Immortal Fear 7.1

Image: Archer TV FX

Les and I had been in Honduras for six months. The pay was good and the duty was light.

He found this commission for us and negotiated everything down to the letter. I never really understood why he brought me along on the job but he said, “We were tadpoles together. We were frogmen together. What’s a few more months watching businessmen make sure they don’t get themselves killed?”

He had a point. By SEAL standards, this was a walk in the park. U.S.-Honduran relations had never really recovered after the Iran-Contra scandal in the late 1980s but that didn’t really effect America’s lust for global economic domination, but the current political climate in Honduras shaky to put it mildly. So we followed around business diplomats to make sure that everyone took them seriously.

“Isn’t that the President?” Les asked over the com.

I was standing at the door inside of La Infuega, an upscale restaurant inside of the capital city Tegucigalpa. Today I was basically a glorified bodyguard.

“You think I know what he looks like?” I replied.

“Castonette doesn’t brief us on anything,” he said. “It’s starting to piss me off.”

I made my way around the perimeter of the restaurant. Its large dining room overlooked the entire city from the eleven-foot tall windows covering the southern wall. It was a ritzy place. The table linins were expensive looking and I absently wondered what this place would look like during the lunch rush. At present it was vacant except for the wait staff, the cook, excuse me ‘chief,’ my client and his guest. I stopped before the windows, taking in the view.

“Jumpy Les?”

“It’s a high value target, Bishop. I’d rather not sit out here scratching my balls when political dissidence could be around any corner.”

“- it’s a simple exchange, Mr. President,” Roger Castonette was saying. He had the kind of charisma that took people far in business; an honest face and the gumption to follow through on the plans he made. The gray hair that streaked his temples seemed to lend the man more credibility as though pointing out a flaw to highlight his honesty. “You look the other way and my associates can assist you with your little media fiasco.”

“I am already a very rich man, Siñor Castonette. What makes you think I can’t buy my way out of this,” the President said in a thick South American accent.

“It’s him alright,” I said over the com.

Manuel Zelaya was shorter than I thought he would be. He wasn’t the worst guy as far as politicians were concerned but the political winds were blowing and he didn’t look like he had much of a chance.

“Let me be blunt, Mr. President,” Castonette began, “I have a lot at stake here. My clients are not exactly forgiving men and there are potential competitors everywhere.”

“I am a man of my people, Siñor Castonette. This is exactly the kind of operation that I want to keep out of my country.”

I walked to the kitchen as the server came out with their food and stopped him.

“Déjame hacer—”

“Silencio,” I interrupted, checking his badge. Guns let you do the talking. Everything checked out so I waved him on.

I wasn’t in charge of food tasting or anything. This was just a personnel issue. He gave them their entrées then glared at me on his way back to the kitchen.

“You ever get the feeling Castonette isn’t exactly running a moral organization?” I asked, continuing my patrol of the room.

“You think he would need to hire ex-Navy SEALs if what he was doing was moral?” Les said. “Ever hear of a guy making millions hob-nobbing outside the country just having lunches and meeting dignitaries?”

He was right. I didn’t really like the guy, but his checks always cleared. Six months out here in a third world country was rough. It wasn’t anything like Iraq or Afghanistan though. There you’re in a tent, you’re in a temporary barracks; here though, we lived in the lap of luxury while people lived in wooden shacks and dumped their sewage in their drinking water. On deployment you make accommodations: you see people living like that and you can relate, you’ve got the budget of the U.S. Military behind you so you also have indoor plumbing but here I slept on a pillow-top mattress and stood at the bow of yachts watching for pirates.

“Well there’s illegal then there’s immoral,” I said.

I walked back out to the windows, watching the landscape. It was a beautiful city, if you’re into that rustic, old world kind of thing. We were sitting high atop the metaphorical Mount Olympus, gods looking down upon mere mortals. I saw motion from down one of the side streets.

“We’ve got movement in the eastern sector.”

“I’m on it.”

I quickly walked back toward the table where the two men sat making small talk over their lunch. “Sir, we’ve got movement. I’d like to get you and the –”

Windows shattered as bullets crashed through them. I pushed both men down under the table before propping it up as a shield. “Shots fired, Les.” As soon as the gunfire stopped, I peered over the top with my rifle primed, ready to light someone up. There was no motion in the streets. The shock of sudden violence quieted the room. After a few agonizing, seconds three shots rang out from below.

“Tango down,” Les said.

I breathed a sigh of relief and helped Castonette up who then reached out a hand to help up President Zelaya. I went back over to check the windows. Les waved to me from an ally behind an abandoned commercial block.

“He gonna get his virgins, you think?” I asked.

Les scoffed. “This isn’t Iraq, Bishop.”

“You think Muslims are the only ones who like virgins?”

“What are they talking about up there?”

“They don’t pay me enough to listen.”

“You’re not even curious?”

“You know what they say about the cat.”

“So we have a deal then, Mr. President?” Castonette asked from behind me. I turned to watch the two check themselves over. The glass shattered two of the eastern facing windows; the manager pushed his way through the restaurant staff that huddled in the kitchen doorway in shock of the damage done to the dining room. He ran his fingers through his hair, his wide eyes staring down at the glass covering floor and tables, cursing under his breath.

“You haven’t given me much choice, Roger.” Zelaya replied.

Castonette’s wolfish smile was ear to ear. He reached out and shook Zelaya’s hand. “Excellent. I’ll make sure my associates are in place by this evening.” He removed a pen from his breast pocket and handed it to Zelaya to sign a document he placed at the end of the table.

Castonette waved me over after dismissing the President of Honduras. “You two do excellent work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The President will be staying with us outside the city for the remainder of our stay.”

“Yes sir.”

