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An insane vampire searches for the long lost descendant of his master. A homicidal soldier of the church is hunting him down. A new telepath is discovering her fledgling powers. A pair of cops track a vigilante killer. And there

Chapter 9

The Irishman

You gotta have a certain respect for the mob. They can buy almost anybody with the right leverage or with enough money.
I knew something was up the moment we turned into the alley. When we pulled to a stop next to a dumpster I could practically smell betrayal in the air. It might have been the dumpster though, the smells are similar. The driver moved quickly, reaching under his seat to pull out a silenced pistol and shot his partner right between the eyes. Just a few minutes later another car pulled up alongside ours. I was told not to do anything stupid or I’d get put down right there. I pretended to be scared. From what I understand that’s the desired effect. A couple of stereotypical thugs got out of the other car, opened the back door, and put a pillow case over my head which kinda sucked because at this point I’m dying to find out what happens next. I decide not to separate everyone’s heads from their shoulders, at least not yet. I’m transferred to the other car and it’s not too long before I’m tied to a chair and the pillow case is removed. I found myself in a small office sitting at a desk. Behind the desk is a rather large redheaded man, probably in his mid 50’s. I haven’t figured out where I am yet, I just know I’m still in the city but I’m not going to trouble myself with that yet. There’s a pair of thugs standing behind me, though it doesn’t really look like they’re worried since I’m tied pretty securely.
And here I am. Face to face with Jimmy O’Hara, current boss on the west side and industrial areas of the city. His chief rival, Lee Chang, runs the east side and waterfront areas. There’s been an uneasy truce between the two for the last couple of years. Until I showed up and tried to get things riled. Not that I have any real endgame or anything. I just got bored.
Zagon’s hood was pulled roughly from his head. He inhaled a deep breath through his nose. “Smells like Fritos in here.”
O’Hara lit a cigarette, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey and a shot glass.
“Care for a shot bucko?” He spoke with a thick Irish brogue.
“Well, I appreciate the offer but I must respectfully decline. I’ve never really been much of a drinker.”
“Fair enough.” O’Hara poured a shot and downed it, savoring the warmth as it traveled down his gullet. He looked back at Zagon.
“Do you know why I had you brought here lad?”
Zagon looked thoughtful for a minute. “Most likely I’d say it was for skincare tips for pasty white guys. It is something I’m a bit of an expert at.”
O’Hara boomed laughter. “You’re a funny one. That will make this so much more fun. In case you hadn’t figured out by now I have a man in my employ who also happens to work as a local constable. He informed me they had picked up the man who killed the Kaiser and I just had to meet you. I must be honest, you’re not quite what I was expecting. You are a bit………odd aren’t ya?”
“Well, not everything is black and white. And appearances can be very deceiving.”
“Very true lad, very true. That’s why I wanted to meet you. You see, I understand you’ve been targeting Mr. Chang’s boys as well as mine. I’m guessing you’re trying to start something between the two of us. My question is why?”
Zagon looked O’Hara straight in the face and smiled. “Honestly, pure boredom. And what better way to spend my spare time than by killing assholes.”
O’Hara’s face turned serious fast. “I suggest you watch your tongue boyo before I get angry. I’m Jimmy fooking O’Hara!”
“Let me guess. Don’t make you angry, I wouldn’t like you when you’re angry.” Zagon’s voice dripped sarcasm.
O’Hara moved dangerously fast. He quickly grabbed the bottle of whiskey and rounded the desk, smashing it against the side of Zagon’s head. The bottle shattered and a wide gash opened in the albino’s scalp. Soon blood started pouring down the side of his head.
Zagon looked up at him. “Hey, that’s alcohol abuse.”
“Laugh it up bucko. When we’re finished with our little meeting you’ll find you won’t have much of a sense of humor when all your bones have been broken. Have you ever heard of an Irish heavy bag?’
Zagon smirked. “Is that when you pull on each other’s ball sacks?”
“You’re just going to make me enjoy this more. It’s when I stuff you into a duffel, string it up from the ceiling, and beat 7 shades of shit out of you. And on this occasion I think you’ve earned a little something extra. Grab him boys.”
