I'm done. I'm done. I'M DONE!

Oh, but don't get me wrong— I'm done.

Done with all of it. Vampires, spider ladies, and a few other things I really wish I could shake outta my head. Screw it. I had no choice, I had to get another profession, I mean, heists pay, but Mama never told me there'd be so many monsters.

Anyway, where am I now?

Allow me to introduce you to “Gianni Bryce: Environmental Services Specialist.”

Yea, I was hoping for something in management too, but apparently a felony is a felony is a felony—

Unless you're rich or running for president.

Better yet both.

So, there I am, breakin’ apart boxes and whatnot, when the conveyors shut off, the machines go quiet, and what now? Well, it's quittin' time for me.

Now, I beeline over to the time-out clock, swipe my badge like a boss and strut out the turnstiles like Rick Flair in a golden-fleece onto a diamond-studded wrestlin’ ring.

Hey, it's the weekend. And, believe you me, ain't nothing, ain't nothin' gonna stop me from having a—

“Mr. Bryce,“ says a familiar voice with sunglasses in the dark of the night.

Awww, hell.

“Spider-lady!” I reply.

“Spider-lady?! Wow. Okay, chewed-up-v-neck-and-high-waters, nice to see you too.”

“Don’t you rag on my warehouse clothes.”

“Oh, so, is that where you lifted them from? Figured you're mother dresses you better than this,” she continues with a smile, “Anyway, did ya miss me?”

“No, I miss NYC. I miss the food, my grandma and most of all my sainity, Now, you— ” I continue, “I miss you like the rent back in New York— either that or being mugged, too close to call.”

“Well, that's too bad, I'm sure you'll come around.”

“Nope, the only thing I'm fixin' to come around to is the shuttle to the auxiliary lot, so...”

“Nothing doin', I'll give you a ride, luv.”

“Look, not to sound ungrateful, but I just got out of a bad relationship with capital doubly weird, and I'm not fixin' to jump back in whatever sketchy Hoodoo, shrunken-head, dances-with-chicken, B.S. you're into,“ I pause then continue, “Besides nobody says, 'Nothin' doin',' no more.”

“Hmm..” smirks the strange not-so-stranger as she steps out from the shadows, “One question, whose the girl over there?”

“That woman is my supervisor,“ I reply like a rat shoving its leg in a trap.

Then that's when sunglasses has to shout, “Whatsup, Henrietta! Yea you! With your pickled hair! Pinin' for my man! I'll stomp your extensions into the mud, tear out those dollar earnings, and stamp a heel print on the base of your neck, right now! I'm hella high, and I don't give a—“

“Alright!” I shout as I cover my face and abruptly disappear into the gold and black sedan, just as my supervisor attempts to attract security's attention.

Well, the adjacent door opens and trouble hops herself in, gives a quick slam and the sedan pulls off. Me looking back every fifteen seconds to monitor the situation.

The silence interrupted by, “Relax, I don't think anyone saw you.”

“The entire floor saw that,“ I fire back.

“Great, so, they'll have somethin' to gossip about over the weekend,“ she continues, “Now, I'm guessing you're trying to forget my name, so ‘hi,’ I'm Dr. Spidriana Mirga, and you are, again? — Mr. Werenought, was it?”

“What are you talkin' about? Oh. Gotcha, 'cause I called you spider-lady, and you to me “a werenought,“ a were-nothin'. A human.”

“We're both human here, luv,” doc says as she tilts down her sunglasses, two eyes peering up.

“Dreenie,” I muster.

“So, you DO remember.”

“Oh, I remember alright. I remember you having four bug eyes beneath a mask, and, not to mention, a mess of hundreds of spiders wrappin' me up like a joint, suckin' the vampire blood outta me. Which speak of the devil, where are the little buggers, now?”

“Who do you think is driving?”

I couldn't tell if she was yankin' my chain. There was a partition 'tween the back and the front, but I don't think she was.

“Seriously? Hey, what is this about? I thought our session was over?”

“Think of this as a follow-up appointment. And, for starters, how about a little Rorschach test,” says Dreenie as she pulls out a photo, “What do you see in this picture?”

Shoot.

There in front of me she held up a bit of my past, print-out of an old black-and-white photo of some antique weapon, the very thing what got me into deep water in the first place.

“Just thought you'd like to know you might be cursed,” clears her throat, Dreenie continues, “Cause this piece of this helluva thing here, your petty self neglected to mention you came in contact with, is on a whole nother spectrum of bad than a couple pints of vampire blood.”

I bite my lip, sigh, I say, “But wait, can't you reverse it? Cast a spell or somethin'? and—“

“Whoa, I'm a psychologist, not an enchantress, the things you saw the last time we crossed paths was all a hallucination due to blood letting, this,“ Dreenie takes a breath, “This is the hilt of Tal-Kaul.”

“Tal-Kaul“ there's that name again. Really, hate that folks keep droppin' it like anyone is supposed to know what in hell it means.

Dreenie shoots me back a look of irritation.

“You boosted,“ Dreenie pauses, “Half a key to a shadow world, a place where darkness doesn't fear the light.”

“Really?”

“No— That would be derivative and basic,” Dreenie smiles.

