The Bloat King Tales of Assorted Madness

By J.T. Savoy

A rich blend of 3 novelettes and 7 short stories, The Bloat King, explores the wicked ebon sphere between the natural and supernatural realms. Heroes descend into madness. Villains heroically battle against greater evils. Continuing the saga begun in series premier, Snippets of Midnight, these tales of the macabre force each combatant to engage in a deadly battle of wills against the rising tide of evil that threatens to engulf all. For a few victory ensures the survival of humanity. For others defeat concludes with the loss of their souls.
Unlock the gates of chaos and enter the realm of J.T. Savoy's The Bloat King Tales of Assorted Madness

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.T. Savoy
• Release date: Mar 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311334060

J.T. Savoy

I go by J. T. Savoy. The name itself, like my creativity, is derived from two central influences in my life. I am a dweller in two worlds, at home in none. It has made for interesting perspectives throughout the course of my lifetime. In essence, I am a Brooklyn bred scribe with roots in the rural South. I am the author of Snippets of Midnight and The Bloat King, tales of assorted madness.I grew up in the 70s and 80s in Brooklyn, NY. My geeky inclinations sprouted at a particularly young age which left me adrift with all the other nerds and outcasts. Huddled like field mice over superhero comics and fantasy TV shows, or delving deep into mythology and the lore of swords and sorcery. Dabbling here and there with one story after another until my synapses sparkled with creativity.I still recall reading Lovecraft, H.G. Wells, and P.K Dick styles of fiction well into the early morning hours, armed only with a flashlight and covers for a tent. My love leans toward almost any classic horror tale, pulpy scifi flicks and thrilling action films.Cultivating the best of my influences- the frenetic pace of action flicks, the visceral visuals of the pulp slasher genre, and the underlying panic of the classics- I enjoy crafting unique tales of the human spirit and condition set against the backdrop of terror or mayhem. The world itself is filled with its own brand of madcap characters and wild engagements. I invite quick, literary excursions into a universe full of macabre characters and decidedly wicked supernatural beings.I am upfront, open, and love to meet and speak with people from all walks of life. My sense of both story and life grows with each person I meet and each interaction I have. I welcome input, advice, and many thoughts from other creatives, and hope to exchange my own observations with those I meet as well.All best,JT

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The Bloat King

Tales of Assorted Madness

By J.T. Savoy

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Copyright 2014 J.T. Savoy

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, 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 recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, events and situations portrayed in this book are purely fictitious or used in fictitious circumstances. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental

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Cover Design by Aroldo Lodolini

Table of Contents

The Wrong House

Second Skin

The Nightmare Farm

Mermaid

The Island In The Mist

Handyman

Cobalt Blue

The Elevator Eater

The Bloat King

The Pillars of War

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The Wrong House

Jason Imbolic sat brooding by his fireplace drinking hobo’s blood from a fluted wineglass. As the warmth of the fireplace filled the room his eyes followed the dark shadows dancing along the walls. He was cross. Was this a sign, he wondered. My visions have not foretold any of this. What were the others trying to say?

He jabbed a meaty finger against his temple. The headache he felt coming on ceased worming its way through his skull and receded. Nothing felt right. It was not supposed to be this way.

So complicated.

He glanced down past the rolling mounds of fat that comprised his massive stomach to the thing at his feet. And what shall I make of this, he fumed. A thief? Coward? Anger burned in his pupils like sulfur, rising sharply toward violence. Then with a faint glitter in otherwise brutally evil eyes, he had his answer. Disciple.

Mac slowly cracked his eyes open. The throbbing pain in his jaw had finally coaxed him awake. The first things he saw as his vision cleared were two large brown loafers, both scuffed and worn with age. They were the biggest shoes he had ever seen in his life. Then the blood in his mouth slipped back down his throat and he started to choke. With a sharp cough he spat the fluid back into his cheeks and let the reddish phlegm dribble out of the side. His head was pounding. He was also lying on the ground with his hands bound behind him. A subtle shift of his wrists told him something was wrong. Cuffs? Duct tape? Rope? He wriggled his hands a bit to get a good feel. Yeah. Ok. I’ve definitely got some leather straps going on back there. That was when he knew for sure he was screwed.

Cops don’t use leather.

There was a stirring by his head as the body attached to the massive shoes rose from its cushioned throne. Imbolic towered over Mac and as he raised his arms wide bellowed with godlike authority. Welcome, Disciple. Welcome to the House of Ba`al.

