worried.

I don’t believe we’ve met. I countered frostily, keeping my illusion of cool.

The two skinheads were just like all the other trailer trash junkies who came to the big city for easier meth and speed to score. Each was equally ugly and dressed in filthy jeans and white tank top shirts. Their sunken in and frantic eyes accompanied by nervous yet feral grins told me they were new to this kinda thuggery.

I knew who these two idiots worked for but that didn’t make me feel any better. Out of habit I slipped my right hand into my pocket and brushed my fingertips against the handle of my switchblade. I preferred flight to fight but the knife in my pocket was reassuring. Like a constant reminder that I always had a backup plan when a situation turned sour.

I trust Zotkin is well? I asked with a fake smile on my lips.

Using their boss’s name gave the skinheads a momentary pause which I picked up as insecurity. I puffed out my chest and tried to look as confident as possible, donning a harsh glare and a reckless, daring smile. The two idiots actually took this as a show of self-assurance, which needless to say, undermined their own confidence.

You see, over the years of conning and stealing I’ve bumped into some really rough characters. One of the worse characters I’ve been unlucky enough to have run into is Josef Zotkin who had the nasty habit of inconveniencing me at every possible opportunity.

Crime in the city of my current residence (name withheld for fear of a mass migration of paranormal enthusiasts) was fairly low, but that didn’t mean that crime didn’t invite itself over. Zotkin was an opportunist who, after choosing the wrong side in a turf war between rival Russian syndicates, fled here to lick his wounds. Though slack jawed and dull eyed, Zotkin wasn’t necessarily thick witted. He was the perfect blend of ham-fisted brute and cunning criminal racketeer. More of a glorified gang leader than a true mobster type, Zotkin kept a few illicit businesses running smooth as clockwork, including drug smuggling and running numbers. He seemed to have a never ending supply of street trash rejects to swell his ranks and wielded his authority like a pimp.

How I got on Zotkin’s shit list was simple: I outsmarted him. Awhile back some barroom rumors had been floating around about how some new muscle in town had a dozen or so stolen cars waiting in a pier-side warehouse. Some slick chop-shop outfit from the east was supposed to swoop in, buy the cars, and leave town with the parts worth stripping. My intuition had told me this was more than just rumor, so I asked the right questions and found the right warehouse. I then tipped off the police, who promptly arrived and impounded all of the cars the day before the chop shop crew arrived.

Zotkin, the negotiator between the car thieves and chop-shop owner, was out of a pretty penny and earned enough death threats from both parties to fill a small book.

Being the charming and clever man I am, I happened to get the ear of the chop shop crew’s leader before he left town. I explained to him that I could use my contacts at the police department (or rather, those boys in blue I knew had a gambling addiction) to get them inside the impound lot and strip the cars.

Money exchanged hands, the stolen cars were rendered useless before they saw a police auction and I was a couple grand richer. Of course I inherited Zotkin’s wrath which was a major pain in the ass from time to time. He, and everyone with half a brain, suspected me of this underhanded double-cross but he was reluctant to take too drastic of action against me.

That was one of the perks of having so many criminal contacts; no one would try to kill me outright because they were afraid my death would cause more trouble than it was worth. That didn’t stop a bunch of idiot gangbangers from messing with me in order to please Zotkin. I’ve had cars stolen, my office and apartment broken into and several beatings which Zotkin’s crew took credit for. Though spineless, I wasn’t going to take all this crap without dishing out more damage to Zotkin’s wallet and reputation.

As my uncle used to say, If you get bit, you bite right back or else you’ll be eaten alive.

So that in a nutshell, is my relationship with Zotkin and his gang which apparently included these two skinheads.

You don’t need to be worryin’ about the boss. You should be more worried ‘fer yourself! Growled one of the skinheads advancing with all of the menace an inbred junkie could muster.

Well, about that… I began, before turning and running towards the building.

Now these two hicks were about ten years younger than me and thanks to their diet which undoubtedly consisted of canned corn, macaroni, and meth, they were a lot lighter than me. Outrunning them wasn’t an option and I knew it, but I’ve spent enough of my life in the wrong places to pick up a few dirty tricks.

Just like the one I was about to show these two idiots.

Like most dull-witted morons the two gave chase, figuring I was running for my life. So they pulled out all the stops and ran at full speed, one on either side of me. I kept up the ruse, pretending to flee until they were close enough to brush their fingers against my jacket. Then I abruptly stopped, planting my lead foot and crouching low. As I stopped, I threw my elbows out at either side so they were right at groin level.

The effect, as usual, was fantastic.

Each of my elbows slammed home, reducing what little manhood these two rejects had into packages of pain. They both collapsed, clutching at their wounded…ahem…pride in unison. Despite my cowardice, I wasn’t about to have two skinheads out for my blood and decided to take further action. Standing up, I walked over to the nearest thug who had just got to his knees. He was still hunched over which gave me the perfect opportunity to kick his face as if it were a football waiting to be punted.

So I did.

The skinhead’s nose shattered and his head snapped back savagely. He made a coughing and choking noise, telling me he had inhaled some of the blood that his broken nose spewed. For good measure, I kicked him in the balls again since his hands were now cradling his face.

One down and one to go.

The second thug was scrambling to get up but it was apparent he was still in a world of hurt. I wasn’t about to let him get to his feet so I rush forward and delivered another kick, targeting his ribs. He let out a wheezing groan and fell on one side which I capitalized on by delivering a hard stomp to his unprotected head.

After I was sure that the two hicks weren’t in any condition to continue chasing me, I bid them a good day. If that false bravado didn’t discourage them from hunting me down, Zotkin’s punishment for failure certainly would. Severe beatings were Zotkin’s way of separating the wannabe street trash from his grade A