"Slugging the Reaper"
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dochermes"Slugging the Reaper"
(11/2/2000)
12/11/1978
Jeremy Bane stood with hands clasped at the small of his back, staring moodily out the window at the rain. He could not see more than a few yards into the woods. The downpour had been going on since late afternoon and now, close to midnight, it was just beginning to show signs of letting up. At least it was warm enough that this storm wouldn't leave freezing rain.
At twenty-one, Bane stood just over six feet tall, with the lean, stripped-down appearance of a runner. His black hair was cut short. From under heavy brows glared a pair of cold grey eyes that regarded the world with suspicion and distrust. He was dressed all in black, slacks and turtleneck and sport jacket, and without trying, he unnerved a lot of people who met him. The Dire Wolf glanced back over his shoulder at the house he was stationed in this night. The living room was warm and dry, the furniture solid and comfortable, there were bookshelves and a big TV and even a small fireplace with a stone mantle. This writer Martin Kendall sure lived well. A house like this at the foot of the Catskills, with fifty acres and a nearby lake, could not come cheap.
Bane surveyed the room warily. The stairs going up to the bedroom where Kendall was sleeping, the polished light wood floor, the heavy curtains... everything seemed okay. This place wasn't bad, he concluded. You could see how it was quiet and cozy enough for a Hollywood type to work on his screenplays. Kendall was rich, successful, single and still young enough to enjoy it all.
Too bad someone wanted to kill him.
Seeing nothing out of place, the Dire Wolf began to pace restlessly. The same metabolism that gave him his enhanced reflexes also made him hyperactive and he found it difficult to stand still. He went over to the bookcase and glanced at the titles. Mysteries, mostly. Bane almost growled deep in his chest at the prospect of a long, boring night of keeping watch. It wasn't that Kendall had hired him as a bodyguard, because no money was involved. The threats on the writer's life had sounded so twisted, so unbalanced, that Kendall had gone to his old friend Kenneth Dred for help. Dred had agreed that a frustrated stalker had to be taken seriously and that such a psychotic had to be taken seriously. The letters had warned that Kendall would never see another day after his fortieth birthday... tonight.
At seventy-eight, Dred seldom left his house on East 38th Street in New York City and he certainly could not be expected to provide much protection himself. But he had a new protege, a dangerous young man who had been hired as a field agent but who quickly was becoming a surrogate son, Jeremy Bane. So here the Dire Wolf had come. He glanced at his watch. Ten to midnight. Part of his mind wondered why this stalker had come to hate Kendall so viciously, why the letters and phone calls had escalated so rapdily to death threats and finally a vow to kill the loved one. It didn't make sense to Bane, who had no emotional ties to anyone other than Dred, who he respected and even cared about. But he knew part of being famous was having an occaasional whacko fan. What made this a matter for Bane and not the police was the element of the supernatural that tinged the situation...
For Kenneth Dred was an authority on the Midnight War, the ancient conflict that gave rise to folklore around the world, the source of tales of monsters and demons. In his younger years, he had fought the threats that normal methods could not handle. Now, nearing the end of his life, he was turning his battles over to Bane. On the mantle, a clock chimed softly, midnight. Bane straightened up and took a breath. Dred had told him that Kendall had dabbled in the occult, that the degenerate orgies and esoteric drugs of the notorious Red Sect had drawn him in. That loose band of hedonists and nihilists had welcomed the wealthy screenwriter, but Kendall dropped away when he saw genuine black magic before his eyes.
On each forearm, sheathed under his sleeves, Bane wore a silver-bladed dagger. So far, he hadn't met anything that could stand up to them, with his own speed and skill behind those blades. Outside, the rain sounded like it was coming down heavier. Then the front door opened despite its being locked, and the Grim Reaper walked in.
Bane froze where he was, paralyzed with disbelief and fear. Here was a skeleton, white and fleshless, rags draped over its shoulders, wielding a scythe, It was a figure out of folklore, seen in countless cartoons and illustrations and movies, an icon rooted deep in the human mind. For the first time in his life, Bane stood motionless in terror. He held his breath as the weird figure stalked past him toward the stairs. The Reaper paused with one bony foot on the bottom stair, turned its skull toward Bane and leered mockingly.