Damn, thought Mac wearily. I knew this was the wrong house.

Earlier that day Mac had been sitting in his van one hundred yards away thinking exactly the same thing. Just don’t feel right today, he had told himself. No way on earth Phil’s going to tell me that’s the place. There was this niggling ache in his bones, like when it was going to rain even though the skies looked clear and the weathermen swore by the sun. Normally the cramping was a precursor to trouble. Mac trusted his bones. He had ignored them enough in the past to know they were more often right than wrong. Right then, he could not recall a time when they had ever felt worse.

Not that any of that meant he wasn’t going to do the job.

He would just have to be more careful.

Mac had slid out of his van and stood by the seat with the door ajar, catching a warm drift of breeze as it wandered by on its way up the hill. He pulled a wrinkled scrap of paper out of his back pocket.

464 Maiden Lane. He mumbled, reading the paper although he had already memorized the address. He had also cased the area twice, once during the day and the other in late evening. It was the most minimal of surveillance, he knew, but he had not been afforded the luxury of a longer stakeout. Still, he looked around again at the close crop of trees and the rampant weeds jutting through the dark soil on the roadside. He continued looking up the road as it rose on a gradient toward a crest not too far away. Then he turned and looked back down at the sweeping bend behind his van. 464 Maiden Lane. This time spoken without looking at the paper. No denying it. That was the place.

Wadding up the scrap into a ball, Mac tossed it over his shoulder back into the van. God, he wished he had a cigarette. A nice American Spirit would have done him justice right then.

Still, that was unprofessional.

Instead he leaned back and thought about his conversation with Phil, the reason he was there in the first place.

Mac had been smoking then because he was not working yet, just negotiating his next assignment. Out by Phil’s heated pool with the twins and their glistening, wet nipples sunbathing on the other side. Watching the soft golden mounds of perfectly tanned flesh mere steps away. The taste of cloves clung to his mouth as he exhaled and sent a whisper of bluish smoke drifting upward into the air. That cigarette, one of those herbal numbers Phil ordered from Indonesia, had tasted good.

Perfect.

That was what that day had been. One of those perfect little moments in time that he saw all too rarely. Then Phil had to go and ruin it.

Phil had sprung for lunch. That should have been Mac’s first clue that something was up. Phil never sprung for anything. It was not on his playbill. I should have felt it then. Should have been more wary taking this job. The only thing was, Phil was normally a standup guy. He had gotten Mac hooked into a lot of great scores and Mac had been made all the wealthier for it. Phil had a great rep in the business. Everyone wanted him to get deals for them. There was just something about what he wanted Mac to pull off that didn’t sit right. Something that smelled rotten. Mac had left his meal untouched. He settled for just nursing the cold lager in his hand and taking soft, lingering pulls on his cigarette.

C’mon, Mac, do me a solid on this one. It’s easy.

That should have been the second inkling. The words had slipped off of Phil’s serpentine tongue as if he could taste the very lies he was spouting. Phil never called a job easy until after it was done and he had collected on it. Then he would let his guys loaf around in some lavish hotel with some lavish hookers and smooth bourbon, laughing about what clever little monkeys they were. Before a job was done though, when things had to be planned and replanned and details had to be thought over and worked out, there were six million things that could go wrong. And any one of those six million things could jam his guys up. Everyone who worked that side of the fence knew that. You never went into one of Phil’s scores thinking it would be easy. No matter how much it looked like it would be.

But Mac had been in a good mood then, ogling the bodacious tatas bouncing around the pool. So he had glossed over Phil’s comment and just continued negotiating. No good, Phil. You know I don’t do nickel and dime jobs.

I can only say it so often, man. This ain’t nickel and dime. I know on the outside it might seem so, but there are some very heavy hitters backing this.

So let them do it. Mac replied, firing a blast of smoke through his nostrils. They’re heavy. It’s easy. What the hell do you need me for? Give it to someone else.

You tell me you’re willing to take a pass on this? This much money for five, maybe ten minutes work? How can you pass it up?

No, Phil. Mac was not convinced about anything Phil had told him so far. Why the hell would he put his neck on the line for a fistful of shit?

Phil had sat back, almost exasperated. The girls were giggling across from them. Resplendent waters lapped invitingly against the edge of the pool. Mac remembered taking a sip of his beer as he watched the golden bunnies sunning themselves.

