I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) by Tony Monchinski

Author:Tony Monchinski [Monchinski, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: norror noir, noir, vampires, new york city, horror, vampire, supernatural, action, splatterpunk, monsters
Publisher: Permuted Press
Published: 2014-10-06T00:00:00+00:00

Wednesday

21 October 1998

28.

9:35 A.M.

The fact that it was morning didn’t stop Cassidy from having a drink. Or two. It was something he did whenever he had to make a big decision. A glass of Scotch in his hand, a bottle of Glenlivet on the glass table in front of him, Cassidy stretched out on his couch with the remote in his other hand, the wide-screen television mounted on the wall across the living room.

Something he did when there was a big decision to be made: not get drunk, have a drink; getting drunk just happened sometimes.

He’d placed a coaster on the table for his glass.

“—Mephito’s Manifesto is a hodge podge of aphorisms, haiku, and seemingly discursive parables encompassing historical demography, microbiology, and philosophy—”

The television was blaring some inanity. Cassidy sat back lazily, his large frame sunk down in the couch. On the table in front of him, next to the bottle, was his shoulder holster. Resting in it, butt out towards him, his .45. The pistol had seven in the clip and one in the chamber. It was exactly a foot and a half away from Cassidy’s right hand, the hand resting indolently on his bent knee, the remote loosely gripped.

If an assassin came into his living room Cassidy could drop the remote, lean forward and fill his hand with the .45, pound the would-be killer into oblivion. Except no one had tried to kill him in a long time, not since he’d bowed out of the game. No one knew where he lived. And right now the only thing filling his hand was the remote control.

The sun hung strong outside, filtering between the track blinds of his picture window, lighting up the wall behind his television, washing out the picture, obscuring the art on the walls. Cassidy not bothered enough to get up and draw the blinds. Bullshit on t.v. anyway.

Some bloated, red-faced white man on the screen commenting: “—reads like the ramblings of an insane grad student dangling his toes in the hard sciences—”

If an assassin came in his living room, faster than Cassidy could ditch the remote and take up the pistol from the tabletop, the big man would reach across his body to the twin .45 that rested next to his right hip and launch the killer or killers into the hereafter. A round chambered in the second .45, the pistol lying amid the scattered pillows exactly where Cassidy had placed it.

Janelle was out, away on vacation. Their kids were grown, moved out. Matter of fact, Janelle was away on vacation with Harold and his family, their youngest. Janelle was around, Cassidy didn’t leave the guns lying about. But he always kept one near.

Cassidy didn’t expect to have to kill anyone right there and then. His days as an executioner or gunman or whatever people would call him were over. And then the phone call yesterday.

He sipped his single malt Scotch and leaned forward, replacing the glass on the coaster. The glass was nearly empty and he would have to get up and visit the bar, refill it soon.

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