A Midsummer Night's Hunt: Poppycock, #2

By Andrew Michael Schwarz

Ancient giants, invading pixies and cannibal killers make San Francisco their home. 

Sarah Montgomery has no idea how her life turned into one long installment of strange, but last year when she went toe-to-toe with Poppycock, the most infamous serial killer the world had ever known, and survived to tell about it, she decided to just “go with it.” 

Now, she finds herself investigating an outbreak of a rare human growth disorder and dodging bullets from The Big Game Hunter, an eight foot killer with a sniper rifle. 

Meanwhile, a renegade Satanic priest is developing a grizzly blood magic, designed to rekindle faded gods. And, all the while, the world is edging closer to the Showdown. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Michael Schwarz
• Release date: Apr 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513069142

Book preview

Under the Ring

Foster Greenbow sank his teeth into the heart of a mouse.

Blood dripped down his chin and tickled his throat. Tiny crimson rivers stained his starched cuffs and elaborate lapels.

He didn’t want the mess, the slobbering drool, but he had to eat the raw, still quivering heart. That was the order.

He took another bite, holding the organ in both hands, the flesh slippery and warm in his delicate fingers. He chewed and gagged.

Foster looked up and wished he hadn’t. A dozen of his comrades stood in the Banquet Hall, Under the Ring, home to his kind for nigh three thousand years, since before the Christ was born. Prince Yarrow had announced a feast, had called them all together, and once they’d arrived he’d told them of war. Thirteen squeaking mice had been carted in. At threat of death, Foster and his comrades had all snapped their creatures’ necks, and then reached into the squirming guts and ripped out the hearts.

Foster glimpsed his brothers and saw the agony on their pale faces as they carried out the directive.

Under morose expressions of disgust, all of them wore the blood of their beasts, dripping or smeared on their tunics.

Everyone except Prince Yarrow.

So, Foster sucked the blood from between fibrous strands. The filth dripped on his coat. Had he merely been gutting a beast at the hunt and feasting on its most powerful organ, he would have disrobed.

He’d heard of such rituals. They were hunting traditions, ceremonial rites to imbibe the spirit of the slain creature. He did not believe in them. They were savage.

But he was not hunting. And this was not dining.

For how long had Yarrow been planning this? Foster looked again at his fellows, all dressed in their finery; some had worn full regalia in anticipation of a formal feast. But here were not the lavish tables of Beltane piled high with the sweet and spicy foods of the season; no fig cakes here, only dead vermin.

And Yarrow—glaring, scheming Yarrow—had done this in the name of his father, King Brokk, and it hadn’t occurred to Foster until now that he had never heard it from the ailing king’s lips.

Only Yarrow’s.

When the magic hit, it came like a bee sting. This was not Native magic; this was not the glamour of trees or the sortilege of dreams.

This was death.

He fell to his knees, cried out and vomited a dark spray.

He writhed, clawing at his throat. Something was burning him, burning in him.

No! he screamed. He watched his beloved friends, his companions, twist and smolder.

He was crying, he could hear himself weeping, but his tears evaporated before they left his eyes.

They all smoked; their essence floating up like so much fog to the earthen roof of their barrow knoll, Under the Ring.

Are we dead now? And where is Prince Yarrow?

Foster was almost gone, fading into fog.

Liar! he screamed. Bastar—! His throat broke into a million bits.

And in the last fisheye view from somewhere above, he saw the source of the spell: the dark priest in his shimmering blue and silver robes, arms folded, eyes like white fire, standing in the shadows next to the traitorous Prince Yarrow.

And Yarrow’s jerkin was as clean and dry as the summer sun.

Foster rose up and out, and beside him: all the others. They were going…somewhere…far from the Ring, and he was changing into…something…without moral conscience.

Chapter One: The Hunter

Gerald Pappy Rutlinger didn’t need to hide behind a tree, didn’t need to sit in a hunter’s perch and didn’t need to wait by some wayward pine. He simply walked up and shot the hog’s skullcap off.

The boar twirled and flopped.

Rutlinger’s trusty Winchester Model 70 never failed him. It was, after all, the ancestral model of the original gun that had won the west; America’s favorite rifle. He never left home without it. He liked to load it with 500 grain, Super-X ammunition; the bullet size recommended for buffalo.

Rutlinger aimed and fired, deftly reloading the bolt between blasts. The hot shells popped out of the chamber like bread from a toaster, and four more boars got happy for Pappy. The one that took it in the eye flipped back as if from reverse gravity. The next took a hit in the shoulder and dropped. On the third, he aimed low and struck the heart. Instant kill. And the last leapt legs over tit as Rutlinger’s buffalo bullet found its way straight up the sow’s ass. That one somersaulted cartoon style for a good fifteen yards before it flattened.