Then he recalled Phil’s next tactic.

Please. Phil had said, his voice deepening to a grave, almost desperate tone.

That had gotten Mac’s attention. The conversation had just turned from a simple negotiation to serious in a heartbeat. Mac cast a side glance at his employer as he took another pull on his bottle. Phil looked across the pool, but he was not staring at the women. His mind was on something else entirely. I mean…well, I don’t know what I mean anymore. I got myself in a bit of a jam here, man. These German guys asked me to get this stupid thing for them almost two months ago. I said it was no problem and sent Carl out to do it.

Leaning back, Mac digested what Phil was saying. Carl was strictly low rent. An elbow through the window, undo the latch and go get what you came for, then split out the back kind of guy. A real class act.

When Carl…failed…I, um…I sent Vanessa.

Damn, now that’s a fine piece of ass, he pondered while one of the girls across from him switched positions. I should hang out with ‘Ness more often. He thought of her caramel skin, and tight, tiny body with waist long hair. He held her blue and green eyes in his mind, imagining how they could lock on to a man and instantly make them hers. The clove was giving Mac a nice buzz, sprinkled as it was with hashish. Smoke curled lazily around his face. Vanessa was of better caliber, for sure. She had good moves, almost like a panther. They had been on a few numbers before. Wonder why I never tapped that?

When she missed the opportunity I had no one else to turn to.

Alarms should have been screaming in Mac’s brain by then. Phil had a knack for putting the right talent together on the right job. Never too much. Never too little. And he was a master at pairing teams also. Had fashioned some real good scores in the past and his crews rarely failed to bring home the bacon. It was just a flair Phil had for assembling talent.

Two guys sent in separately on an easy job.

Both failed.

Granted, both of them combined were not as good as Mac, but to make the jump from Carl to Vanessa, then from Vanessa to him? The talent range between the three thieves could not have been wider. Not like Phil at all. That alone should have told him something. Only his faithful old bones had failed to kick in then. There had been no alert cramping a warning in his unique fashion telling him to back off. So Mac had just continued to smoke and ogle the fantastic bits of eye candy baking in the sun while listening to what Phil had to say.

I need you man. These German guys are getting a bit restless. I think…I think they’re serious.

An arched eyebrow was the only reflection of any concern on Mac’s part. How serious?

Phil had remained quiet as his eyes darted pensively across the sparkling water, giving Mac all the answers he needed.

They were deadly serious.

A few minutes passed as each silently reflected upon the conversation.

Then Phil reiterated. Please, man. As a favor to me.

Mac sighed and let the memory slip away. He was already on site and there was little sense complaining when he had a job going on. The lonely strip of road he stood on was hemmed in on either side by a dense copse of trees. No one could see him from the spot, which was precisely why he had selected it.

464 Maiden Lane. That was it. That was the place. He pushed away from the van. I just know that this is the wrong damn house.

Mac walked around to the back of his vehicle and opened the rear doors. As best as he could figure the area was lightly patrolled. He should not have any problems leaving the van for an hour. Plenty of time, he reasoned. If that really is the place. Fighting the urge to look over his shoulder at the inviting bend down the road Mac shrugged and leaned into the van. He unclipped a lengthy strip of elastic from around his toolbox. It was used to keep the weighty box from sliding all over the place while he drove. Setting the rope aside, Mac pulled the toolbox toward him and flicked open the twin hasps at the front. Inside lay a neat, compartmentalized tray filled with screws, nuts, little bolts, and various drill bits. Mac removed the tray and exposed a large storage section filled with hammers, a mallet, some screwdrivers and two power drills. He set the tray to one side and went back to the box.

On the walls of the toolbox were two clips, which he pinched and slid free to unlock the storage section. He worked the heavy tools free and set that section next to the tray. There, at the very bottom of the box lay the real tools of his trade. Each item was neatly stored in the precut, spongy base. There was a small leather pouch, which he removed first and slipped inside of the black carpenter’s pants he wore. He pulled out two small probes, one a safe finder and the other a wall density meter used to check for hidden compartments, and clipped each one to his belt. They hung like bulky pagers and seemed like a bit of overkill to Mac, but he liked to retain a professional air when he worked and those were his most basic tools. So he packed them on and reached back in for more goodies.

Small can of compressed air in a webbed sack, clipped to belt.

For circumventing those pesky alarm systems, there was the new Tripwire, available only on the blackest of markets. His fit nicely into one of the side pockets.

