McReynolds

So I started writing this thing at work while I was bored. It’s set in Anthony’s Witchbreed setting, though so far there’s absolutely nothing that would indicate as much besides minor little details that only make sense in my little head.

It’s not finished… at all. In fact I haven’t really gotten the story started. I’ll keep writing it… probably mostly at work still on the back of whatever scraps of paper I find, or now in a little tiny notebook I rediscovered in my room while unpacking from when I moved a couple months ago.

I’m hoping McReynolds will hang around as a character, because (even though you can’t tell yet) he’s interesting to me, and ALSO pretty fun to write.

He could die though. We’ll see.

Anyway… here’s what I’ve written so far:

-Daniel

Wexler looked nervous. His long, spindly fingers adjusted his bow-tie again. He had thought the bow-tie made him look more “sidekick”-y, but now he was pretty sure it just made him look ridiculous.

He might have been attractive if someone had bothered to show him how. He was tall, with dark hair and vivid blue eyes. If he occasionally spent some time out in the sun and subsisted on something other than products found at a convenience store at 3 am in the morning, the effect would have been devastating.

As such, his current haircut was a complete failure, his breath smelled like fake cheese, and he was wearing a button-up shirt with short sleeves under a very expensive long leather black coat. In the middle of summer. And the bow-tie was royal blue.

Maybe if he went by “Wex” instead of Wexler.

He was nervous because he was about to meet his hero.

The house in front of him was in disrepair. Surrounded on all sides by well-manicured, architecturally identical suburban development, the yellowing walls and falling shingles stood out like an abscess on a sore thumb. The lawn had not been mowed ever and the concrete walkway leading up to the front door was littered with an ominous amount of broken, empty bourbon bottles. There would have been a number of letters from the HOA if it weren’t for the fact that his neighbors, and frankly the officers of the local police department, were terrified of the occupant.

Wexler stopped fiddling with his tie and took a deep breath. He made his way towards the front door, carefully avoiding the larger shards of glass, and quickly rang the doorbell before he could lose his nerve.

There was a sign nailed to the front door that said “Forget the dog, beware of Owner.”

After a few anxious moments during which absolutely no one answered the door, Wexler attempted to peer through one of the windows. He discovered that all of them had thick iron bars on the outside, metal grates of some sort on the inside, and more grime than glass in between.

He tried the doorbell again.

He noticed a pile of decaying cigarette butts in front of the door. He carefully pushed it aside with his foot. Underneath was a doormat upon which someone had painted “FUCK OFF” in bright, DayGlo orange.

Wexler coughed. He put his ear against the door, hoping to hear some signs of life inside. He thought he heard what might have been a empty bottle of cheap bourbon rolling across the floor, but otherwise it was quiet.

Just to be safe, he tried the doorbell one last time.

“If you don’t lay the fuck off that doorbell I’m gonna try to part your hair with this shotgun,” A hoarse voice shouted from above. “And I’m warning you I’ve been drinking all day, so right now my aim’s for shit.”

Wexler looked up to see two barrels of a large shotgun pointing at his face. Behind the shotgun he could just make out an unruly mess of sand-colored hair and a pair of angry, blood-shot eyes.

“Er…” Wexler said.

“What the hell’re you doing ringing my doorbell so early in the morning?” the shotgun demanded. It was 3 PM in the afternoon.

“Uh…er…” said Wexler.

“Well? What are you? Reporter? Assassin?” the voice demanded. “Jehovah’s Witness?”

The shotgun seemed to shake a bit at that last one.

“Muh…Mick-McRey…er-nolds,” Said Wexler.

“No, I’m McReynolds. Who the fuck are… what the hell is that smell? Did you piss yourself?”

Wexler had indeed pissed himself.

“Shit,” McReynolds said. He pulled the shotgun back inside the window.

James “If you Call me ‘Mack’ I’ll End You” McReynolds might have been attractive if he gave a shit about anything. McReynolds epitomized the “ruggedly handsome” look with strong features, sandy-colored hair that was slowly greying at the temples, and a hard body covered in a network of scars that told tales of bravery and heroics. He had the kind of soul-penetrating ice-blue eyes that either made you confess or lubricate, depending on your gender.

At the moment however, he was wearing only a tattered pair of briefs that were covered in a combination of spilled bourbon and grease stains from the bucket of fried chicken he had passed out on roughly a week ago. He had the sallow bloodshot look of someone whose primary caloric intake was cheap liquor and he had not practiced hygiene for three months.

Wexler heard a series of clicks, scrapes, and finally a loud clunk from behind the door.

“What’s your name?” McReynolds demanded after he opened the door.

“Wexler,” he said. “Wexler Wimbledon…”

“Wexler Wimbledon?” McReynolds interrupted. “That’s an awful name. Who the hell would name their kid ‘Wexler Wimbledon?’”

“…the third,” Wexler finished.

“‘The third?’ You mean there’s three of you?”

There was an awkward pause while they both struggled, for different reasons, to figure out what to say next.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” McReynolds finally said. Wexler wasn’t sure whether McReynolds was apologizing for insulting him or expressing remorse for his name.

“Well, come in,” McReynolds finally offered, stepping out of the way. This was not going at all how Wexler had expected, but James McReynolds had just invited Wexiler into his house, so Wexler stepped inside.

In the past 25 years, McReynolds had killed 638 people. This is provided we expand the definition of “killed” to include “re-killed”, “staked”, “banished”, “exorcised”, and “disinfected.” We also have to be willing to expand the definition of “people” to include vampires, werewolves, zombies, ghosts, demons, sentient parasitic ooze, and on one occasion, some sort of curse monster intent on driving him insane via severe crotch irritation.

