Wexler’s Story Part 2

Further McReynolds writings. I should maybe just put these all in one large chunk, but y’know, that would be sensible… and probably long.

Also, is it a good sign or a bad sign that sometimes I can spot clearly shitty writing on my part, but occasionally can’t think of anything to do about it, so I just leave it there?

-Daniel

One hour later, Wexler stood outside of McReynold’s house, holding an envelope full of money.

He was now wearing Urban Combat Camouflage, a bulletproof vest, and a World War one-era grey German trenchcoat.

McReynolds opened the door with a wolfish grin on his face that quickly disappeared when he saw Wexler’s outfit.

“And here I thought it was the tie that made you look like an idiot,” he said, looking down at Wexler’s combat boots. He looked back up and the predatory grin had returned. “Money?” he asked, holding his hand out. Wexler handed over the envelope.

The difference in McReynold’s appearance was far more dramatic. He had showered and shaved and combed back his hair. He was now fully-clothed in a pair of jeans, a faint grey t-shirt, and a battered old denim jacket. His breath no longer smelled like a goat that had been drowned in liquor.

“Excellent,” McReynolds said, accepting the money. He walked inside, stepped over the corpse legs without looking, and flipped through the stack of bills. Wexler took the fact that McReynolds had left the door open as an invitation to come in and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

McReynolds pulled a random amount of cash out of the envelope, folded it up, and shoved it in the pocket of his jeans. He threw the rest on a coffee table. Wexler let out an involuntary whimper of disapproval. McReynolds followed Wexler’s eyes to the money on the table.

“Anyone who actually had the resources and capability to get in here would not be interested in money,”  he explained. “Now lock the door behind you, and meet me in the garage when you’re done.”

Wexler spent the next ten minutes attempting to figure out the sequence in which the colmplicated series of locks, bars, bolts, and chains were closed, and finally gave up when he had figured out just over half, thus ensuring that the house of McReynolds was roughly as secure as the US Bullion Depository, or as McReynolds called it, “mildly secure.”

Wexler found McReynolds standing in front of a large cabinet full of a variety of weapons that Wexler had no ability to identify. McReynolds zipped up an army-green duffel bag and threw it into the trunk of the black  ’68 Dodge Charger that was parked in the garage. He picked up three more shotguns, one of which Wexler recognized from when it had been pointed at his face earlier that day, and placed them in the back seat of the car.

“Come here for a sec,” McReynolds said. “Do you know how to use one of these?” McReynolds asked, offering Wexler a cold, black handgun. Wexler accepted the gun and it promptly thudded on the counter due to the unexpected weight.

McReynolds grabbed the gun back and handed Wexler a whistle on a loop of string. “If the bad men come, blow on this real hard.”

McReynolds walked over to a lever that was sticking out of the ground near the garage door and gave it a yank. A large iron bar that crossed the garage door lifted out of the way with a loud groan, then immediate began to slowly lower again to the clanging sound of gears and chains. He quickly punched a code into a panel on the wall and the garage door opened.

“Get in,” McReynolds said as he climbed into the driver’s side of the car.

“The first rule of Witch-Hunting is always drive a car that in the event of impact with a brick wall, stands a good chance of winning. Buckle up.”

+     +     +

Twenty minutes later they were standing outside of the downtown loft apartment that was, until recently, shared by Wexler and his sister.

McReynolds was armed with a total of three shotguns. The large double-barreled one from earlier was in his hands, another tactical-looking one was hanging on a strap over his back, and another much shorter double-barreled one was stuffed into a holster down his leg. If you made the observation that this seemed like an excessive amount of weaponry, McReynolds would point out that he likely killed over six hundred more people than you and that you could shut the hell up. Actually he probably would have just shot you, but that’s what he would have said if for some reason he didn’t have anything to shoot you with. which is unlikely, considering he usually carried three shotguns.

“You go change into something less ridiculous. I’m going to go through your sister’s stuff. Keep the vest but put it on UNDER your clothes,” McReynolds said.

McReynolds let out a long appreciative whistle when they stepped inside. The apartment was easily twice the size of his suburban home.

“Her room is just down the hallway and up the stairs above the den,” Wexler said self-consciously. He then went to his bedroom to change while McReynolds tromped off towards his sister’s room.

“HOLY SHIT THIS PLACE IS A MESS!” McReynolds shouted down the hallway.

“There’s an intercom near the door. If you flip the switch it will turn on the speakerphone,” Wexler said into the intercom.

“YOU DIDN”T TELL ME SHE WAS KIDNAPPED FROM HERE!” McReynolds shouted into the intercom a moment later.

“She wasn’t,” Wexler said. “That’s how she normally keeps it. And you don’t have to shout into the intercom.”

“I know,” McReynolds said. “I was expressing shock and outrage. Man, if there were more empty liquor bottles and a corpse or two, I woulda sworn we were at my place.”