A high grade, multi-purpose utility tool with versatile applications went into the right front pocket.

Small MAG penlight. Tuck that onto the belt clip.

Lockpicking tool, good for most common locks, placed in other front pocket.

Everything a growing boy needs. Smiled Mac, satisfied. Well, almost everything.

Mac plucked a small rod from inside the box and turned to face the road. He listened for the sound of an approaching car, but heard nothing. With a deft flick of his wrist the rod sprang to life in his hand, snapping out into a weapon three times its original length. Mac got a good grip on the rod and felt its stiff weight in the meat of his palm. Nice. After a few seconds he pushed a small knob on the rod’s handle and collapsed it back into its smaller form. The rod disappeared up his sleeve to a fitted brace he wore on his forearm. He tested the device again from his sleeve and, pleased with the results, reset it and turned back to the toolbox. He replaced the heavy compartment then pushed it back a little from the door. Next he closed the van.

With his attention on the job at hand the throbbing in his body started to fade. Not a sign that everything was suddenly better, but a personal awareness that for the score he could not be inhibited in any way. Like a weird ESP, his pains were more psychosomatic in origin. Even though the aches came on unbeckoned and always felt real enough, it was little more than a practiced mental exercise to abolish the sensation. He simply willed himself not to ache.

Mac went back to the front of his van and climbed in. He placed the big, block-lettered OUT OF GAS/BE BACK SOON sign he had scrawled on some cardboard in the front window. No one had passed him since he had parked. He doubted anyone would pass before he returned.

He adjusted the black baseball cap he wore and climbed out again. After he closed the door he walked to the back and tucked his keys under the rear bumper. He paid extra care not to get any grime on him. Damn cops will use just about anything to stick you in the joint. Grinning, he forced himself to relax. Maybe this won’t be so bad, he thought. I’m probably overreacting. Getting old.

Standing on the isolated road with the sun hanging softly in the distance, Mac cast aside his doubts and focused on the job. Could be worse, he thought as he set off. Could be raining.

On the floor, bleeding, Mac hacked again as something shifted in his stomach. He felt like crap. The ogre was standing over him, staring, but Mac was trying to remember how to breathe properly and failed to notice. With his arms splayed wide, Imbolic continued to welcome his new apprentice.

"And in Ba`al’s hands danced his club, dripping death,

as it had struck Sea through the skull,

and dashed judgment between River’s eyes.

Sea was split to the ground;

Earth’s joints shook; His frame collapsed.

Ba`al gathered and drank Sea; Ba`al gathered and drank River.

Astarte shouted Ba`al’s name: ‘Hail, Ba`al the Conqueror!

Hail, Rider on the Clouds! For Sea is our captive,

River is our captive! Ours to pass judgment on

‘til the ends of Time."

The words came to Imbolic with practiced ease and flowed from his mouth like a frothy river racing to crush an unsuspecting worm. Mac only heard half of the poem as he gagged on his own spittle.

Imbolic finished his drink and tossed the glass into the fireplace where it broke apart with a soft tinkle. Then he knelt down and grabbed Mac by the chin. Mac felt the elephantine hand engulf the sides of his head gingerly, somehow knowing that he would be crushed like a pimple if he so much as looked at the freak funny. Imbolic leaned forward and sniffed Mac’s face. Shuddering, Mac squeezed his eyes shut fearing an impending bite.

Good. Said Imbolic, his dark pupils smiling as they surveyed their latest treasure. It is good that you should know fear. For respect suckles on the tit of the she-whore fear. And to suckle is to nurture, which is precisely where you should be. Nurturing the glory that surrounds you. Feeding on the opportunity to reclaim what was lost. He pressed his nose against Mac’s skin. Drew a long, hollow breath and closed his eyes, savoring it like wine. Ah, so unlike those others. I know Herr Freiz sent you to me. Through an underling like the others, I suspect. Only he did not know that ours would be a reunion of master and disciple. Ha! The sodden fool could not even tell you once served the mighty Ba`al and shall do so again.

Stars exploded across Mac’s eyes as Imbolic suddenly let go and his face smacked into the floor. The giant did not appear to notice as he rose, grunted, and stretched his limbs like a cat. He rubbed his temple again with a thick, sausage link finger. No, that damnable worm never could see past the frail trappings you mortals wear to the glory underneath. He only knows what we wish him to know. And in that way we shall always win.