His four Danes, who’d corralled the boars, howled and tail-wagged from a job well done.

Good boys! Rutlinger bawled into the air. Good fuckin’ boys!

Lucy, the female of the lot, curled around her master’s legs, waiting for the usual rough neck congratulations that always accompanied a kill.

You my special girl, eh? Pappy’s pretty girl.

The others came galloping up and Rutlinger praised each one in turn, calling them by name, then as Pappy’s boy. The four Danes stood nearly to his waist and made for an impressive troupe, but they pandered and submitted to their master as though he was nothing short of a god. And he was.

Their god.

Now we got game to clean, Rutlinger said of the five dead boars. And thank the good Lord, too. But who’s gonna clean ‘em? Dog tongue kissed his lips. Dog tongue kissed his tongue. And Rutlinger laughed out loud.

He had purchased his dogs in Australia from one of the few Dane breeders still in existence. Great Danes had been used in centuries past to hunt boar and other big game, but not so much nowadays, except for Lucy, Mowser, Bugsie and Pip.

Rutlinger hunted not only wild hog, but deer, coon, pheasant, and bear; and, depending on the continent, a lot more than that. There was no limit to what Rutlinger would hunt.

He liked using big bullets. He enjoyed the surety of the kill, but above all he enjoyed the raw, naked power. In his hands he held life and death, and nothing said death like a big mother fucking bullet. Some would accuse him of overkill but then, he never knew how to kill something less than dead.

The mewling had been present since the echoes of the gunshots had drifted away, but it wasn’t until now that Rutlinger had really heard it. Mewling, squealing, and crying: the orphaned young. He took Mowser by the scruff of his neck and spoke into the big dog’s muzzle.

And where do you suppose they are? Hmmm? Go find ‘em for Pappy, boy. Go fetch ‘em for Pappy.

Mowser bolted into the thicket and within seconds the dog was howling and carrying on as if he’d found gold.

Aye! Rutlinger howled back.

He set his rifle down against a tree and reached inside his coat. Slowly, lovingly, as if handling a newborn, he withdrew that black barreled beauty, that apple of his eye, his vintage Peacemaker, the Colt Single Action Army revolver. God made men, but Sam Colt made them equal. You bet your bottom whore he did. Rutlinger’s respect for this weapon was without parallel. His awe never ceased. Love was too shallow a word.

And he shall have dominion over the fish in the sea, the birds in the air and the beast in the field and all that creepeth in the earth, he said to the swine pups, making the sign of the cross over his chest.

And then, one by one, he pushed the tip of his long barrel against the pups and blew baseball sized holes through them. And on the last one—paralyzed with terror as it was—Rutlinger deftly placed the barrel tip of God’s lance against the pup’s snout and with a let’s get happy for Pappy blew its brains out.



The great thing—perhaps the greatest thing—about the Great Dane is its size. Rutlinger was fond of size. Standing at just over six feet and weighing in at two hundred and eighty pounds, he was a big man.

Big and lucky, he always told himself, because he’d come from a long line of big, unlucky men. His father had been a longshoreman, until he’d taken a boat hook through the brain. His uncle had been a damn good logger, until the chainsaw had gotten between his legs. And his grandfather, the largest of the lot at six feet, five inches and three hundred and six pounds, had simply died of cancer.

Rutlinger knew where his luck came from: a fast and abiding faith in Jesus Holy Christ.

He harnessed the dogs and lashed the boars by their cloven hoofs.

All set to carry the load, he said below his breath, patting Pip. All set to carry the load, like our Lord and Savior, we carry the load. His voice took on a low sing-songy lilt as he sang an altered version of his favorite hymn. Carry the load, carry the load. Just like Christ we carry the load. Gonna carry the load for Pappy.

They trampled through the wood, boars in tow. It would be a goodly walk back to the truck, about an hour. Rutlinger had that airy feeling in his chest that comes with the pride of accomplishment. Though no single boar constituted a prize kill, the sheer number made for a respectable hunt.

Oh, praise God, for the big game cometh.

He had not noticed the cloud that was moving in over him and his hunting dogs. Indeed, he wouldn’t have noticed much for the cloud was wispy, if not a trifle translucent. And it was not so low to the ground that one would see it and suppose it was ground fog.

Regardless, Rutlinger had not seen the fog drift down from the tree tops, had not noticed its bizarre pulsing and when he was breathing it in, didn’t particularly notice the chalky taste on his tongue. If he thought anything of it, it was perhaps an oh, it must gonna rain soon or Santa Ana winds carrying dust today.

He had been thinking of the hunt, the kills, the size of the holes driven through the living meat. Ah, he did like using big bullets.