He smiled and walked toward the kitchen, speaking with the staff. He’d obviously made progress in his business dealings because the weight of the world seemed to have slipped from his shoulders.

“Whatever it is,” I said to Les, “I don’t like it.”

Immortal Fear 6.2

I looked up at the incoming clouds and realized that the umbrella I was sitting under was wiping wildly above me in the wind and the dark gray skies were drizzling rain down. I packed up my computer and walked inside.

The place had seemingly become a ghost town. I had always assumed hipsters didn’t like the rain, something about ruining their greasy hair-dos, and it looked like the majority of them had elected to head home: their blog forced to wait another day for an update that all their friends would ignore.

I sat down inside and began combing through local news and police bulletins trying to see if there was any information about Philips or my accident in the last couple of days. Luckily in a city this size there isn’t a lot of time for local authorities to talk about menial cases. I did find a report of a solo motorcycle collision reported the night of my accident. It looked like no one had seen the mysterious cars who caused it, only a mangled body. My bike was impounded somewhere in the north city; it would be more trouble than not to get it out. The plates were falsified, as was the registration. They probably hadn’t gotten that far looking into it with how mangled it had been. Even if they had, they would only have found Adam Smith. One of five thousand Adam Smiths who happen to have missing social security records.

It was time to get real. My conversation with Franchesca hadn’t gotten me anywhere and going through my normal channels was bringing me up empty handed. I packed up my computer and walked out into the rain.

It was only a short block away. A place I called home away from base. Andy’s was a bar and grill on the road in Coronado right in the middle of the town, a mile away from base. It was one of a couple SEAL hang outs and after BUDs it had become a place to go where locals would buy you drinks to hear you spout bull shit about what you did as a SEAL. I remember making all kinds of shit up. I’d told a kid once that they made us raise kittens at the start, only to savagely murder them before our graduation. Just so the instructors knew you would do anything for the Team. Mostly, though, we would get drunk and get into fights.

It had been nearly ten years since I had been back to Andy’s. Some things never change. I knew I could still get some intel from these guys. I also knew it would be nice to be in a familiar place for a change.

I approached the front and I was struck by nostalgia. So many drunken nights. It was a badge of honor to show up to morning P.T. hung over. I’m not sure why, but we all felt like a hangover somehow gave you super running endurance. I remember running at the front of the pack, sick as a dog but not even losing my breath. We had gotten into plenty of drunken brawls here, but always taken it outside out of respect for the establishment. The old chalkboard marquee out front had their old Slamburger listed and suddenly hit me: I was starving.

I walked into the cramped little bar. It was definitely a military establishment. The SEAL flag hung on the railings of the banister at the back. It was still early in the afternoon so it was relatively quiet. The short bar was directly to the left and a young Polynesian guy in his mid-twenties was drying a mug behind it. Tables occupied the back of the room near the enterence to the kitchen where a few patrons quietly sat and ate. With the rain, it would likely be a quiet night aside from the locals who braved the weather. I walked down to the end of the bar and took a seat at the bar facing the door.

“What can I get you?” the bartender said.

I took a minute, examining the taps behind the bar as though I didn’t know exactly what I wanted. “Arrogant Bastard.”

He smiled as if expecting that and turned to pour my drink. The TVs were all on Sports Center still going on about yesterday’s happenings. If the Padres were in town, they’d probably be rained out, I thought absently, somehow reverting to a previous life. The kid returned with my beer, setting it on a coaster in front of me.

It was a beautiful sight and a smell to match. There’s something about a freshly poured beer, the first one in a long time. It smelled earthy. I took a long pull from it before setting it down with a sigh of contentment. The bartender was looking at me, approvingly. “Ready for your burger?”

I looked at him questioningly

“I don’t do names very well, but faces I never forget. It’s been about ten years since I’ve seen you around,” he said.

“You must be mistaken, kid.” I said. “Ten years ago, you would have been in grade school.”

He scoffed, shrugging it off. “I’ve been here since I was fourteen, busing tables and what not,” he said. “Burger. Dry. No tomato. Extra pickles.”

I eyed him critically from behind my beer glass before nodding.

He smiled and turned around, entering the order into the register.

“You’re a vet.” He said as he was typing. It wasn’t a question.

“I think you’ve got me confused for someone else.”

“You have to realize that’s our thing.” He said looking about, his arms directing me to the rest of the room. “You guys are family. We take care of family.”

I grunted non-committally. The last thing I needed was this guy to drop his bartender psychiatry on me. I gulped down the rest of my beer and pushed it back toward the bar lip. The kid took it and refilled it without so much as a word. I nodded my thanks to him.

A minute later and a guy came and sat the most blessed item in the world in front of me: a Slamburger and fries. My mouth watered. My eyes welled. My stomach pined. I grabbed the ketchup from a basket at the corner of the bar and began to poor it over everything. The first bite was amazing.

This was my comfort food, mind you. I’m not comparing this to a gourmet porter house – it was better. It was the first thing I’d eaten off base after Hell Week, it seemed fitting somehow that it was my first meal after being dead for three days.

“Just the way you remember it?” he asked.

I took another drink of my beer to wash the food from my mouth. “If you take care of family, then maybe you can help me out. I’m looking for someone. Goes by Philips.”

“Like I said, I’m not so good with names. Describe him?”

“Five-ten. Athletic. Graying hair. Shoots the golf course here once a week or so.” I said.

“You’d have to be more specific.”

I thought for a minute. I could pick Philips out of a crowd, but I hadn’t been up close and personal with him. “Cold blue eyes. Statuesque. Walks around like he owns everything.”

“Have you checked the Hotel del? Guys usually hang out at the bar there if they don’t stick to the club house. There’s also the marina.”

“Not a bad place to start,” I said. I tossed some money down on the bar and stood up.