Peeling his face off of the hardwood floor, Mac worked his mouth open and shut. White glittering fairies sprinkled down past his vision. Get it together, man. This freak is gonna kill you. C’mon. Snap to, boy. He let the drool spill from his lips as he focused his vision. The heavy curtains had been drawn tight and no light spilled through from the outside, so he couldn’t tell if it was day or night, but at least he was alive. And in the crackling light of the fire he saw that he was still in the living room. That was a good sign. All he needed was a little time to get free, then it would be a straight shot out of the…

PAY ATTENTION! roared the giant.

Mac felt a massive paw seize the back of his neck, hoisting him off the ground. Another hand enveloped his throat and cut off his air. He was slammed against a wooden brace so hard he nearly passed out. Then, Imbolic was in his face. Close. Imposing. His strength was a force of nature holding Mac off his feet. Strangling him even as Imbolic counseled with a fiery tongue and enraged eyes. When I speak you will pay attention! When I sleep you will pay attention. When I walk. When I eat. When I breathe you will pay attention. For the gift I have to give is beyond mortal understanding. And not to fully understand the gift is to be incomplete. And to be incomplete is to be useless.

Mac was choking, hung by the thick noose of flesh. His face was reddening under the crushing grip. If not for his athletic build, the madman’s rush might have broken his neck. As it was, despite how violently his legs kicked against the wooden beam, Mac was powerless to break free.

So…you hasten! And, dog, you hurry and let your legs race and rush to my feet. To the throne atop the Mountain. Listen mongrel, to that which I impart; to that divinity which you are not worthy, but that I share that you might spread the Word across the Sea, across the Land, across the Woods and indeed the very Air. And let all tremble at the whisper from my lips. Let all fear. Let all flee. One word I shall speak and one word you shall recite: Winter. It is the soul of the whispering stone.

Mac’s body began to tremble.

He heard Imbolic’s thick breathing. Felt white spittle on his face as the ogre raged.

His feet began to kick less and less. Head throbbing, ears pounding, Imbolic’s voice was lost in a haze of pain.

We converse from Heavens to Earth, from the Stars to Ocean Depths, these things not known to puny humans and not understood by the multitudes of the Earth.

Skin changing color. Dark purple now. Oxygen deprived blue.

The grip crushing his throat, his jaws. Eyelids fluttering.

He was drowning. Drowning in a sea of flesh.

At the last instant Imbolic stepped back and dropped Mac to his knees with a snort. Mac landed like a sack of potatoes, spilling over to his side with a dull thud even as he coughed and wheezed, struggling to find air for his lungs. Imbolic wiped his sweaty hands together and looked away. His eyes were flushed with anger and a dollop of froth clung to his bottom lip. Yes. He whispered, so low it was as if he was speaking to himself. Yes, come and I will reveal it.

As Imbolic walked over to the fireplace he left Mac wheezing on the ground in a crumpled heap. As blood soaked from his face, sights spilled into Mac’s brain. Things he had seen earlier. Scattered objects littering the freak’s house that used to walk, talk, and breathe. Human things. Now ornaments. From across the room he heard the splash of blood flowing from a bottle like wine into a fresh glass. It was a thick sound. Have to get the hell out of here, came a panicky observation. Won’t get me, Mac swore. Bastard ain’t gonna get me too.

Imbolic tilted his head back to quaff the bitter nectar, then stood by the warm hearth and licked a daub of red from the corner of his mouth. There was a soft plipping sound as sweat leaked from his hand and dripped onto the stone hearth. Firelight danced around his gigantic form as the heat coiled around him. He felt warm, dressed as he was in a rumpled suit that clung stiffly to his shoulders. The sleeves were too short for his build and there was a slight tear under the right armpit. He wanted to take the suit off. He was hungry and needed to take a shower. But there was still so much to do.

So much to do, and so little time, he thought as the shadows played tricks with his eyes.

When he spoke again it was a little more softly than before. The treble of his voice was almost compassionate. Forgive me, Disciple. That was improper of me. He took another swallow and turned to Mac. That damn Freiz’s magic curses me with headaches. Sometimes the pain triggers a violence within me. An unquenchable rage almost. He hopes such tactics will force me to reveal my true self. Force us into the open. Then he can come and do what he will to my temple while I am forced to deal with the paltry laws and ethics of your nation.

A sigh rustled from the big man’s lips. Such tactics. Such a desperate attempt to bring shame upon my house. Shame upon the Tel of this vicinity.