“Then what? Should we get it back? What's so special about this doohickey anyhow?”

Dreenie scoffs, reclines in her seat, folds her hands behind her neck, looks up and says causally, “Honestly, I don't know, really. But just on the fact Dracula wants it so bad, I'd say it's damnation if we do, damnation if we don't.”

“I take it I'm in for a longer ride than I anticipated.”

“Right you are. Buckle up, werenought.”

I grab my seat belt and begin to strap in when a sudden bang is heard from behind the sedan.

The vehicle stops.

I turn to Dreenie, who raises her index finger to her lips.

We both pause in the silence for a minute or two.

The sedan begins to move again, more cautiously, this time.

I'm about to ask, "What's up?" when a second bang erupts, this time discernibly from— the trunk.

The vehicle stalls. I turn again to Dreenie, and, with a blank expression, she says, "Hmmm, Gianni, would you be a darling and check on that?" opening the door.

"Why me?!" I retort.

"Well," Dreenie continues, "You are the time warrior after all."

"Really?!" I exclaim.

"No, of course not, it's totally like not even a thing," says Dreenie smiling as she steps out of the sedan, "Wow, just wow."

I follow behind her, cautiously, as she steps behind the trunk her hand on the latch.

I gently grab her wrist, say, "What's in the trunk?"

"Oh," replies Dreenie, "You are gonna love this!"

Somehow I seriously doubt I am.

Anyway, Dreenie pops the trunk and declares, "Oh, good he's awake."

There sitting beside a tire iron, a baby spare and old cigarette carton is a wriggling burlap bag.

I backup, nearly tripping on my own feet.

"Don't worry," says Dreenie not-so-reassuringly, "It's an old friend."

"No, nope, I'm good, keep you're spiders to yourself," I reply.

But there weren't no spiders. Dreenie picks up the bag and carefully spills the contents on the roadside.

A legless, armless husk of skeleton and skin then props itself up!

"Boy!" the decaying form yells.

"Holy Moses!" I think to myself.

"Gianni," continues Dreenie, "You know Private First Class Jean-André Armond Grandville, 20th North Carolina Infantry Regiment, Confederate States Army."

"Knowed 'em!" declares the grotesque skeletal form, "Dat goldurn reprobate, dug me up! Pried open muh chest, n' pilfered muh good whoopin' iron!"

"Oh, yea, sorry 'bout that— eh, um, presumably racist skeleton-half," I concede.

"Screw you, douche!" shouts the decrepit head and torso.

"How does he even know what that means?!" I exclaim turning to Dreenie.

"Oh, he heard me say it in the car," Dreenie declares.

"I cleaned it up a little," corrects the disfigured skull torso.

"Anyway," continues Dreenie, picking up Jean-André, "I need you to take our weird little friend here, out back to the graveyard, a couple minutes into the woods, and find where the other piece of... I'm sorry, what did you call it again?"

"Muh whoopin' iron!" shouts the pile of decayed bone and flesh.

"Yes, where his whooping iron is," continues Dreenie.

"Don't know what that 'thing' means by 'whoopin' iron' but it sounds racist as hell," I add.

"Racist? Yada one callin' me 'a thang, ya jackaninny!" hollers Jean-André.

"Oh! Good point, Jean-André," declares Dreenie as I met her comment with a look of disdain, "Anyway, here ya go," Dreenie continues as she attempts to pass Jean-André onto me.

"Whoa, whoa! Slow down!" I fire back, "I'm gonna need gloves or somethin'!"

"Awww... What? Does the biggie ex-con, not wanna touch the scary-ary bigot's rotten fleshy bits?" says Dreenie as she waves Jean-André playfully back and forth with the loose hanging skin audibly flapping.

I grab an old oil-soaked towel outta the trunk and reluctantly take hold of Jean-André.

Dreenie rolls her eyes.

"Ya know," I add, "For a psychologist, you're a bit insensitive."

"When, did I ever say that I was a human psychologist," replies Dreenie.

I think for a second and then it hits me.

"Wait, you're a monster psychologist!? But, what!? I came to you for a session!" I shoot back.

"What can I say, you're really messed up," Dreenie retorts.

I frown in annoyance.

"Look, just take grandpa here for a leisurely stroll across the graveyard, and he'll point you in the right direction, unless you rather take your chances with vampires again," says Dreenie.

"Fine," I concede.

"Good, oh and if he says anything racist just spray him with this," adds Dreenie handing over a bottle of window cleaner.

"I'll be good," replies Jean-André.

Me overly irritated at this point, exclaim, "Use your eyes, yea, all four of 'em, my hands are a bit full at the moment, with eh... er, him. I can't even grab hold of that," I reply.

"Oh, well, why don't you just use the little red wagon in the back of the trunk?"

"Really? You mean I didn't have to hold 'em at all?!"

"Hah! That's right, ya lubberin', blubberin’ baby!" announces the talking corpse.

"Oh, Jean-André, you're incorrigible!" says Dreenie playfully as she tuggs on a children's pull wagon.

As I place the corpse onto the wagon and begin to wheel it down the darkened moon-lit road, I could probably be thinking of a million different things right now.

But for some peculiar reason, I only have one thought.

"Guess, I'm not quite DONE yet!"


— END —


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