“You seem like a guy with a lot on your shoulders,” he said. “The Teams can chew guys up. Everybody needs somebody.”

“Thanks for the advice, kid. I feel much better. I think I’ll call my shrink and cancel for this week.” I said turning back to the door.

The door closed behind a man who had just entered. The cold, gray light shining in from behind him made his features hard to see but as the door swung closed and he pulled off his sunglasses I knew I recognized him. Tan. Sandy blond hair. His cleft-chin and set jaw were clenched around a near ever present toothpick.

“I always said if I ever saw you again, I’d kill you,” he said. Seeing him, I was too stunned to do anything. He swung at me with a right hook. He connected.

I was out.

Immortal Fear 6.1

Image: http://www.ecoronado.com/

      I grabbed some cloths, some cash and a driver’s license with the name 'Mike Hilliar' on it. It wasn't fancy alias, he was a car sales men who grew up in Utah and made his way out west to strike it rich when he settled down with a woman. She didn't bear him any children which turned out to be a blessing because she was hit by a bus after he found her sleeping with his manager.

I still like to have a back story in case someone decides to get overly friendly, it keeps me from killing people who get too chatty while I'm on the streets hunting for information. I grabbed the .357 and tucked it away into a backpack with my laptop.

San Diego is an odd place. It's a college town. It's a military town. It's a port city. There's all kinds of shit that goes on here – so you can pretty much find whatever it is you're looking for. The thing is, you've got to know where to find it because as much of a clique town as it is, it's also a tourist trap.

Tourists are good in their own right. Good for banging. Good for swindling. Good for catching people off guard. But knowing what's going down in a city, they're the worst.

I stood on the street and waited for the cab I'd called. The weight of the world sometimes just falls on your back. Grimm needed me to get him a packaged for which I had no information, on threat of eternal pain and suffering. That bitch Sigyn had somehow managed to brand me. It must have acted as some kind of weird leash on me. I would have to find her a way out of Neflheim, again on threat of eternal pain and suffering. Some do-gooder priest was holding on to my gun as some form of salvation collateral, and to top it off I had a job to do. Philips had somehow figured out I had a bullet pointed at his brain and had turned the tables on me, nearly getting me killed.

I don't do well with that. I had more than one reason to want him dead now.

I got into the back seat of the cab when it pulled up and told him an address out on Coronado Island. I may be working under a blue collar alias but I knew the military. Buy the Teams guys a couple of beers and there would be stories all night long, so long as you didn't stop the booze from flowing or somehow make an off handed comment about a chick who happened to be a sister. Hey, shit happens. Live and learn.

In fifteen minutes we were crossing over the bridge. It had been nearly fifteen years since I'd been here as a tadpole. BUDs seemed like an eternity ago but this place had been my home for almost a year and a rush of nostalgia washed over me as I saw the flowers on either side of the road entering the island.

It was an awkward feeling when I was first sent out here. I was a baby face kid with no experience. I'd actually gotten into worse shape after boot camp from having trained back home for the SEAL physical. I was sharp, fierce, and scared out of my mind. I'd made a lot of friends back then, until they washed out. Washing out was shameful. We called them X Division; instead of getting the eagle and the trident, they got a turkey and a mop. It wasn’t just shameful to the person who rung the bell, but to all the rest of the guys in the team who relied on them. You couldn't even make eye contact with the guys afterwards. Maybe it was a machismo thing, but X Division turkeys always had a chip on their shoulder, that and I always knew I was better than them. So I guess I only made a couple friends in BUDs.

Well actually, just one.

The cab pulled up to the coffee shop and I exited taking a breath of the fresh ocean air. It was cloudy out, the marine layer was thick today and didn’t look like it would burn off any time soon. It looked like rain was a distinct possibility, but it was a perfect seventy-two degrees in San Diego. I guess at least I had that going for me.

The coffee shop was a pretty standard chain. By that I mean, it was surrounded by hipsters and wanna-be authors. It was a nauseating sea of horn-rimmed glasses and MacBooks. After grabbed my coffee and took it outside. None of the hipsters seemed willing to brave the wind or impending rain. Privacy was always a blessing.

The great thing about coffee shops isn’t the eye candy or the mediocre, over-priced coffee. It’s the open WiFi network. Whenever illegal things happen, it’s important to make sure your name isn’t attached to it in any way. Using open networks and the host of other tools at my disposal kept me anonymous. Of course the FEDs could show up and search everyone there but I would be long gone by then.

So this is where it gets complicated.

The internet isn’t a thing. I mean, it isn’t one thing. It’s millions of things. Computers actually, linking together sending requests and receiving data. So if you understand what you’re doing, you can look at basically anyone’s business if they’re connected to the internet. Firewalls and encryptions make things more difficult but unless someone was actively trying to stop me, I basically did whatever I wanted.

Now, like most people, Philips didn’t have everything I needed to know to find him stored in one place. I had set aside some points of interest that led me to my first attempt on his life, first among them being his bank account. I had a program watching his IP address to see what he was accessing, the problem was a successful business owner used multiple devices from multiple locations so it was hard to be sure. I had programs set up on his devices to watch for data he was requesting, and from that I could figure out what he was up to. As I pulled up my interface though, all my ties had been severed. Not everything can be that easy.

Damn.

One was still intact, coming from his home. Recent activity showed a lot of social media garbage. Franchesca. One thing was interesting however: divorce lawyer.

That struck me as odd. You don’t pay to have a man killed then have that escalate to divorce. Its pick one or the other. The activity was on going which meant she was still at her computer.

I did some quick coding, embedding a script enabling her webcam then set up a virtual desk top, allowing me to see what she was doing visually and remotely control her computer. Her face popped up in my screen. She was laying on her bed, her dark brown hair pulled up in a high pony-tail. Even though she wore no makeup and what I can only assume were yoga pants, she was still hot.