After a fit of coughing Mac finally began to breathe properly. The throbbing in his ears subsided, but his head was pounding now and the room seemed wobbly. He never noticed Imbolic step away from the fireplace and walk into the kitchen. He only heard that booming voice still echoing in his mind. Distant, like an afterthought. Us? What did the hell did he mean by us?

From the kitchen came the sound of cabinets opening. Of dishes being taken down and utensils being brought out.

Of dinner being prepared.

Race now with quickened feet to me! Spouted Imbolic again. Only this time although loud and still booming, his words were somehow calmer, more reflective. It almost sounded as if he were reciting a parable. With haste to my throne come kneel. To my words bend now thy ear and transcribe this tale upon stone and tree and lake and air; this legacy I leave with man for his multitude to sing, for his multitude to tell upon the Earth that all will know and sing my praise. Words that shake asunder the Heavens and Earth though they be but the whispers of my lips, that echo from the Deeps to the Stars. For I shall now set loose the lightning cross the sky to illuminate the mind and reveal my divine word, which shall be Winter. Kneel now before me at the foot of the Mountain, my Disciple, and I shall reveal all my Works in this Holy place and leave my heirs to inherit the Stars.

Mac lay on his side. Breathing came a little easier now though his throat was chaffed and raw. As the freak talked Mac found himself quietly mesmerized by the deep, almost soulful voice that spoke of things beyond his understanding.

Imbolic sat a bowl on the counter and looked at Mac staring up intently from the floor. With a knowing smile he shook his head. No, my child. I should not expect so much of you too quickly. I would sooner expect an infant to scale the highest peak such as believe a disciple could begin to fathom the majesty of the stone.

He loosened his tie and set it on the counter, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Scholars. Fah! What do they know of the glory of Ba`al? Their lot did not dig deep enough nor know where to extend their reach. So they do not know, as I do, all that was meant for this place.

At ease, Imbolic turned to the refrigerator. But that will change. He said with a grin. Yes, all of that will change. Mac momentarily shuddered as he recalled what lay inside the icebox and dreaded what the freak might be taking out.

It was salad. A colorful salad in a large, clear bowl. Imbolic sat it on the counter beside the small bowl he had taken out. He pulled back a clear wrap from the large one and picked up the black plastic tongs that lay inside. As he helped himself to some food he introduced himself. I am called Imbolic. Jason Imbolic. You are in my home. I welcome you as my new disciple.

Imbolic turned and placed the salad back into the refrigerator. Then he pulled out a second container, one with a dark liquid sloshing around in the bottom. Mac watched Imbolic as he opened the container and selected strips of reddish meat from inside, which he then proceeded to add to his salad. I must admit that when I first saw you I mistook you for one of the others. Only through Ba`al’s divine wisdom was I able to stay my hand until Freiz’s spell had run its course. Damnable wizard. Imbolic put the fork to one side and closed the container. He then placed it back inside the refrigerator and collected his human wine and small bowl. After making a brief detour to retrieve a utensil, he turned and walked into the living room.

Back in his easy chair, Imbolic placed his food on the small table beside him. Mac watched as he set his utensils aside, clasped his hands together and closed his eyes to pray. Mac found himself drawn to the sight. Whatever words were offered up were done so with a distinct intensity. Mac could see Imbolic’s brow furrow and his lips press firmly together.

The prayer was lengthy, if silent. Over a full two minutes lapsed before Imbolic’s eyes opened. We are truly blessed this evening. He said with a warm smile. A fine meal. A new disciple. He glanced down at Mac and winked. Tonight will be special indeed.

With that, the murderer leaned over to eat.

You know I’ve thought about just going to the guy’s house and buying the damn thing outright, save us all the fucking trouble. The sad little man laughed a bit to himself. But that’s not why we’re in this business, eh.

Mac had been recalling Phil’s words as he strolled down the hill toward the house. He was to the right of the street walking at an easy pace. It was quiet out. The sun had ducked behind a spread of clouds. A warm breeze was still in his face. Serenity gave Mac time to think. He already believed the whole setup stunk, but the money was too good to pass up.