And then, strangely enough, Bane noticed something. The wet muddy footprints that the Grim Reaper had left on the wooden floor weren't skeletal. They were perfectly ordinary, wide, shoe-shaped prints. The Dire Wolf suddenly stared at the Reaper with new perception. The changed look on his face seemed to startle the ghastly apparition. Standing near a lamp, the Reaper's shadow loomed sharply on the wall next to him and it was the perfectly normal shadow of a flesh and blood man.
With a wicked grin, Bane hurtled across the room, quicker than a real wolf. The Reaper raised its arms and squacked, "No, wait..!" The Dire Wolf was on him in a barrage of short quick punches to the body and then a whiplash backfist that spun the spectre completely around to drop to the floor. The air shimmered redly, suddenly the Reaper became a young man with dark blonde hair and a bloody nose. The scythe was a common machete. With the man being beaten senseless, the illusion cast on him faded and was gone.
Standing over the unconscious man, Bane let out a deep breath. He rubbed his left fist, where a knuckle had been scraped on a tooth. That had been an unexpectedly busy few minutes, he thought wryly. He glanced up the stairs but saw no sign of activity, Martin Kendall had downed a few drinks, locked his door and gone to sleep more than an hour ago; the fight, if you could call it that, had only lasted a few seconds and had not rousted him. The Dire Wolf shook himself and came back to the situation at hand. Now, he needed some clothesline to tie this guy up. Then a phone call to Kenneth Dred down in the city, he would be waiting up to hear what had happened. Then calling the police, although his report to them would leave out the gralic illusion of Red Sect that had made the intruder look like.. like...
Abruptly, Bane snorted and almost laughed out loud, something rare for him. Nothing would ever intimidate him again. Once you punched out the Grim Reaper, any other opponent would be a letdown.
___________________
Written 11/2/2000 - Revised 2/22/2013
(11/2/2000)
12/11/1978
Jeremy Bane stood with hands clasped at the small of his back, staring moodily out the window at the rain. He could not see more than a few yards into the woods. The downpour had been going on since late afternoon and now, close to midnight, it was just beginning to show signs of letting up. At least it was warm enough that this storm wouldn't leave freezing rain.
At twenty-one, Bane stood just over six feet tall, with the lean, stripped-down appearance of a runner. His black hair was cut short. From under heavy brows glared a pair of cold grey eyes that regarded the world with suspicion and distrust. He was dressed all in black, slacks and turtleneck and sport jacket, and without trying, he unnerved a lot of people who met him. The Dire Wolf glanced back over his shoulder at the house he was stationed in this night. The living room was warm and dry, the furniture solid and comfortable, there were bookshelves and a big TV and even a small fireplace with a stone mantle. This writer Martin Kendall sure lived well. A house like this at the foot of the Catskills, with fifty acres and a nearby lake, could not come cheap.
Bane surveyed the room warily. The stairs going up to the bedroom where Kendall was sleeping, the polished light wood floor, the heavy curtains... everything seemed okay. This place wasn't bad, he concluded. You could see how it was quiet and cozy enough for a Hollywood type to work on his screenplays. Kendall was rich, successful, single and still young enough to enjoy it all.
Too bad someone wanted to kill him.
Seeing nothing out of place, the Dire Wolf began to pace restlessly. The same metabolism that gave him his enhanced reflexes also made him hyperactive and he found it difficult to stand still. He went over to the bookcase and glanced at the titles. Mysteries, mostly. Bane almost growled deep in his chest at the prospect of a long, boring night of keeping watch. It wasn't that Kendall had hired him as a bodyguard, because no money was involved. The threats on the writer's life had sounded so twisted, so unbalanced, that Kendall had gone to his old friend Kenneth Dred for help. Dred had agreed that a frustrated stalker had to be taken seriously and that such a psychotic had to be taken seriously. The letters had warned that Kendall would never see another day after his fortieth birthday... tonight.