Upon reflection it’s possible that the last one was crabs.

Either way he had killed it with fire.

Very very delicate fire.

“What’s your pant size?” McReynolds asked after Wexler had stepped inside.

“30-34,” Wexler said.

“Ah, then you can probably grab the pants off the corpse,” McReynolds said, indicating a body that was laid out on the ground, the head and torso of which seemed to have been turned into sand.

“Erm,” Wexler said.

“Don’t worry. It’s preserved. It was a mummy, so no bacteria,” McReynolds said.

Wexler took a few hesitant steps towards the corpse.

“I’d leave the underwear though,” McReynolds added.

Wexler gave him a confused look.

“Scarabs.”

Wexler nodded solemnly and began trying to pull the sand-covered trousers off the corpse.

“Beer?” McReynolds offered from the kitchen. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a brown bottle. “It’s a…” he blew on the label and then scratched at it with his thumb, “Budweiser.”

“No-uh… thanks. Can I get a glass of water though?” Wexler asked as he struggled to pull the pants over the corpse’s shoes. He looked up to see McReynolds blinking at him without comprehension.

“Nevermind, I’m fine, thanks,” he said with a final tug.

“‘Kay,” McReynolds said. “Bathroom’s down the hall.” He pulled of the cap to the beer bottle with his teeth, spit it out in the sink, and then took a swig. Wexler proceeded down the hallway and found the bathroom.

The bathroom was so thoroughly messy and encased in mildew that Wexler was sure it was being punished. He promised himself a bath in hand sanitizer later and did his best to put it out of his mind. He turned on the tap and stripped out of his soiled clothing while he waited for the substance coming out of the faucet to become something that could reliably be called “liquid.”

“So,” McReynolds asked from outside the door, startling Wexler mid-splash. “What brings you to my door this morning, Wexler?”

“I’ve got a case for you, Mr McReynolds,” Wexler said.

“I’m not a detective of a lawyer. Sounds like you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Well I’ve been reading about you on the internet…”

“I hate the internet,” McReynolds interrupted.

“Well… I’ve been reading about you, and everyone seems to say you’re an expert in these sorts of things…”

“How much?” McReynolds asked.

“How much for what, sir?” Wexler asked, still splashing his groin with water.

“How much are you going to pay me?”

“Oh… Ten thousand dollars?” Wexler tried. He had tried to research what the going rate was for the services of a paranormal expert and Witch-hunter, but his research had been inconclusive.

“Hold on,” McReynolds said. Wexler heard McReynolds stomp up the stairs and rummage around something that seemed to involve a lot more glass bottles.

“Fifteen thousand,” McReynolds said after stomping back down the stairs.

“Okay,” Wexler said, weakly.

“Excellent. So what’s the job?”

Wexler finished pulling on the replacement pants. He threw the old pair out; guessing, correctly, that McReynolds did not have a working laundry machine. He opened the door to find McReynolds standing outside, still primarily naked.

“Well it’s my sister…” Wexler started.

“Stop,” McReynolds said. “Is your sister good-looking?”

“Why yes, she’s beautif…”

“Does she have great big tits?” McReynolds asked.

Wexler’s eyes went wide. “Sir, she’s my sis…”

“Does she or does she not have big-ass titties?” McReynolds demanded.

“Yes…” Wexler admitted, looking down at the floor.

“Deal’s off,” McReynolds said.

“What? Why?” Wexler asked, shocked.

“Done this one too many times,” McReynolds said.

“Look,” McReynolds continued, noting Wexler’s crestfallen expression. “This is how it’s going to go. You’re the wealthy heir to some Fortune 500 who just had their sister kidnapped for reasons that I don’t care about by vampires or a demon or…”

“A sorcerer,” Wexler said.

“A sorcerer? Fuck me, alright, make it twenty thousand. Kidnapped by a sorcerer. Now I can tell by your embarrassing tie that you’re a fan and that you’re hoping to become my plucky sidekick so I’ll show you all of the ropes of Witch-hunting and demon-slaying so you can live like some rich playboy James Bond wannabe who kills evil when he wants to adventure or to impress some babe into sleeping with you.

We’ll follow whatever lead you have, get ambushed by some low-level thugs who don’t take us seriously, kill the fuck out of them and capture one. After interrogating him, we’ll find our way to the secret bad guy hideout where we’ll fall into some trap that we’ll have to clever our way out of. Then we’ll find your sister and discover that this sorcerer had some completely different reason to kidnap her than you thought.

Meanwhile over the course of our adventure you’ll have your Siddhartha moment and realize for yourself that there is suffering out in the real world and that it does in fact suck, which will cause you to feel like you need to make some great character change and inexorably lead to you sacrificing yourself in what you believe is a heroic manner, but is in fact completely retarded, during the last boss fight.

After you’re dead, I’ll kill the sorcerer, save your sister and then find out that, clever plot twist, the sorcerer was just some schmuck lieutenant.

Your sister and I will escape but, as previously mentioned, you’ll be dead by this point so I won’t get paid, and therefore the most I’ll get out of the deal is probably a new scar or two, another vendetta against me by some asshole who fancies himself the lord of something, and a fifty-fifty chance of banging your sister.”

Wexler wore an expression usually seen only on roadkill.

“So it’ll be Twenty-Five grand, ten in cash up front, and you cover expenses.”

“O-okay,” Wexler managed.

“Deal,” McReynolds said, grabbing Wexler’s hand and shaking it. “You really suck at bargaining.”

“Thank you,” Wexler said, clearly still overwhelmed.

“Come back in a hour with the cash and we’ll get started.”

Wexler headed for the door.

“Oh, and lose the bow tie. You look like an idiot.”

Filed under: general, McReynolds