Ok. Here’s the deal. Phil had said. He had led Mac inside of his home, a sprawling estate with all the knick-knacks and goodies a successful criminal enterprise warranted. The girls had stopped sunbathing and had trotted off to the sauna. The uneaten food was being cleared away. Mac was not allowed to smoke inside. No one was. So instead he sank his ass into a plush sofa and nursed a fresh beer while Phil gave him the lowdown on the score. My clients, these German guys, claim that there was this big excavation at a farm in Syria back around the late twenties. Apparently this farm sat on one of those old cities archeologists are always after. During the dig some kind of antique stone tablets were unearthed that put a bunch of those brainy types in a tizzy. They were written in some kind of lost or forgotten language, kind of like the ones Moses got. Changed nearly everything they had been thinking about this culture they were studying.

Phil spoke from the comfort of a loveseat across the room. He did not seem to be talking to Mac at all, rather just speaking aloud. Mac assumed it was because Phil’s mind was elsewhere, so for the time being he was content to just sit back and listen. The girls were gone but the beer was still cold. And besides, it was Sunday. What the hell did he ever do on a Sunday anyway?

So these tablets, or whatever, were dug up, hosed off, and brought to some museum somewhere for safekeeping. Our pals, the Germans, have had their fingers in it from the beginning. They had grabbed about seven of them. A couple pretty sacred ones, I hear. If you’re into all that stuff anyway. Now while this haul was supposed to be important and all, really changed the way the historians had put the past of this culture together, the really good stuff was still out there. Those brainy types were sorting that out even as they worked on translating the ones they had. I was told, however, that the translating sections of the pieces they had told German guys roughly where the other pieces should be.

So as not to offend Phil, Mac had tried to keep from yawning, slipping his mouth around the beer bottle and pretending to take a slug. He was interested in high priced goods like gold, bearer bonds, and diamonds. Things that were tricky to acquire but kept him in highballs and enough coke to be popular. What the hell was Phil doing bringing him eighty year old rocks for he could not imagine.

At any rate, he had already decided to take a pass, but it was polite to listen and pretend to care.

The way they tell it, a few years later these guys went out on their own and quietly bought the property from the old farmer who owned the place. Bought that one and like a dozen others in the area until they owned like most of the countryside. Phil leaned back in his chair. It had looked to Mac as if Phil was trying to figure out exactly what he had gotten himself into, since it was clear he hadn’t been paying him any attention. That being the case, the thief had wondered if Phil would even notice if he decided to slip out for a quick dip in one of the twins. Yeah, they bought all this shit so they could dig wherever the hell they wanted without interference. It took some time, but they eventually did find all the other pieces they were looking for.

Phil removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Mac set his beer aside and shifted in the sofa. He was wondering where all this was leading. Phil kept his head back and let his glasses dangle from his fingertips above his mouth. Then he laughed to himself. Only the stupid bastards went and lost them. Can you believe it? After all that time, money, and effort those morons went and had their shipment stolen right from under their noses. Gone. Poof! Like you and me would have done the job. I mean the way they tell it the whole score was beautiful. Stolen right out of a cargo hold at sea. At sea! And no one suspected a thing.

Even Mac had to admit that did sound pretty slick. But he was still not sold on the score. Stealing old rocks with a bunch of scribble on them offered no challenge. And no challenge meant no reward.

Phil put his glasses back on and sat up. He looked across at Mac to see a bored expression stapled to the thief’s features. Hey, I know this isn’t your normal gig, but I’ve got no one else. At your level, you should be able to waltz right through. All you have to do is find one of these stone tablets with that crazy writing on it. Find it, bring it back undamaged and walk away with a truckload of money. More than you’ve ever seen, man. My clients tell me that one of them ended up in some guy’s place up in the hills. One of those big old Tudor places. I’m guessing he must have it tucked away real good ‘cause Carl couldn’t get it and Vanessa was a bust also.

Mac thought the score was definitely more up Carl’s alley than his. Hell, even Vanessa should’ve been too high up the food chain to touch this one.

Maybe this thing isn’t even there, Phil. Mac met Phil’s gaze to let him know that he was not fresh out of the pen. He had years behind him and knew when something did not sound right. And what the hell do you want me to go digging around a house that’s been busted into twice already for anyway?

Phil sighed as a look of exasperation washed over him. He had not been getting anywhere with Mac and was just about near the end of his rope. Look man, just do this one for me. These guys have been all over the world looking for these stolen tablets since the fifties. That’s over fifty years, man. Fifty years global. They’ve recovered some, but say the most important ones are still out there. And they show up on my doorstep asking me to go fetch one for them because they heard I run the best crews.