Stop what you’re doing. I wrote, I can see you’ve called an attorney, you think he can’t?

Her eyes widened as she read the small black text box that popped onto her screen. Her brow furled down in concern.

Who is this? What are you talking about? She returned.

No thanks, not taking questions today. Only answers. Where’s your husband?

She got up and walked out of my line of sight then. I can only assume it was to check and make sure she was alone. She walked back on screen and I saw they were indeed yoga pants. Hot.

She crossed her legs pulling the computer to her lap, giving me a much better view of her cleavage than her face. What do you want with him?

Just trying to finish my job.

I watched her breasts rise and fall as she took a deep breath. She really did look good for an older chick. He’s been gone for days. I don’t know where he went. His assistant won’t tell me anything. Why is this taking so long?

Admittedly this job hadn’t gone the way I’d planned it but I’m always surprised at how uppity people get when you fail to kill someone on their projected time table when they’ve given you a lot of money. It speaks volumes to the morals of man. Cash is king.

There was an incident. I may need a plastic surgeon. Maybe you could recommend yours?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? She wrote.

Your tits look real. It’s like you’re twenty.

She covered herself at that, looking about the room wildly.

Relax. I wrote, This job just got a lot more complicated. I’m going to need a bigger up front deposit.

You don’t do the job then you ask for more money? Is this how it’s going to work? I’m thinking about cutting my losses and going with the blood-sucking lawyer.

Not a great idea, I wrote. He’s onto you. He nearly killed me three nights ago. You think he hasn’t put it together that you hired someone to do it?

She clenched her teeth in frustration and typed in what I can only describe as a fury: Well then I’d better turn you into the police. Then I’ll be a hero.

That would put you in a difficult situation. You hired a killer to handle your marital problems. You think I won’t put a bullet in you to protect myself?

That rattled her. I watched her struggle with the situation. I took it as a point of pride not asking for more money than I quoted but this had gotten out of control and I was ill prepared for the shit storm that was about to follow. Think of it this way, you’re spending money to give him a fancy execution. People love it when you spend money on them.

I can’t, I don’t have access to the accounts right now. He froze them or something.

Well you’d better dip into your charity fund then, I don’t leave enemies I’ve made around to haunt me later on. Three-thousand. Cash. Bring it to Saint Ann Cathedral. Ten A.M. tomorrow. With that I severed the connection, overwriting the section of her hard drive that had housed our conversation. She would be looking at an emoji of a smiley face with a bullet in his head in place of our chat window. It was harmless and would go away once she shut her computer off but it always seemed to get my message across.

Personal thoughts; the death of an icon.

In light of the recent death of Robin Williams I felt a great need to address the burden that anyone who relies on their creativity as their meal ticket must bare. If you’re reading this, I’m sure Mr. Williams’s art affected your life in some way. I know he affected mine.

            Growing up, I had two major role models other than my parents: Bill Cosby and Robin Williams. My mother will tell you, aside from wanting to be Indiana Jones, growing up I wanted to be a comedian. As a family, we took long road trips. I would use that time to test the comedic waters with my parents, who have always been my captive audience. I would make a joke then turn to my mom, “Was that funny?” and for a long time the answer was no. We listened to old Bill Cosby records and one day it dawned on me. He just told stories and they were funny! He never laughed at his own jokes, something I always did, and the people did the laughing for him. Slowly, I started to get laughs from my mom and ever since then she has told everyone that she gave birth to her entertainment system.

            The first time I heard Mr. Williams’s comedy was through my Uncle Bill. He was completely different from Cosby, but all together the same. I devoured his movies; first Disney’s Aladdin then Mrs.Doubtfire. I couldn’t wait for Hook’s release. Finally I was allowed to watch his HBO special (I think it was just on at some point and I didn’t bother to ask if it was okay that I was watching it). Granted I didn’t get most of the jokes but I didn’t have to – the man was a riot to watch regardless of what he said.

            My parents and I used to watch Mork and Mindy on Nick at Night. The man was so weird, but he was the in demand outcast and I related. Weird was normal and the normal world was weird.

            In grade school I learned to stifle my funny face around my peers. There was a lot of criticism that, as a child, I didn’t know how to deal with. It wasn’t until High School I felt I could be myself. My friends didn’t really understand my humor then either, but they loved me by then, so they were stuck with the weird kid who made self-deprecating jokes.

            Through it all I continued to tell stories to my family, modeling them after my comedic mentors. I gravitated towards music and some of the finer points of form made their way into my stories. Finding that after I had my audience hooked, I needed to take them to a new place with a climactic arrival then set them free. A particular story I remember telling, one family vacation, about a certain Life Skills teacher is still quoted to this day.

            Being a performer is hard. It’s easily, simultaneously, the most painful/joyous experience of your life being on stage. To bare your soul at the risk of utter rejection. It’s why so many of us turn to drugs and alcohol. I know for me, my alcohol addiction stemmed from needing a way to make other people’s feelings not matter to me. Drunk, I didn’t need anyone’s permission to be myself. Mr. Williams’s addiction may have been different from mine but we both relied on a substance to make us feel better about our lives. In an odd way, having a substance addiction makes me feel like I shared something with him. That makes me feel closer to humanity. It also makes his loss more personal.

            I loved the Crazy Ones, the show Mr. Williams most recently starred in. The chemistry among the cast was great and Robin was the star they all revolved around. His role showed vulnerability that I imagine was very real and personal. A wonderfully successful, brilliant mind that is simultaneously panicked and driven by his ever present self-doubt. I don’t know if the show’s cancellation added to his mental state but I assume it did.