The two thugs grabbed the back of Zagon’s chair and pulled him through the door and into the next room, which turned out to be a boxing gym.
O’Hara followed them out. “You know we Irish enjoy a bit of pugilism. Myself especially. And for you I think we’ll just skip the bag. It’ll be more fun when you see this coming.”
They went to a nearby heavy bag. One of the thugs lifted the bag and maneuvered it off the hook holding it from the ceiling. It took a pair of stools and a little effort but they eventually managed to get Zagon tied to the hook.
“Well, now that you’re strung up like a side of beef do you have any more smart words to say to me?” The Irishman took a pair of brass knuckles out of his pockets and put one on each hand, balling them into fists.
Zagon started humming “Gonna Fly Now”, the theme from Rocky.
The first punch hit the albino square in the stomach and drove all the wind out of him. The second and third punches hit the right side of the ribcage. The snap of bones was audible.
“Still feeling funny bucko?” He buried his fist in Zagon’s gut again.
Zagon coughed hard and spat a wad of blood on the floor. “I think you might need that bat because you hit like a bitch.”
O’Hara got red in the face. “Okay funny man, you asked fer it.” He walked briskly to the corner of the gym where a wooden baseball bat was leaning against the wall. He walked back and swung the bat at the albino’s knee, shattering it. Another swing broke 2 more ribs. Zagon laughed and spat another thick wad of blood in the Irishman’s face.
“Alright, that’s it!” He roared. He rushed over to one of the thugs and reached into his jacket, pulling out a pistol. He came back and pointed it at Zagon. “Laugh at this you fooking freak!” Screaming, he fired 12 bullets into the albino’s chest. He threw the emptied pistol on the floor, turned and walked into his office, sat down and lit another cigarette.
It started out faint but quickly grew louder. A maniacal laughter that made the hair stand up on the Irishman’s arms. At 54 years of age he’d heard laughter like that only once, and that was when he was 13 and went to visit his mother in the sanitarium. He was hearing the same type of laughter now, born of madness.
He walked back into the gym and found a sight truly out of his nightmares. The albino, his chest a bloody mass of shredded flesh and t-shirt, was laughing hysterically with his head thrown back. What was truly frightening was the combination of the sizable pair of fangs protruding from the top of his mouth and the flashing anger of his red eyes. With a quick flex of his arms he snapped the rope that was holding his arms together at the wrists and dropped to the floor, landing on his feet with the agility of a cat despite the shattered knee.
“Namaste motherfuckers!”
The two thugs quickly moved in to attack but the albino was much faster. Before they could get more than a few steps Zagon closed the distance on the nearest one and drove his forehead into the thugs face with force, shattering the nose, both cheekbones, and both orbital sockets. The man dropped to the ground shrieking in pain, clutching at his ruined visage. The second one hesitated for a moment, which turned out to be the last one of his life. In the blink of an eye the albino grabbed the thugs head with both hands and pulled it downward to meet his oncoming knee. The force of the blow cracked his skull and sent splinters into his brain, killing him almost instantly. Rearing his head back he opened his mouth wide, exposing his sharp fangs. He turned back to the first thug and plunged them deep into his neck, biting down hard. He jerked his head back, tearing out the man’s throat. He then turned his attention back to the Irishman and offered a very unpleasant grin.
“You shouldn’t call people a freak Jimmy. It’s not very polite.” He dusted off his hands like he’d completed a job. “Okay, I’ve had my fun and it’s past my bedtime. I’ll be seeing you later.” Zagon winked at O’Hara. Reaching down he fumbled in the inside jacket pocket of one of the thugs and smiled when he found what he was looking for. He straightened, holding a cellphone. Pointing the phone at Jimmy he snapped a quick picture and snickered.
“Oh man, the look on your face. This one’s going up on Facebook.” Zagon chuckled again, turned, and left.
Jimmy O’Hara, ex-boxer and boss of half the city, felt the strength run out of his legs. He fell and landed on his bottom with a wet thud. That’s when he realized he had urinated in his pants.

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John McCormack

Etobicoke, canada

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