A story
Well, this is something I was more or less dared to do. It isn't finished, but I do have a few sections cranked out, all of which are between 400-800 words long. So... yeah. Feedback = awesome.
*listens to crickets* ... mm'yep.
Andrew Stork grimaced. “You want me to do what?”
The man across from him, John Watson, fiddled with the napkin in his lap and searched the restaurant, looking as if the words he wanted to find would be floating around over some other customer’s head. Finally, with a little sigh, John glanced back at Andrew.
“Come on, Stork, I know you heard me.” John’s voice had that same funny not-quite-British tang that came from his childhood years, when he’d lived in Australia.
Andrew stabbed his dill pickle spear with his fork, turning the proposition over in his mind. It was a bad idea. He knew that, John knew that. Dangerous, too, he mused, taking a huge chomp off the end of the pickle. It crunched deliciously between his teeth. Not many people did jobs like this. Maybe he should charge double his normal fee.
“I’m only even considering doing this ‘cause I owe you, you know that, right?” Andrew said around the pickle, swallowing the masticated food after the sentence. Now it was John’s turn to grimace, although Andrew figured that was more because of the whole full mouth thing. With a little sigh, Andrew pushed away his plate and ate the rest of the pickle contemplatively. John continued to twist and turn his napkin, watching the restaurant’s clientele nervously. It was weird to see John this upset, honestly. The guy never fidgeted, at least not as long as Andrew had known him.
Some little twinge of sympathy twisted in his gut, making the pickle taste more sour than it already was. Andrew finished chewing and swallowed, studying the man across from him. After a long silence between them, he nodded, leaning back in his chair.
“All right. I’ll do it. But it’s stupid.” Andrew stared at John sternly. “It could end the world if I screw up.”
“I know,” John grumbled, glaring at his napkin and avoiding Andrew’s stern stare entirely. Without another word, he shoved the briefcase sitting by the table across the floor with his foot to rest at Andrew’s feet. Andrew glanced at the briefcase; he wouldn’t check it for the money and the components, because that just looked cheap. Plus, John had never shorted him before.
With a heavy sigh and a nod, Andrew fished around in his pocket for his wallet. He slapped down a fifty - overkill for the meal, but whatever, the waitress had been hot anyhow - grabbed the briefcase, and stood.
“Bring me the body at ten tomorrow night, at the studio,” Andrew said, and John nodded, still looking at the table. Jeez. Andrew was really starting to wonder who the hell died. But he turned and left anyways, because really, it was just another job. If he didn’t keep up the air of professionalism, nobody would pay him. Work was quiet enough as is. It wasn’t really often that a voodoo priest specializing in zombies was needed.
---
The whispered “fuck!” from outside did not go unnoticed. Nor the heavy thud that came right after.
With a harassed type of sigh, Andrew went to the door of his studio and cracked open the door. John was there, in the parking lot, struggling to lift a large man-sized object wrapped in a sheet out of his truck. The unfortunate man-sized object wrapped in a sheet had fallen and what was probably the head was resting on the ground at a very awkward angle. John had his arms wrapped around the torso and was trying to lift it. He was also failing, horribly.
Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering yet again why he was doing this. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Horrible idea. He hadn’t tried anything like this in years.
Then again, he thought of the money, and the stupid ethical part of himself pointed out how nervous John had been at the restaurant. With a mental string of curses, Andrew pushed open the door and moved into the parking lot to assist in moving the body.
They had to hustle; most people renting studios had gone home for the night, but you never know when a spare cop would drive by, and Andrew knew from experience that cops didn’t like people carrying bodies in sheets. After a little bit of effort, they got the body inside.
Andrew had gotten the studio ready beforehand - unfortunately, the tube fluorescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling had burnt out, and he didn’t have any more, so the room was lit by a battery powered camp light and a few candles, which gave it an interesting ambiance. The ambiance was offset, however, by the plastic table in the middle of the room wherein the ceremony would have to take place. With some hefting, they got the body onto the table and unrolled it from its sheet-like cocoon. Andrew was starting to wonder why people always wrapped bodies in a burrito-like fashion. It was really typical.
The dead kid, however, was a surprise.