He inhaled fog.

The dogs did too, though being dogs they didn’t know any better.

Oh, what a friend we have in J-e-s-u-s. All our sins and griefs to bear… Rutlinger was feeling good now, better than before, high maybe. Oh, when the saints, come marching in, how I want to be in that number…

He kept feeling better and better. Better than before. Better than he used to, better than—

He fell to his knees. He wasn’t feeling better anymore. No, sir, he was feeling very bad all of a sudden.

One of the dogs stumbled over to him. Bugsie. Big Bugsie.

How’s my boy, huh? How’s my—? But Bugsie didn’t wag his tail, didn’t slobber on Rutlinger’s face. Bugsie fell over on top of the dead boars.

Bugsie? Rutlinger’s voice squeaked like he’d just turned thirteen.

The other dogs had stopped. No, not stopped, fallen over. Toppled, just like he was about to do. His vision was fading in and out, his head was swimming.

Lucy? he called out, and again came that pubescent crack.

He was sweating, feeling chills. Chills?

No, now I’m hot as Hell.

He fell over and no dogs came to revive him. No Danes tromped over to protect their master. All Rutlinger could see was boar head and boar feet.

He opened his mouth to scream and puked. Wretched all over his chest, down his jacket. Vomit ran yellow, then green, then swirled with dark red streaks. It bubbled down his chin. I want to be in that number…

He was going to die. He was dying. But how? He had been feeling so good, praising the—

Did it even matter? The heart was giving out. Oh, but that wasn’t right, either. That didn’t seem to fit because the dogs were dying too. Something he’d eaten—drunk.

But what?

No, it was something they’d all…breathed.

His eyelids peeled back and a dark blob swam across his vision. It began to grow. It got bigger and bigger and bigger, and then everything went black. And Rutlinger didn’t know who—or what—he was anymore.

Chapter Two: The Show Must Go On

"Where is Marlin?"

What had begun as a simple question was turning into a full-on manhunt. Sarah Montgomery had simply needed to size the pig-headed chimera for a new suite, for Act Three, when she had innocently started the search. Opening night was a mere twenty-seven hours away and the tailor needed at least a day’s notice.

After the usual dressing rooms, backstage break rooms and smoking nooks, she’d inspected the more obscure hiding places, and when that had failed, Sarah had begun interrogating everyone in sight with a feverish Where is Marlin?

Miss Montgomery! Oh, Miss Montgomery!

Sarah stopped, heaved a sigh of protest and turned around.

Not now, Leaption, I’ve got—

Milady! said the portly man, jogging to catch up with her, sputtering for breath, ungainly under an elephant trunk-nose and platform style, pachyderm feet. Oh, thank God, I have finally caught you! The matter is most urgent as I am sure you can plainly see!

Sarah’s arms were feeling leaden under the piles of dresses, suit coats, slacks and other costume parts, which she had neglected to put down when her search and rescue mission had begun.

Leaption, have you seen Marlin? I’ve been looking all over for him and I can’t find him anywhere. I’m starting to get worried.

Leaption frowned. Mayhap, the old boar slept in after a night of women, wine and song?

I doubt it, well, the woman part anyway. I have to go find him.

Wait! Leaption caught her by the arm and then, as if realizing he’d committed some terrible transgression, pulled away. I’m sorry, please forgive me. He bowed.

Sarah rolled her eyes. If she didn’t at least pretend to be interested in the man’s problem he wasn’t going to let her get on with anything else.

Fine, she said. What’s the matter?

Well, the actor proclaimed, as you can see, I am quite out of costume!

Ah, Leaption, you are your costume.

"I am, my dear, in most dreadful need of tights!"

Sarah looked down and winced. The fat of his thighs bulged under the blue nylon of his pantyhose. She faked a smile.

Ah, then you see it! he roared. My tights are too tight! And somehow that was cause for a great trumpeting laugh from the man who had become the unlikely combination of an elephant, a lizard and a man.

I’ll find you a size up.

Two sizes. He held up his fingers. Two, milady.

Two sizes, Leaption. Okay, I got it. He was already stepping out of his tights and handing them over to Sarah. Just put them on top of the coats, she said. Away from my face. Right. Thank you. Now, really, I have to go!

I bid thee ado.

Whatever.

The chimera, or fey enhanced half-human hybrids, had a tradition of grandiloquent speech. They were under no enchantment to speak that way; they simply enjoyed the use of the old style when it suited them. Some, like Leaption, were more prone to indulging in it than others.

Sarah raced on, frantically scanning for Marlin among the other chimera, all of whom were bustling around in a blur of costumes and face powder, preparing for a last-minute-this and an oh-my-God-that.