            It’s a miracle anything gets green lit today. Studios spend so much money financing projects, they want to make sure they’ll not only get their money back but get a return on their investment as well. Let’s face it, not every show is as successful as Friends. The high of starting a show like The Crazy Ones and the crash of its cancellation after one season is something I don’t know if I could have bared but this is an everyday occurrence in Hollywood. Television and cinema are the free market at work and network ratings don’t account for good taste.

            So what’s the point? No matter how successful someone is, no matter how many movies they’ve stared in, no matter how many lives they’ve touched we’re all still human. The older I get, the more I realize that self-doubt is a part of everybody’s daily life. The first two movies I wrote with my partner David Stewart were comedies. We wrote a sitcom together. My story, Immortal Fear, has comedy elements entwined into it. I’m still that little boy who looks up at his mom and asks if he’s funny. Every day I question it and I’m constantly reminded of the old showbiz saying, “You’re only as good as your last gig.” I don’t know the answer. If your goal is to be funny, your only source of value is external. Does any of this make me like Robin Williams? I don’t know that either. If we’re to be happy at all though, we have to find value of our selves within ourselves. Then no one can take it away, maybe that’s a part of growing up.

            To me, Robin will always be Peter Pan. I pray that one day someone can find all the lost boys in Nevernever Land.

R.I.P. Robin Williams.

O Captain, My Captain.

Image: http://tinyurl.com/o2m66mo

Immortal Fear 5.4

Image: Valhalla Rising

< < Back to Immortal Fear 5.3

I gasped for breath, clutching my abdomen. I summoned as much strength into my arm as I could, raising my gun level with Grimm’s chest and firing as steadily as I could. The hammer clicked impotently into the cylinder and my hope of survival rapidly diminished.

“Or maybe they were your bullets,” he mused, opening his right palm spilling unspent rounds onto the linoleum floor. “Sometimes I forget. Not often, mind you. And certainly not this time.” He gingerly walked to my side, his footfalls the only sound I could hear over the rush of my heart beat, and knelt down beside me. He looked down menacingly, his one eye penetrating my soul. Then, he smiled and flicked me in the forehead. “Don’t be so serious, Silas. Hah! I like that. Serious Silas.”

This son-of-a-bitch had the nerve to—

He grabbed my hand, pulling it away from the bullet wound and I saw… Nothing.

There was blood all over my hand, but my body was intact. No holes. No scars. I ached fiercely from my gut at the throb of my broken bones echoed that pain.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Weren’t you paying attention? Nothing is as it seems. No matter how you look for the puzzle it stands right before you: completely invisible.”

“Who are you?” I shouted.

“I told you, I’m Grimm. Grimm today, Grimm tomorrow, Grimm till the end of time! I’m always Grimm, though sometimes I’m spiteful and cunning and ruthless too,” he said.

I lay there rubbing my forehead. “What is the question I need to ask for you to give me a straight answer?”

“Ah straight to the point, Serious Silas. I can appreciate that.” He stood up and offered me a hand. I gave him a straight look.

“You expect me to just stand up?”

“I do.”

“With your help?”

He nodded.

“With a broken leg?”

He scoffed. “What a silly barrier to hold you back.” He clapped several times in an odd syncopated rhythm. As he finished, cool air swept down onto my arm and leg. I looked to see that both casts had been split neatly down the center. I gritted my teeth and gingerly extended my leg, then my arm. I felt like I could sleep for an entire year and my body cried out with the punishment it had been through but it looked as if my broken bones were mended. He offered his hand to me again.

I took it, pulling myself upright before retrieving my towel and wrapping it around my waist. He took a seat on the chair, leaning it back on two legs, hands clasped behind his head stretching his legs out on the corner of the bed; leaving me with no place to sit but the floor. I elected to stand – a man’s gotta posture to his surroundings.

“There are things at work that require someone of your, shall we say… talents,” he began. “You see I —”

“How am I not dead?” I burst in. “This is at least the second time, in as many days that I can remember, that I should have died. Yet here I stand without as much as a fucking scratch. You appearing outta nowhere. Demon dogs and sadistic bitches carving their name into my ass. What the fuck is going on with me?”

“My, my, my you have been busy since last we spoke haven’t you?” he said with the same relaxed posture. “It’s not surprising you haven’t puzzled it out yet, but I hate spelling it out for people.” He stared back at me as if waiting.

“Humor me.”

“You can’t die!” he said, as if wanting nothing more than to spell it out for me. “Imagine, a mortal who cannot die. It’s so novel, isn’t it? Take a moment to breathe it in. You must truly feel blessed,” he said.

I looked down at him doubtfully. He returned it with expectance.

“I can’t die.”

“Technically.”

“And you did this?”

“I may have had a hand in it,” he said, dismissively. “Though that brand on your neck may have short circuited the initial intent.”

I quickly clapped my hand over the scar at my neck and turned back toward the sink, feeling self-conscious and concerned about my exchange with Sigyn. After a moment a cleared his throat.

“There’s a package I need to recover, but certain obligations prevent me from taking position of it directly. You are the only person who can retrieve it for me.” He said.

I faced him. “What are you? Some kind of Alien? A wizard?”

            “Maybe both,” he said, “but definitely neither.”

            “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“The world is full of contradictions, boy. You’d best grow accustomed to them if you’re to work for me.”

“And now I’m working for you?” I said skeptically.

“Again, not my initial intend but certain forces have prevented me from compelling you. Suffice it to say I can be quite… convincing.” There was a dull ache in my belly as I thought about the gun shots from earlier. “Besides,” he said cheerfully, “this arrangement will be mutually beneficial. I’m the only one who can lift the curse!”

“I’m cursed now.” I said with a flat look.

“Of course you are! You can’t die.”