Andrew swore he’d seen the kid before, but he couldn’t really place him. Skinny guy, long kinda face, dark hair cut short. What was more confusing was just the fact that… well… this was a guy. John had gotten that upset over this random kid dying? Weird, but all right. Maybe the kid owed him money. Considering the sum John had paid just for this kid, a lot of money.
Another weird thing about the dead kid... after unwrapping the body, Andrew checked the neck for bruising, and when he didn’t find anything, he moved down to the wrists. Nothing there either. No bullet wounds, no bruising, no lacerations sewn up. How the hell did this kid die?
“Stork, what the hell’re you doing?” John asked finally, and Andrew glanced up from the dead kid to find the Aussie staring at him.
“Uh… looking for the cause of death? Kinda important, you know. Big part of the ceremony.” Also equal parts curiosity, but whatever.
John eyed Andrew like he knew what was going through his mind, but he didn’t say anything. He glanced at the kid and he frowned, looking angry and troubled all at the same time. “Froze to death.”
Andrew blinked. “Wait… what? It’s the height of summer. How’d he freeze?”
John’s lips suddenly twisted into a scowl, a storm exploding to life in his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Well. That look reminded Andrew why he didn’t want to get on John’s bad side. “Okay. Whatever, I’ve heard weirder.” That was a lie, but he had to keep up appearances. Andrew glanced at the kid one last time, then shook his head, steeling himself for telling John this next bit of news. “All right, I need you to get out.”
John glared with that same storm cloud look in eyes. “What?” His accent got thicker, and his voice was low and dangerous, the kind of voice that promised very creative, very specific kinds of pain in the near future.
Andrew swallowed, and although John was a good old-fashioned mere mortal and he was a necromancer and a certified houngan, he was worried for his life for a moment. “Because I have a chance of turning you into an inside-out man-hippo-pig. Now get out of my studio, or I’ll chuck you and your dead kid out on the street.”
With a quiet curse, John turned and marched out of the studio, slamming the door and rattling the windows on the way out. Andrew sighed, feeling a bit more at ease now that he was alone.
… With a dead body. Oh yeah. Andrew heaved another sigh, this one aggravated, and he turned towards the bathroom. He might as well go grab the stupid required live chicken so he could get started.
*listens to crickets* ... mm'yep.
Andrew Stork grimaced. “You want me to do what?”
The man across from him, John Watson, fiddled with the napkin in his lap and searched the restaurant, looking as if the words he wanted to find would be floating around over some other customer’s head. Finally, with a little sigh, John glanced back at Andrew.
“Come on, Stork, I know you heard me.” John’s voice had that same funny not-quite-British tang that came from his childhood years, when he’d lived in Australia.
Andrew stabbed his dill pickle spear with his fork, turning the proposition over in his mind. It was a bad idea. He knew that, John knew that. Dangerous, too, he mused, taking a huge chomp off the end of the pickle. It crunched deliciously between his teeth. Not many people did jobs like this. Maybe he should charge double his normal fee.
“I’m only even considering doing this ‘cause I owe you, you know that, right?” Andrew said around the pickle, swallowing the masticated food after the sentence. Now it was John’s turn to grimace, although Andrew figured that was more because of the whole full mouth thing. With a little sigh, Andrew pushed away his plate and ate the rest of the pickle contemplatively. John continued to twist and turn his napkin, watching the restaurant’s clientele nervously. It was weird to see John this upset, honestly. The guy never fidgeted, at least not as long as Andrew had known him.
Some little twinge of sympathy twisted in his gut, making the pickle taste more sour than it already was. Andrew finished chewing and swallowed, studying the man across from him. After a long silence between them, he nodded, leaning back in his chair.
“All right. I’ll do it. But it’s stupid.” Andrew stared at John sternly. “It could end the world if I screw up.”
“I know,” John grumbled, glaring at his napkin and avoiding Andrew’s stern stare entirely. Without another word, he shoved the briefcase sitting by the table across the floor with his foot to rest at Andrew’s feet. Andrew glanced at the briefcase; he wouldn’t check it for the money and the components, because that just looked cheap. Plus, John had never shorted him before.
With a heavy sigh and a nod, Andrew fished around in his pocket for his wallet. He slapped down a fifty - overkill for the meal, but whatever, the waitress had been hot anyhow - grabbed the briefcase, and stood.
