A Siren Song for the Stricken

‘You’re… you’re the Chupacabra, aren’t you?’ I ask, forming the single least predictable sentence I’ve ever said, ‘The Mexican goat-sucker, am I right?’

Walter grimaces.

‘I ain’t Mexican!’ he growls, ‘You think I’d be Mexican an’ still be this beautiful? I’m Puerto Rican, man…’

Of course, the old man was bound to have been right. Prior to my first encounter with Jack Daw I’d naturally assumed Ozzy and I were two-of-a-kind in the ‘unfortunates’ department. Meeting Mordein’s Omega Mind test subject was something of an eye-opener to the misery of reality.

What do we need when the situation is this dire?

Rally the freaks.

Alone we’re pathetic. Together, we’re lethal. Still very pathetic, of course, but lethal nonetheless.

‘Sorry, had no idea I was talking to a celebrity, ‘amigo’,’ I say in a shockingly less condescending tone, ‘Truth be told, I always assumed Chupacabra was just a mange-ridden coyote.’

Smoke wisps from the corners of Walter’s smile.

‘Yeah, yeah, heard that one… and like, some people were thinkin’ I was this, kinda’, lizard-alien thing from outer space, man. I heard they thought you was this, like, big bird or somethin’… y’know, back when you was scarin’ them Yankee bumpkins in the Sixties.’

He’s obviously referring to Point Pleasant. For some reason I don’t correct him.

‘Not anymore though…’ he continues, ‘Now, I’m jus’ plain old Walt. Agency doesn’t like bringin’ up the whole ‘Chupa’ thing. Makes it look like they went easy on me, y’know what I’m sayin’?’

And so we get to the gold of the meeting…

‘My friend told me you had useful contacts,’ I pry, ‘Think this agency might be who I’m looking for?’

Walter chuckles, his hand moving over the absinthe bottle a second time.

‘Bro, if we didn’t find you, why the hell would you come lookin’ for us? That’s, like… I dunno… turnin’ yourself in…’

‘What are you talking about? What is the agency?’

The black spear hits the green liquid and Walter cringes as another shot it sucked up through his arm. Another sigh and he stubs out the remains of his cigarette in the arm of the couch.

In his slump, his glasses have slid part of the way down his nose, giving me a brief glimpse of his flame-orange goat eyes.

‘Jus’ go, bro…’ he says quietly, ‘Go while you’se still a renegade… go before they… they… make an honest cryptid outta you… y mierda…’

Perfume…

That’s an odd scent to suddenly find in here…

My antennae wave as the unambiguous presence of female pheromones becomes apparent behind me.

The door closes with a squeak, but before I can turn it’s overshadowed by the rather obvious click of a gun being readied behind my head. Small firearm by the sound of it, but the subtle echo suggests it possesses a rather mean barrel and a nasty punch.

Lovely: must have been a whole hour since I was last in any kind of peril. I must be a sucker for adrenaline.

‘Ah.’ I say out loud, ‘See, now I really would like to talk to someone else.’

Walter gives his eyes a rub and re-straightens his glasses before looking over me to the woman behind.

‘Relax, bro… it’s only Jezebelle…’ he says with a smirk, ‘She’s like… into all that dominant stuff… ain’t that right, amiga?’

‘Something you’ll never know, Walt,’ Jezebelle replies with an appealingly sultry Irish accent.

‘Ouch, babe… ouch…’

Jezebelle’s boot heels clack against the floor as she strafes sideways into my peripheral—with what looks to be a Colt King Cobra revolver aimed at my head.

It’s none other than the red-haired and tattoo-cheeked dancer from the club. She’s decent now, of course, leaving only her cleavage and unblemished belly on show where the rest is covered by black and white striped tube-top and fur-trimmed coat.

The forest greens of her eyes don’t glance away now as they did before, keeping the kind of unfaltering attention that Walter so desperately failed at.

I’m all for a bit of attention from a beautiful lady, but I quite fancy what little brain I have remaining in my skull.

‘Stop me if you think this sounds paranoid,’ Jezebelle says angrily, ‘But this is a moth-man sat in front of me, isn’t it?’

Walter huffs like an unhappy toddler.

‘I dunno… yeah, I suppose… wha’s the beef, babe?’

‘The ‘beef’, Walt, is that thousands of people could die out there and this bug is exactly what we’ve been looking for.’

Oh, bollocks. Time to speak out, methinks.

‘No, no, see I know where you’re going with this,’ I cut in, ‘Look, you’re obviously confusing me for that other moth-man. Simple mistake, I forgive you for--’

‘--Gun at your head, roach. I shouldn’t need to remind you.’ Jezebelle spits.

‘Roach? Come on, there’s no need for--’

‘Next time I remind you, you’ll get the butt of it over your head. There won’t be a time after.’

Walter leans forward with a moan, his head waving atop his neck.

‘Come on, Jez… lighten up, babe…’

‘He’s coming with me, right now,’ she growls, ‘You’re lucky I’m not a complete bitch. I may not have to tell Colegrave that you were wasted when he walked in.’

She signals the door with her gun.

‘Okay, moth-man, let’s do this,’ she addresses me, ‘You walk in front. Flick so much as a wing and you’ll get three bullets in your spine. Nod if you understand.’

‘Listen, you’re just doing your job and that’s grand,’ I say quickly, ‘But, seriously, there’s been a horrible mix-up here. I don’t want you to look back later knowing you made a--’

I get the butt of the gun over my head.

Then it’s aimed right on me again.

I keep my trap shut and reluctantly struggle off of the beanbag.

Rally the freaks—brilliant idea, you senile old codger…

‘Out. Now.’ Jezebelle hisses, ‘You’re going to tell us everything you know.’"