At seventy-eight, Dred seldom left his house on East 38th Street in New York City and he certainly could not be expected to provide much protection himself. But he had a new protege, a dangerous young man who had been hired as a field agent but who quickly was becoming a surrogate son, Jeremy Bane. So here the Dire Wolf had come. He glanced at his watch. Ten to midnight. Part of his mind wondered why this stalker had come to hate Kendall so viciously, why the letters and phone calls had escalated so rapdily to death threats and finally a vow to kill the loved one. It didn't make sense to Bane, who had no emotional ties to anyone other than Dred, who he respected and even cared about. But he knew part of being famous was having an occaasional whacko fan. What made this a matter for Bane and not the police was the element of the supernatural that tinged the situation...
For Kenneth Dred was an authority on the Midnight War, the ancient conflict that gave rise to folklore around the world, the source of tales of monsters and demons. In his younger years, he had fought the threats that normal methods could not handle. Now, nearing the end of his life, he was turning his battles over to Bane. On the mantle, a clock chimed softly, midnight. Bane straightened up and took a breath. Dred had told him that Kendall had dabbled in the occult, that the degenerate orgies and esoteric drugs of the notorious Red Sect had drawn him in. That loose band of hedonists and nihilists had welcomed the wealthy screenwriter, but Kendall dropped away when he saw genuine black magic before his eyes.
On each forearm, sheathed under his sleeves, Bane wore a silver-bladed dagger. So far, he hadn't met anything that could stand up to them, with his own speed and skill behind those blades. Outside, the rain sounded like it was coming down heavier. Then the front door opened despite its being locked, and the Grim Reaper walked in.
Bane froze where he was, paralyzed with disbelief and fear. Here was a skeleton, white and fleshless, rags draped over its shoulders, wielding a scythe, It was a figure out of folklore, seen in countless cartoons and illustrations and movies, an icon rooted deep in the human mind. For the first time in his life, Bane stood motionless in terror. He held his breath as the weird figure stalked past him toward the stairs. The Reaper paused with one bony foot on the bottom stair, turned its skull toward Bane and leered mockingly.
And then, strangely enough, Bane noticed something. The wet muddy footprints that the Grim Reaper had left on the wooden floor weren't skeletal. They were perfectly ordinary, wide, shoe-shaped prints. The Dire Wolf suddenly stared at the Reaper with new perception. The changed look on his face seemed to startle the ghastly apparition. Standing near a lamp, the Reaper's shadow loomed sharply on the wall next to him and it was the perfectly normal shadow of a flesh and blood man.
With a wicked grin, Bane hurtled across the room, quicker than a real wolf. The Reaper raised its arms and squacked, "No, wait..!" The Dire Wolf was on him in a barrage of short quick punches to the body and then a whiplash backfist that spun the spectre completely around to drop to the floor. The air shimmered redly, suddenly the Reaper became a young man with dark blonde hair and a bloody nose. The scythe was a common machete. With the man being beaten senseless, the illusion cast on him faded and was gone.
Standing over the unconscious man, Bane let out a deep breath. He rubbed his left fist, where a knuckle had been scraped on a tooth. That had been an unexpectedly busy few minutes, he thought wryly. He glanced up the stairs but saw no sign of activity, Martin Kendall had downed a few drinks, locked his door and gone to sleep more than an hour ago; the fight, if you could call it that, had only lasted a few seconds and had not rousted him. The Dire Wolf shook himself and came back to the situation at hand. Now, he needed some clothesline to tie this guy up. Then a phone call to Kenneth Dred down in the city, he would be waiting up to hear what had happened. Then calling the police, although his report to them would leave out the gralic illusion of Red Sect that had made the intruder look like.. like...
Abruptly, Bane snorted and almost laughed out loud, something rare for him. Nothing would ever intimidate him again. Once you punched out the Grim Reaper, any other opponent would be a letdown.
___________________
Written 11/2/2000 - Revised 2/22/2013