“Bring me the body at ten tomorrow night, at the studio,” Andrew said, and John nodded, still looking at the table. Jeez. Andrew was really starting to wonder who the hell died. But he turned and left anyways, because really, it was just another job. If he didn’t keep up the air of professionalism, nobody would pay him. Work was quiet enough as is. It wasn’t really often that a voodoo priest specializing in zombies was needed.
---
The whispered “fuck!” from outside did not go unnoticed. Nor the heavy thud that came right after.
With a harassed type of sigh, Andrew went to the door of his studio and cracked open the door. John was there, in the parking lot, struggling to lift a large man-sized object wrapped in a sheet out of his truck. The unfortunate man-sized object wrapped in a sheet had fallen and what was probably the head was resting on the ground at a very awkward angle. John had his arms wrapped around the torso and was trying to lift it. He was also failing, horribly.
Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering yet again why he was doing this. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Horrible idea. He hadn’t tried anything like this in years.
Then again, he thought of the money, and the stupid ethical part of himself pointed out how nervous John had been at the restaurant. With a mental string of curses, Andrew pushed open the door and moved into the parking lot to assist in moving the body.
They had to hustle; most people renting studios had gone home for the night, but you never know when a spare cop would drive by, and Andrew knew from experience that cops didn’t like people carrying bodies in sheets. After a little bit of effort, they got the body inside.
Andrew had gotten the studio ready beforehand - unfortunately, the tube fluorescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling had burnt out, and he didn’t have any more, so the room was lit by a battery powered camp light and a few candles, which gave it an interesting ambiance. The ambiance was offset, however, by the plastic table in the middle of the room wherein the ceremony would have to take place. With some hefting, they got the body onto the table and unrolled it from its sheet-like cocoon. Andrew was starting to wonder why people always wrapped bodies in a burrito-like fashion. It was really typical.
The dead kid, however, was a surprise.
Andrew swore he’d seen the kid before, but he couldn’t really place him. Skinny guy, long kinda face, dark hair cut short. What was more confusing was just the fact that… well… this was a guy. John had gotten that upset over this random kid dying? Weird, but all right. Maybe the kid owed him money. Considering the sum John had paid just for this kid, a lot of money.
Another weird thing about the dead kid... after unwrapping the body, Andrew checked the neck for bruising, and when he didn’t find anything, he moved down to the wrists. Nothing there either. No bullet wounds, no bruising, no lacerations sewn up. How the hell did this kid die?
“Stork, what the hell’re you doing?” John asked finally, and Andrew glanced up from the dead kid to find the Aussie staring at him.
“Uh… looking for the cause of death? Kinda important, you know. Big part of the ceremony.” Also equal parts curiosity, but whatever.
John eyed Andrew like he knew what was going through his mind, but he didn’t say anything. He glanced at the kid and he frowned, looking angry and troubled all at the same time. “Froze to death.”
Andrew blinked. “Wait… what? It’s the height of summer. How’d he freeze?”
John’s lips suddenly twisted into a scowl, a storm exploding to life in his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Well. That look reminded Andrew why he didn’t want to get on John’s bad side. “Okay. Whatever, I’ve heard weirder.” That was a lie, but he had to keep up appearances. Andrew glanced at the kid one last time, then shook his head, steeling himself for telling John this next bit of news. “All right, I need you to get out.”
John glared with that same storm cloud look in eyes. “What?” His accent got thicker, and his voice was low and dangerous, the kind of voice that promised very creative, very specific kinds of pain in the near future.
Andrew swallowed, and although John was a good old-fashioned mere mortal and he was a necromancer and a certified houngan, he was worried for his life for a moment. “Because I have a chance of turning you into an inside-out man-hippo-pig. Now get out of my studio, or I’ll chuck you and your dead kid out on the street.”
With a quiet curse, John turned and marched out of the studio, slamming the door and rattling the windows on the way out. Andrew sighed, feeling a bit more at ease now that he was alone.
… With a dead body. Oh yeah. Andrew heaved another sigh, this one aggravated, and he turned towards the bathroom. He might as well go grab the stupid required live chicken so he could get started.