So tell them your guys washed out. You can’t get what they want. Tell them that and walk. Why drag me into it?

Phil seemed to be having a hard time keeping his voice steady. I have to, man. I need to get these people their stuff. You got to do this job for me. I can’t even begin to tell you the world of shit I’ve crawled into. Whatever it takes, Mac. I mean whatever. I’ll… The words seemed to get caught in his throat, almost lost. Then he desperately blurted them out. I’ll even give you my share, plus twenty percent.

Dollar signs had practically engulfed Mac’s pupils as the numbers whizzed through his brain. You just got to do this, man. Do it for me as a favor. As a friend.

Mac could not hold back the grin that spread across his face. Damn, that’s a lot of cash.

On the road, Mac had to shake his head to clear the image of him negotiating with Phil. He was pissed at himself for taking the hook so quickly, but it would do him no good to ruminate anymore about it. He was already committed. The only thing left was for him to get in, do the job and get paid. And for that he needed to focus.

He carried on down the road, following turns as it bent to the left and then swept back to the right where he spied a house, one of those old Dutch Colonial numbers lying just around the bend. He casually checked it over. In case the whole thing was some kind of setup he was making sure to take his time, surveying everything with keen but subtle glances as he strolled along.

The house was ugly and in poor condition to boot. Badly in need of a fresh paintjob and some decent roofing. There were two old, busted sofas and a few rusting chairs arranged in a semicircle around a table on the front yard. It looked like the whole living room had been set out on the lawn. Nasty, rain-eaten things that at one time probably looked ok inside the house where they belonged, not stranded as they were on some worm-eaten yard. Around the front of the house itself was a small, weedy patch surrounded by large stones. It appeared that the area had been set aside for some kind of flower garden, but that the founder of that idea had never gotten beyond the initial stage.

As he passed by Mac could not help but think. Still, someone owns that house. Someone who worked and slaved in a field or at a desk or wherever owns that house, as shitty as it looks.

He paused for a second, caught up in a momentary daydream. They get up, mow the lawn and eat cereal or grits, or whatever it was those people ate. Maybe watch a little Leave it to Beaver, or some crap like it. A little quiet life on a little nowhere road. Boring as hell to someone of Mac’s lifestyle, but the excitement of sleeping with one eye open did tend to wear a little thin at times. Besides what did he own? Maybe a fistful of dollars at best. All the wealth he had accumulated over the years had evaporated in one fashion or another; used to gain access to trendy clubs and exotic drugs; poured into posh clothes and doped up harlots; all for a life lived constantly in the fast lane with no time for a pit stop.

Looking at the old house, Mac thought about what it would finally be like to be retired from the business. To be too old for the cat and mouse game. Maybe one day I’ll really get crimped up with arthritis. Or what if he got sloppy somehow and ended up hobbled by a stray shot to the leg, or even worse, paralyzed. Could he just get sick of it altogether one day? I mean, sure it’s still fun at thirty-seven, but what about when I hit forty-seven? What about fifty-seven? When would the adrenaline finally be flushed from his veins? Thinking about lawn mowers and easy chairs, Mac wondered if such a life was even possible for him?

On the front lawn an old dog lay on its side. Mac kept a peripheral eye on the dog as he moved on in case it started to rise. There was no fence separating them and if it attacked he might have to stun it with the baton. That might attract attention. What if there are people inside the house and they see me club the mutt? Would he have to abort? Mac wanted to spit. Doubt and self-reflection were unlike him, but so to was the panicky feeling that was suddenly creeping up his shoulders. The dog looked up from the lawn and barked. It did not sound friendly. Mac lowered his head as he continued to walk away. No one seemed to have seen him pass. However, that did not mean people were not at home. People that could be questioned later. Asked by cops if anyone had been by that day. A man maybe? Someone fitting his description.

Christ. It was enough to drive a guy mad. What the hell is wrong with me?

His brain was just starting to rev up when the old mutt put its head back on the ground and lay still. Apparently the exertion of the single bark was all the defense the old thing could muster. Still Mac could not clear his head of his earlier misgivings and had overreacted to a relatively minor occurrence. Thinking about the job had made him think of Phil and the strange score he put Mac onto, which made him jumpy. That worry was filling him with doubt, which made him jumpy. He had to get a grip, if for no other reason than he would need his wits to do the job and get out quickly. There was little time for distractions. Especially at the going rate these days, he joked.

The road continued downward on