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Moon
- Joined
- May 6, 2012
Benjamin Martell pushed a hand through his dark hair as he waited for the signal from the pudgy man sitting across from him. “That’s all for tonight, boils and ghouls. This is Mitch Scary Larriet signing off!” Mitch pressed a button and glanced to the control room of the public radio station, waiting for a thumbs up before he took off his headphones. “That’s a wrap, man. A weird rap.”
Ben smirked and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “Par for the course, Scary Larriet,” he said. “I thought your show was all about this sort of thing.”
The other man opened a drawer on his desk and produced a six pack of cheap beer, two rings already empty. “Yeah, but we mostly just make fun of people for believing in ghosts… I was kinda surprised you agreed to come on.” He pulled a can from the pack and held it out to Ben.
“A little early for me,” he said, holding his hand up to refuse. It was a little early for everybody, honestly. It had just struck 3:00 when the show ended. The Scary Larriet show was a relatively unpopular late night call in show that focused on the paranormal. Most of the time it was devoted to callers complaining about various movies or TV shows, but tonight had been something special. Benjamin Martell was a real life paranormal investigator, and he had been in for the whole three hours to answer questions about how to get rid of ghosts, what the signs were of demonic possession, and what it was like to go toe-to-toe with a vampire.
Mitch shrugged and opened his can. You could tell from the way it foamed that it was not even remotely cold, and Ben was glad he’d passed. Truth was he could use a drink, just not that drink. “So, we’re off the air, man… level with me. It’s all bullshit, right? I mean, you talk a good game, but you’re a smart guy… come on.”
Ben stood up, stretched his hands up above his head, and bit back a yawn. “I officially have no comment,” he said as he stretched and rose up on his toes. He rolled his broad shoulders and felt his back complain about the three hours in the uncomfortable chair. Something about his tone suggested that his unofficial response was close to what Mitch suspected, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone even nominally in the press that he was a fraud. He was a fraud, though. An excellent one. His imagination and confidence and decent acting skill had enabled him to live a life of adventure and modest riches without any of the dangers. He’d go into a haunted house and talk a good game and set up some props and yell a little and voila – no more ghost. Because, of course, there had never been a ghost. It worked basically the same way with vampires or demons, though sometimes those required a bit more in the way of religious paraphernalia. “See you later, Mitch…”
And he was out the door before the other man could swallow his mouthful of warm beer to respond.
Outside, it was surprisingly dark for the middle of a big city. The streetlights didn’t seem up to the task of fighting dark quite this thick. Ben pulled his collar up against the chill and wondered if there was a bar still serving drinks at this hour. He had barely taken a step when a voice rose up behind him. “Hey, Monsieur Martell?”
The voice was closer than it should’ve been, and Ben jumped as he heard it and spun around fast. Where he had stood not ten seconds earlier was a small, pale, bald man wearing what appeared to be a Revolutionary War reenactor’s get-up. “Um…” Ben stepped back from the man. “Yes? I’m Ben Martell.”
“The one on the radio, professing to have slain a child of the night?”
Ben relaxed slightly. One of these people. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the approach, but it was just one guy, and he was small, too. Ben was over 6 feet, broad shouldered, fit from years of athletics. He maintained himself well in part because he liked the reaction of women when he took off his shirt, but it also helped the act. Tall, strapping, muscular guy who looked like he could play pro football taking paranormal nonsense seriously played well to the people he depended on for a living. “That’s right,” he said. “Though to be honest it was more than one… frankly, I lost count.”
Suddenly the small man closed the distance, impossibly fast. His hand shot out and caught Ben by the throat before he could even think to reach for his pepper spray or his knife. The grip was shockingly powerful, and before Ben could even fathom how he was pinned to the wall of the station. The little man was holding him up against the wall with one hand around his throat, his eyes flashing furiously… and it all seemed so effortless. Ben swung his arm and punched the man in the chest, right in the solar plexus, as hard as he could. He may as well have punched a statue. Ben would have cried out from the pain in his fingers if he could draw a breath.
The small man licked his lips and opened his mouth, his tongue running along his teeth – including his long, sharp fangs. “I should leave your bloodless corpse as a warning to your ilk,” the man snarled, his other hand moving to Ben’s chest to feel his heartbeat and then running up to follow his pulse to his neck. “But a quick death is too good for you… and a pretty, strapping thing like you is worth more than a little.”