Frustrated I said, “You just said that was a blessing!”

“I said you would think it was a blessing.”

This was easily the most frustrating, convoluted, conversation I had ever had. I slipped down, pulling my legs into my chest. I stared blankly onto the floor. “And I'm supposed to get a package for you?”

“Simple as that.”

“And if I don't?”

Blinding pain shot into my entire body. Suddenly I was back on the hospital gurney. Shattered pelvis, broken bones, bloody face and all. My back arched as a blood curdling scream came to my lips. As the fire in my belly pushed the air from my lungs, blood gurgled from my mouth.  I gasped for breath and took in nothing but the blood.

Grimm appeared above me, a maniac straddling a broken man. His one eye twisted into a snarl. “If you don't, my boy, this will be the most pleasurable experience you have for the rest of your very, very long life.”

I screamed again, the sound filling the room, echoing in my ears as the most excruciating sensation I'd ever felt ripped my body up and down. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was gone.

I opened my eyes and I was back in the motel. Sweat covered my body and the towel doing nothing for my modesty. The dull ache was ever present but Grimm was gone. I pulled myself to my feet and checked the room one more time, just to be sure.

“Where do I even start” I shouted, not really expecting an answer, then a knock came to the door. I wrapped the towel around myself and tucked the gun behind my back before answer it.

“Is everything all right in there, sir?” he said. “I could hear screaming all the way across the parking lot.”

I opened the door with a smirk on my face wearing nothing but the towel and sweat sheen on my body. “What? You've never had a patron who liked rough sex before?”

Immortal Fear 5.3

< < Back to Immortal Fear 5.2
He took me to his car which wasn’t too far away. It was an old nineties Bronco the color, straight out of an O.J. Simpson car chase. “I didn’t peg you for the gas hog type, Father.”

“I’m not one to bathe in perfume, Joe. I just use the tools He finds appropriate to place in my hands.”

He helped me up into the cab and threw the wheelchair in the back. It was odd, I had already made my first escape today but I felt the pincers coming down on two more. I laid my head back trying to find some semblance of peace to concentrate on my next move.

“Where are we off to, then?”

“Chula Vista,” I said without opening my eyes.

I would have pushed him on the church but he had a point. Violence was always in my nature but I just needed to lay low for a little while. If I had time to plan, I’d be much more likely to come out of this ordeal alive. I would probably have to score some oxy on the street to manage my pain; I could handle that, it wouldn’t be the first time I doped up to survive but the last time had been in the Navy.

“Joe.”

My eyes snapped open, “Huh, Wha?” I must have fallen asleep.

“We’re here.”

I looked out the truck window and saw the façade of my hotel.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“This is the only motel in Chula Vista that caters to shady types,” he said without sounding condescending. “How was your nap?”

I eyed him cautiously.

“Fine,” I said.

“Good.”

I opened his car door and pulled the wheelchair out from the back, dragging it over to me until I could slip into it from the high seat of the Bronco. I landed with a quiet thud and my body was suddenly aching. I bared it with silent determination, gripping the wheels of the chair and spinning myself to face Williams.

“Well, thanks for the lift.”

“You need anything more from me?”

“The things you stole might be nice.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Williams began, “You bring me the forty dollars you owe me, I’ll see if I can find a gun for you.”

“You shouldn’t tease a man who knows his way around deadly weaponry,” I said.

“The Lord is my shepherd, but you are my flock.”

I rolled my eyes turned away from him, heading towards the motel. I raised a hand and called back to him, “I will be seeing you again, Father. You don’t just leave a gun like that laying around.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear your first confession,” he called back. I rolled my eyes and ignored the comment.

My motel room was a shady little complex plastered in purple paint I can only assume was stylish in 1981. The plaster was cracked in all the corners and the windows were painted shut after decades of poor maintenance. The parking lot was all but empty except for an old Volkswagon bus and a couple Mercedes’ that were likely paying the good Inn-keeper by the hour. It always surprises me how far cash would go, keeping people from asking questions. I mean, sure, it’s natural to stick your nose into someone else’s business, but after someone drops five grand on the counter and shows you their gun, you realize that it’s better to take the money and hold on to your tongue.

Problem though, if you lose your key, you may have to make the tough guy act.

In a wheelchair.

I pulled into the manager’s office feeling like an extra from West Side Story. The guy behind the counter was reading the paper and even when the bell jingled from the door he didn’t look up.

“I lost my key,” I said.

“Which room?”

“One, fifty-seven.”

There was a creak in the chair as he turned to the board. A white keychain flew over his paper and I grabbed it out of the air, turning to go.

Hey, you get what you pay for.

I pay for privacy.

Not security.

The room was on the other side of the lot from the office. The do-not-disturb sign was still on the door knob, which I took as something for my privacy. I opened the door and slipped inside. The room was a dank little pit that at one point had been beach themed. Pastel sea shells decorated the dresser. The two beds were sea foam green and the one closest to the door was unmade from where I’d slept in it. I walked to the bathroom sink and splashed water on my face. It wouldn’t be cold wake me up, but it was the first thing close to a bath I’d had. I remember splashing around the coast of Coronado, not a few miles away from here.

Get wet and sandy!

It woke me up a couple of times in Hell Week, but it sure wasn’t my idea of refreshing.

I wheeled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. With the door closed I let the steam accumulate. It was nice to be warm. It had been a long time since I was last in San Diego. More than a life time ago, as I thought about it. I left for the Navy right out of high school. I grew up in some shit town in California. Mom and Dad were addicts, but I survived. I don’t think they even came to my funeral, now that I think about it.