Wexler heard some drawers being opened and the rustling sounds of McReynolds searching through the room.

“Your sister listen to a lot of this club trancy techno shit?” McReynolds asked.

“She listens to a lot of everything,” Wexler said. “But the techno shit is probably from her job.”

“Which is?”

“Well technically I guess she’s a concert promoter, but she doesn’t really do a whole lot of promotion. As near as I can tell, my sister is a professional party-girl. And not in the Paris Hilton tabloid attention whore sort of way. She has a knack for crowds of people; well for people in general, but she’s especially gifted and knowing exactly what to say or do and when to do it to get a group of people to do whatever she wants. And companies that benefit from throwing great parties pay her a lot of money to make it happen.”

“Huh,” McReynolds said. “And this sorcerer of yours met her at one of these parties?”

“Yes, he goes by the name Septius. Apparently he has a thing for the number seven.”

“Sorcerers always have a thing for something. That and power. And usually also little boys,” McReynolds grumbled. “And how did you learn this Septius guy has your sister?”

“Her Friend, Nikki…”

“Fucking hell, it had to be another Nikki,” McReynolds spat. “These guys seriously need to get a better writing staff.”

“Is something the matter?” Wexler asked.

“It’s just that the sister always has a friend, and they’re either named Britney, Amber, or Nikki. Britneys are usually bubbly, stupid, and on the verge of hysterics, but once you’ve calmed then down they’re somewhat useful and at the very least usually have great abs.

“Ambers secretly think they’re too cool or mature or sophisticated to be hanging out with their more popular friend, but they’re still following around said friend, mooching off their popularity. But that’s fine, whatever, because they’re usually at least casually intelligent.

“Nikkie’s are the worst. They’re the backstabbing worthless bitchy type who go on to become shallow, controlling house-wives or murder victims. I hate Nikkis.”

“Oh… okay,” Wexler said.

“I’m done here. You ready?”

“Sure,” Wexler said. He met McReynolds back at the front door to the apartment. Wexler was now wearing designer jeans that his sister had given to him, and a buttoned up red flannel shirt. The bulletproof vest underneath was just bulky enough to make it look like he had an over-developed torso.

“Well, you look like you have a glandular problem, but it’ll do,” McReynolds said.

“Did you find anything useful?” Wexler asked.

“What? No,” McReynolds said. “No, I just wanted to go through her stuff. 34D. Nice.”

Wexler grimaced.

“Does the sorcerer have any particular hang-outs?” McReynolds asked.

“Not that I know of,” Wexler said.

“Then I guess we’ll be headed to this Nikki bitch’s pla… oh sweet, never mind. I’d go hide behind some furniture if I were you.”

“Huh? What’s going on?” Wexler asked.

“Underlings,” McReynolds explained. “Duck,” he added, then shoved Wexler over before he could move.

Wexler heard a boom above him that made his ears ring, followed possibly by glass shattering on the other side of the room.

“Got one!,” McReynolds said quietly. Or possibly loudly; it was hard for Wexler to tell.

“Get moving,” McReynolds said with a rough kick to Wexler’s ass. Wexler crawled across the floor just as he heard another boom, this time followed by the thud of something hitting the floor. He threw himself under an oak coffee table between two purple love seats.

Wexler had a hard time following along with what happened next because his view of the fight consisted mostly of loud bangs, then crashing sounds of his apartment being obliterated, and occasional screaming. At one point he thought he’d seen a pair of feet stalking towards him, but they had gone flying away a moment later following another bang.

“You can come out now,” he heard McReynolds say. It seemed to Wexler that the fight had gone on for hours, but in all five minutes had passed. “Sorry about your place. Though you’ve probably got insurance go cover it, right?”

Wexler climbed out from his hiding spot. His apartment looked like… well, it looked like someone had just fought six superhuman guys to death with a giant shotgun, which is almost exactly what had happened. “Almost,” because two of them were still alive.

“I got me two of ‘em! That’s my very favorite kind of interrogation, because only one of them needs to stay alive ’til the end,” McReynolds said, cheerfully. Wexler saw two men hog-tied to each other on the ground. They were both bleeding from various places on their bodies, though slowly enough that they didn’t look like they were going to die immediately. There was something odd about their blood though. It was darker than normal, and seemed thicker than it should have been. They also had what looked like individual tentacles  protruding from their wrists.

There were three more spread around the room, though these were clearly dead and mostly dismembered.

“What are they?” Wexler gasped.

“Fuck if I know, but they seemed professional enough to use a sound-dampening charm. The body I shot off the side of the building’s liable to get noticed though, so while I’m dealing with these two you go down and throw the body in the incinerator and then…” McReynolds paused and then sniffed. “Did you piss yourself again?”

Wexler had indeed pissed himself again.

McReynolds sighed. “Alright, I’ll go take care of the guy outside while you go change. From now on you’re going potty before we go anywhere.”

Filed under: general, McReynolds