The grip loosened slightly and Ben managed to wheeze out, “I… I have money if you’ll just…” And the iron fingers closed again, silencing him. And then the small man pulled Ben away from the wall before smashing him against it. Ben’s head hit hard, and as he lost consciousness he was aware of the broken bricks falling against his back as the little man effortlessly slung him over his shoulder to carry him away. All the while, the man was muttering something under his breath about the markets.
Ben smirked and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “Par for the course, Scary Larriet,” he said. “I thought your show was all about this sort of thing.”
The other man opened a drawer on his desk and produced a six pack of cheap beer, two rings already empty. “Yeah, but we mostly just make fun of people for believing in ghosts… I was kinda surprised you agreed to come on.” He pulled a can from the pack and held it out to Ben.
“A little early for me,” he said, holding his hand up to refuse. It was a little early for everybody, honestly. It had just struck 3:00 when the show ended. The Scary Larriet show was a relatively unpopular late night call in show that focused on the paranormal. Most of the time it was devoted to callers complaining about various movies or TV shows, but tonight had been something special. Benjamin Martell was a real life paranormal investigator, and he had been in for the whole three hours to answer questions about how to get rid of ghosts, what the signs were of demonic possession, and what it was like to go toe-to-toe with a vampire.
Mitch shrugged and opened his can. You could tell from the way it foamed that it was not even remotely cold, and Ben was glad he’d passed. Truth was he could use a drink, just not that drink. “So, we’re off the air, man… level with me. It’s all bullshit, right? I mean, you talk a good game, but you’re a smart guy… come on.”
Ben stood up, stretched his hands up above his head, and bit back a yawn. “I officially have no comment,” he said as he stretched and rose up on his toes. He rolled his broad shoulders and felt his back complain about the three hours in the uncomfortable chair. Something about his tone suggested that his unofficial response was close to what Mitch suspected, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone even nominally in the press that he was a fraud. He was a fraud, though. An excellent one. His imagination and confidence and decent acting skill had enabled him to live a life of adventure and modest riches without any of the dangers. He’d go into a haunted house and talk a good game and set up some props and yell a little and voila – no more ghost. Because, of course, there had never been a ghost. It worked basically the same way with vampires or demons, though sometimes those required a bit more in the way of religious paraphernalia. “See you later, Mitch…”
And he was out the door before the other man could swallow his mouthful of warm beer to respond.
Outside, it was surprisingly dark for the middle of a big city. The streetlights didn’t seem up to the task of fighting dark quite this thick. Ben pulled his collar up against the chill and wondered if there was a bar still serving drinks at this hour. He had barely taken a step when a voice rose up behind him. “Hey, Monsieur Martell?”
The voice was closer than it should’ve been, and Ben jumped as he heard it and spun around fast. Where he had stood not ten seconds earlier was a small, pale, bald man wearing what appeared to be a Revolutionary War reenactor’s get-up. “Um…” Ben stepped back from the man. “Yes? I’m Ben Martell.”
“The one on the radio, professing to have slain a child of the night?”
Ben relaxed slightly. One of these people. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the approach, but it was just one guy, and he was small, too. Ben was over 6 feet, broad shouldered, fit from years of athletics. He maintained himself well in part because he liked the reaction of women when he took off his shirt, but it also helped the act. Tall, strapping, muscular guy who looked like he could play pro football taking paranormal nonsense seriously played well to the people he depended on for a living. “That’s right,” he said. “Though to be honest it was more than one… frankly, I lost count.”
Suddenly the small man closed the distance, impossibly fast. His hand shot out and caught Ben by the throat before he could even think to reach for his pepper spray or his knife. The grip was shockingly powerful, and before Ben could even fathom how he was pinned to the wall of the station. The little man was holding him up against the wall with one hand around his throat, his eyes flashing furiously… and it all seemed so effortless. Ben swung his arm and punched the man in the chest, right in the solar plexus, as hard as he could. He may as well have punched a statue. Ben would have cried out from the pain in his fingers if he could draw a breath.
The small man licked his lips and opened his mouth, his tongue running along his teeth – including his long, sharp fangs. “I should leave your bloodless corpse as a warning to your ilk,” the man snarled, his other hand moving to Ben’s chest to feel his heartbeat and then running up to follow his pulse to his neck. “But a quick death is too good for you… and a pretty, strapping thing like you is worth more than a little.”
The grip loosened slightly and Ben managed to wheeze out, “I… I have money if you’ll just…” And the iron fingers closed again, silencing him. And then the small man pulled Ben away from the wall before smashing him against it. Ben’s head hit hard, and as he lost consciousness he was aware of the broken bricks falling against his back as the little man effortlessly slung him over his shoulder to carry him away. All the while, the man was muttering something under his breath about the markets.