I had a kid sister who, by all accounts of her Facebook page, is a dope smoking burn-out. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done my share of junk but I’ve also a former Navy-fucking-SEAL. I’ve done something with my life. I guess you can’t really be mad when the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

Life in a small town was fun. The girls were naïve and I had a lot of threesomes. It was a good time. Probably the best time I’ve ever had in my life, sixteen to eighteen. But the truth is when you’ve lived under someone else’s thumb your entire life the only thing to do is break free. That was the Navy for me.

I knew I wanted to be a SEAL. I hated being on ships and the thought of being on a sub for months at a time was enough to make me consider a career in film. But the SEALs were the elite few. The badass of the badass. I didn’t want to be anybody’s grunt. Which was unfortunate because even as a SEAL I had shit for rank, and ships and subs? All the time.

After about an hour of sweat I turned the water off. I grabbed a towel and scrubbed my face and neck where I noticed something hard. I moved to the vanity and looked myself over in the mirror. Burned deep into the flesh above my shoulder was a brand. The same brand that marked the headless corpses in my dream.

“What else did you expect?”

I looked up in the mirror to see a man sitting, legs crossed, in the desk chair by the door. A man with salt and pepper in his hair. A man with a feverish menace to his voice. A man with only one working eye.

Grimm.

I reached up underneath the vanity grabbing my .357 tapped beneath the sink and turned on Grimm and instinctively fired three shots: two in the chest, one in the head. Even with my left hand, I’m better than a fair shot. His head jerked back slightly, then shook it slowly.

He smiled and a bullet shown between his teeth.

My jaw dropped.

“Would you like to see a magic trick, Silas?” he said spitting the bullet into one of his hands before juggling it one handed.

“You see, nothing is as it seems,” he said revealing another bullet between his fingers. “Neither people or places or things. You, for example, seem like an average Silas, or is it Joe? All your aliases can be terribly confusing. Albeit average with very poor aim.” A second bullet appeared in between his fingers and he began to move his hand up and down in tandem with the rise and fall of the bullet.

“You’ve seen things now you can’t, or won’t rather, un-see. Don’t look so puzzled, chum, I know you’re slow witted but try to keep up,” he said following my scowl. “The mortal world has always been so… tenuous! But with all the change in your world, there doesn’t seem to be much mystery.” He threw one of the bullets into his juggling hand and the two jumped after one another while his other hand continued moving up and down.

“Who the hell –”

“But what is a mystery but a secret? Everyone has them. You’re interested in secrets, aren’t you Silas? They’re puzzles you get to pull apart like wings off a fly.” I must have missed something because now he juggled all three bullets in one hand. Eerily his eyes never left mine, staring down the barrel of my gun. One by one he let them fall to the ground, bouncing perfectly to be caught in his other hand where he showed each time, they had disappeared.

“Life has plenty of mystery, but death…” he whistled, “I shudder to think of the mystery you’d find!” Grimm said.

I slowly lowered my gun wheeled myself over to him. He smiled wryly. I hadn’t noticed the black eye patch he wore covering the false eye but it left him looking distinguished. I pushed my hand passed him and reached into his pocket, pulling out three bullets. “It’s a stupid sleight of hand, I’m watching the bullets bounce while you’re pocketing –”

Three shots and I fell to my back. I hadn’t even seen the gun.

“Well you were right about one thing but I had you at the start. You assumed they were your bullets.”

Immortal Fear 5.2

< < Back to Immortal Fear 5.1

Image: http://pastelhospital.tumblr.com/

The hallways are always pretty wide in a hospital. Moving gurneys surrounded by hordes of people need lots of space to maneuver. The nurses' station was on our right, I gestured to the left and we rolled on.

“It's odd, usually they'll give you a wheelchair with an IV stand connected,” Father Williams said.

“They don't want us leaving the floor, so they're going to make it as inconvenient as possible,” I said, dragging the IV stand along with me. “We are leaving the floor, aren't we?”

Father Williams said nothing as we turned a corner to find the tell-tale stainless steel doors of an elevator.

“So where are we?” I asked, pushing the call button.

I could hear the smile in his voice. “You seem more lucid than that, we're in the United--”

“Don't give me that shit, Father. What hospital?

“Saint Mercy's”

“Down town? Huh.”

“Is that significant?”

“It just means you won't have to drive me that far.”

The elevator chimed and the door opened. Three people stood quietly inside as he wheeled me in.

“You think I'll drive you out of here, in your condition?”

It's awkward enough being suck in an elevator with people you don't know. It's almost like forced intimacy. I figured we could use some alone time anyway.

“My condition? My condition?” I asked incredulously. “I wouldn't be in here if you hadn't switched my meds!”

Father Williams stared down at me with a mixture of shock and bewilderment. As quiet as an elevator full of strangers usually is, this one seemed to have found the mute button.

“You know how Mother gets when I'm not lucid, we grew up in the same damn house! You knew she would take advantage of me!” The woman at the back of the elevator stepped around us and put an arm through the closing doors, opening them again, then stepped out in a hurry. One down.

“I mean, seriously, Michael. There's more than broken ribs here. There's a broken heart.” I put my head down into my hands and wept as the doors finally closed.

“I-- I uh...” Father Williams stuttered. I heard one of the other occupants reach forward and press a button.

“I... I didn't know you felt that way,” he said.

“Of course not! You spend all your time at that church helping the 'needy.' We'll I'm your family, Michael and I'm needy too. I'll never earn Mother's love now!” I continued wailing.

“Joseph, don't be ridiculous, Mother loves you,” he said finally getting into the act.

“She just beats me and beats me,” I said softly. “The sex isn't even that good anymore.”

The elevator stopped and the remaining occupants rushed out as I cried out at the top of my lungs. The doors closed and we began our descent again.

“Great Oedipus's ghost,” he said.

“So what’s the weather like?” I asked, tugging down on my hospital gown.