Where is Marlin! she shouted at the top of her lungs, still refusing to drop the bus load of costume parts from her aching arms.

No one heard her. Or if they did, they didn’t let on.

Miss. A warm hand landed on her shoulder. Sarah whirled around to meet the blind-man’s stare of their security guard, Scout, the man bat.

Scout favored a mid-80’s Freddie Mercury or Village People fashion of black motorcycle leathers and dark sunglasses. Beside him, as always, was his exceptionally endowed owlish consort, Owlene, her big, saucy eyes taking in more scenery than high exposure camera film.

Puk is here, Scout said. Perhaps he knows where Marlin is.

Puk is here?

Indeed. Arrived only moments ago. In his stateroom.

Ughhh! I was just there. Okay, thanks Scout. Later.

She didn’t need to knock because the door was open. Puk was sitting with his legs crossed, staring at the wall. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers. He was, at the moment, the perfect expression of her father: his long gangly limbs, cheap suit and graying sideburns. Well, he was the perfect expression of who her father had been, when he’d been Samuel Montgomery and not Robin Goodfellow.

Everything okay? she asked.

He sighed and said, Oh, hello as if he hadn’t seen her until then.

Is anything wrong? You look sad.

Ah, he said, sad is a relative state. Degrees, Sarah, it’s all a matter of degrees.

Finally, because her arms couldn’t take it anymore, she dropped the pile of costumes.

So what degree are you?

Melancholy, he said.

Okay, so last I checked, melancholy was pretty sad. Want to tell me about it?

Well, he said, suddenly too eager, you see it goes like this—

Oh wait, before we go diving down the rabbit hole, have you seen Marlin?

Marlin? Marlin ran off.

What?

He shrugged. True.

Wait, ran off, ran off? As in ran away?

Sorry to say, but yes.

Again? She found a chair and slumped into it. Her fatigue had just hit her. It had been a week of three hours sleep a day, if she was lucky, and an otherwise around the clock schedule getting everything ready for opening night. It was the second season of A Midsummer Night’s Mare.

So there goes Act Three, I guess.

Puk stared at her judiciously. Bull can stand in. He understudied that part.

He did? I don’t remember that.

Yes, well, the beginning of last season.

Oh, right.

It had been six months since Sarah had left her position as VP of Marketing at the Sitron Group in downtown San Francisco. At first, after the miraculous cessation of the Poppycock slayings and during the slow fizzle of the media hype, Sarah had gone back to work at the well-known public relations firm. Well, she’d tried to anyway. It just hadn’t been the same. Not because the people she worked with had changed, but because Sarah herself had.

And one of the many changes in her life was the company she kept, which seemed to demand more and more of her time. After six grueling months of late nights and spreading herself too thin between the theater, work, Rob, and Project Zero, she had all but melted into a puddle. So, she had opted to quit her job and join the show full time.

And then she’d melted into a puddle.

Didn’t Scout tell you what I wanted to talk to you about? Puk asked.

Scout? He just told me you might know where Marlin was.

Oh, innocent man bat, he said. That’s his way of telling you I needed to see you. Anyway, the problem is vastly complicated and I doubt you have any time whatsoever to deal with it.

Oh, be quiet. I’m here, aren’t I?

Puk sat up. Okay.

After several months of working full time with Puk’s Playhouse Theater Company, Sarah had gotten used to his ways. They had performed the play all over the city, alongside such productions as Kinky Boots, Newsies and Phantom of the Opera. Once, when their show had gotten sandwiched between two weeks of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Sarah had had to continuously remind Puk that the show must go on no matter how depressed one gets.

Unlike other production companies, Puk’s Playhouse Theater Company did a minimal of touring, instead remaining home in The Golden Gate Theater. There were several reasons for this, not the least of which was that The Golden Gate Theater was unused for much of the year.

Puk continued. Look, my lovely daughter, it’s like this: I don’t want to hit the road. I don’t want to do anything else other than what we’re doing now; do you understand? I love the play, absolutely love it.

Hmmm, said Sarah. Why would you have to hit the road?

Well, you see, the popularity of what we’re doing here is tied so directly to my infamy, I don’t think the show will sustain us. And by ‘us’, of course, I mean me.

Then we should tour, start on the west coast and go east.

Oh, no, that’s not it either. Don’t you see, it’s all so very complicated. Oh, vastly so. If I am forced to tour, it won’t be with the play. No, it will be with something else entirely—much more dreadful and utterly bawdy. Prurient ribaldry.

Sarah shrugged. I guess I’m having trouble imagining what that might mean.

He leaned back and sighed. "We are experiencing a nice uptrend at the moment, aren’t we?