My name is Duke Darlington, and I’m a folklore hunter. It’s not an easy job, but I do get paid a lot of money to kill vampires, ghouls, goblins and all other things unholy. Most people can’t even imagine the horrors that I have seen and, up until recently, I really thought that I had seen it all.

But then this tall man wearing a hip-looking suit, dark sunglasses and a black fedora walked into my office, and introduced himself as Joe Cool. His voice was harsh, it sounded as though he had a chainsaw stuck in his throat. Mr. Cool went on to inform me that he’d been looking for a new home for quite some time, and after months of searching he’d finally found the one that he wanted. So, he bought it. He went on to say that it was one of the nicer houses in Wolf County. A rustic, quaint home that was nestled nicely in a wooded area.

I smiled (almost politely) and told him to hurry the fuck up with his story! Because time is money, and he was wasting my time.

He seemed offended. But I didn’t care. Joe Cool hurried up with his story and said that there was a rowdy nightclub within a mile from his home. An usual nightclub where only werewolves hung out. At first, he hesitated thinking that I may laugh at him, but like I said, I am a folklore hunter and nothing really seemed to amaze me.

I nodded and said, “My fee is twenty-thousand dollars for werewolf removal.”

The man who had looked all cocky and cool, now looked uneasy, almost bashful. He tugged at his shirt collar, as perspiration formed on his forehead. He wiped it away quickly like he was embarrassed by it. Then he agreed, left and came back the next day with twenty-thousand dollars in cold-hard cash. I told him that I would get right on it.


A week later, I pulled my Bronco to the side of the road. I didn’t know how many werewolves there would be in the nightclub, so I brought along my two Uzi machine guns. I loaded them up with silver bullets. Put on my hiking boots, sprayed myself down with some bug spray and made my way through the large trees and thick shrubs to the werewolves nightclub. It was tiny, loud and and a wooden sign, hanging cockeyed, declared that it was called ‘WOLFSBURG.’ I pulled out my guns, kicked in the door and couldn’t believe my eyes.

Naturally, the jukebox was playing ‘Werewolves Of London.’ That didn’t surprise me, but what did surprise me was how the werewolves were acting. Six of them were line dancing, while one of them was doing the robot. Four of the hairy beasts were sitting at a round table smoking huge cigars and playing poker. There was even a line of them sitting at the bar drinking beer, margaritas and fuzzy navels. I had to blink my eyes several times as I watched two of the werewolves, look around nervously, then sniff up four lines of cocaine.

I shook my head and began firing at them, emptying the clips. Once the smoke cleared my eyes (once again) couldn’t believe what they were seeing. The werewolves sat there unfazed, although some of them did look extremely pissed-off. I started to back up slowly, feeling as though my luck had finally run out.

I nearly wet myself as one of the werewolves put a furry arm around my shoulders. “Where’re you going, Gunner?” he said with a fake British accent. “It’s almost suppertime!”

I didn’t answer, my body froze like a statue. I watched with wide, puzzled eyes as most of the werewolves returned to their partying. That eased my mind, until another werewolf approached me. He was large, smelt like a wet dog and bleeding from a bullet hole in his chest. He smiled and said, “I hope you’ve got some money to pay for the mess that you’ve done to my bar.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“That’s good,” he said. “I needed to redecorate anyway.” He glanced down at my guns and added, “Say, how about putting them guns away, and stick around for supper. It’s ribs night here at Wolfsburg, and I hate to brag, but they are the best damn ribs that you’ll ever eat!”

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked swiftly. “Why aren’t you all dead?”

The wolf with his arm around my shoulders spoke, “Because Wolfsburg is built on sacred ground.”

“Yeah,” the other werewolf chimed-in. He looked at the werewolf who was hugging my shoulder tightly and said, “Go and get our new friend here a cold beer. The good stuff, too. Not that imported shit!”

“Sure, boss,” he answered, taking off.

The werewolf invited me to take a seat with him. I did and he began to tell me, “See, mister. Years ago my Great-grandfather had this place built on sacred ground. And as long as us, werewolves, are on this ground. Silver has no effect on us.”

“But I was paid to kill you guys.”

“By who?” he asked.

“Your new neighbor,” I answered briskly.

He pondered the thought, then said, “Well, hopefully you were paid in cash.”

I grinned. “That’s the only way.”

“Good,” he exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder. “Because that’s who’s ribs we’re having for dinner tonight!”

"All Things Unholy"
Copyright: © 2010 Chad Case and The Matrix
CHAD CASE is the kind of person who sits around thinking about how to save the world. While THE MATRIX is the kind of person who sits around thinking about how to destroy it.

1 comment:

  1. Fun little story, guys! Loved it:)
    Stacy Bolli