“You’re full of surprises, Joe.”

I craned my neck back to look at him. “How do you and the doctors know my name?”

“Your driver’s license,” he said, not looking at me.

Of course, “So they have my wallet?” I asked.

“No, I do.”

I reached up and hit the emergency stop button.

“You have my wallet?” I asked, flatly.

“It made since if I was going to be caring for you.”

“Who asked you to?” I said, frustrated.

“You’re in way over your head,” he said, his thick accent full of concern.

I eyed him cautiously. “According to whom?”

He just stared forward at the closed elevator doors. I gave it up and turned back restarting the elevator. We descended in silence for a while before he started talking again.

“It takes a troubled soul to recognize another,” he said finally. “I don’t know what it is you’ve gotten yourself into, but… The Lord has brought us together for some reason.”

We continued our descent in silence for a time.

“I’m just a normal guy who needs his wallet back,” I said raising my left hand to him.

I heard him rustle in his pockets and place the cool leather in my palm. It wasn’t a familiar object, just something to house my temporary identity. I opened it to see the California driver’s license in the windowed pocket. Joseph Smith it read. It was an odd feeling coming face to face with one of my aliases. I’d spent so much of my recent life avoiding personal interaction with people that having the priest call me by name, not even my real name, gave me an odd twinge of regret. We all make decisions that lead us down a path, there was little point in me regretting the one’s I’d already made. Every time I relived them, I made the same decision anyway so there couldn’t be that much to regret.

“Normal guys may not like who they are but they don’t create false identities to hide behind,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Joseph Smith? You’re not exactly the typical Mormon, Joe.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. I had this guy pegged from the moment he found me on the road, obnoxious to the tee and he was having fun with it. I would be much better off ditching him but like it or not, he was my only way out of here. The elevator began to slow and I pulled the IV needle from my arm with a grunt and stashed it in the corner. Hopefully I didn’t need those drugs as much as the doctors thought I did.

The doors opened at the ground level and we moved out into a maze of hallways bypassing dirty people on their way to the cafeteria, obviously doing their best not to morn or worry. We walked out into a main lobby and the stench of anxiety wafted off every person in there. A hospital was a study in façades. Patients and visitors alike put on their brave faces, but cowered underneath. The pastel colors from my room continued through the entire hospital, it really completed the sad clown feel of the whole place.

The sliding double glass doors opened in front of us and we walked out into a small topiary and concrete forest. Small benches rose out of the sidewalk to surround the bushes and smokers littered the landscape twenty-five feet from the enterence. It was a busy place. Then again, most hospitals are.

He walked me in the opposite direction of what I had assumed was the parking garage until we stopped in a less populated area of the park. He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a brand new pack of Lucky Strikes cigarettes. Unwrapping them, he began to slap the box against his palm, packing them.

“Seriously?” I said as I pulled one from the pack.

He lit the cigarette and took a long deep drag. “The Lord forgives us of our sins, should we choose to seek his forgiveness,” he said, exhaling.

He stood there enjoying his smoke like he hadn’t had one in days. He finished it, extinguishing the embers on the bottom of his shoe. “There is the matter of your gun,” he said

I stared at him in surprise. In all the shit storm of the last couple days I’d forgotten about my Desert Eagle. I put on my best tough guy face, “You have my gun?”

I’ll give the guy credit, he didn’t back down. Not even a little. “Well of course,” he said, “didn’t you wonder why you weren’t handcuffed to the bed?”

I guess the strong man act didn’t work so well sitting in a wheelchair and the casts on my arm and leg didn’t do much for my usual intimidation factor. I hadn’t even considered the implications of an ER visit with a side arm. “When did you take it?”

“Before the paramedics arrived on the scene. I was trying my best to keep you conscious but when I realized you were out I pulled the bulge from under your jacket.”

I just stared at him. It’s very rare that I’m speechless.

“I mean, you’ve obviously got a fake name on your ID –”

“Let me get this straight. First you took my wallet, then you took my gun –”

“Your wallet first, actually.”

“Are you a priest or a mugger?”

He laughed. A genuine, head thrown back, tears in his eyes, belly laugh. All I could do was stare.

“They say the Lord works in mysterious ways. Well, so do his children,” he said. “I don’t know why I took it, I just knew you needed help.”

“Where is it?” I demanded, “give me my—” I looked to make sure no one had come to check on us yet, “gun.”

“Well I don’t have it here, lad,” he said when his laughter subsided. “I’m a man of God, and this is a hospital.”

I scowled at him from under a dumbfounded stare. He raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Saint Anne Cathedral,” he said. “Down by the docs. You shouldn’t have much trouble finding it.”

“Finding it?” I said, “You’re going to take me there right now!”

He grabbed the wheelchair and started heading back for the enterance to the hospital. “I don’t think so, Joe. I find a man in your position is far too likely to commit violence. You need some time to cool down.”

“You heard the doctor,” he said, “A few more days of observation and they’ll discharge you. Patience is one of God’s greatest virtues.”

I wasn’t about to go back upstairs. Someone had already tried to kill me, if they found out I’d lived through the attempt they’d make quick work of me trapped in this pastel prison. My usual threat of violence hadn’t gotten me anywhere and he seemed to have the upper hand on me in every way. I figured it was time to share the last influence I had at my disposal.

“How much is it going to cost me for you to take me to my hotel room?”

“Forty should cover it,” he said.

It was kind of a lowball number but he was a priest and I figured he was taking pity on me. I reached into my wallet to pull out a hundred dollar bill for him but it came back empty. I looked and the whole thing was cleaned out.

“What the hell? You stole my money!”

“Consider it a tithe to the church,” he said.

“How do you expect me to pay you if you’ve taken everything I own?”

“I’ll just put it on your tab, I suppose.”