Dis my first story xo readerz bear wit me 4 any mistake along the line.

Intro;
The good,the bad and the ugly.Good,better,best.....legendary.......momma told u there was nothing like monsterz,didnt she?.......guess what............(she lied)

This story's plot is based u.s;


I was an average working gy until i threw my boss from a ten storey building through the window.Mind u i didnt just get up and and decided 2 kill my boss with my bare hands of course.In my life i wouldnt have considered something as crazy as dat.Hell,i was just an accountant,a lowly one at that.
That single event changed my whole life.
My Mike Pitt and this is my story.
The finance department of Hansen industries inc. was located on the fourteenth floor of a generic building at downtown dallas.There were ten of us accountants in ten cubicles with a narrow passage.I was the new gy.
It was a nice job to an extent.The pay was good,worker were friendly and and was quite interesting.It was my first career job after finishing college unless you called car snatching and bouncing at clubs a job.
My plan was to hold down a steady job,marry a wife,have kidz and settle down at a quiet area.I was young and my future was bright.

There was only one setback 2 my job wit such a fine company.My boss was angry idiot.He was a bully who alwayz finds inferiors to blame for his faults.Despite his stupidity,his little brain couldnt tell him why he wasn't promoted 4 the last ten yearz.It waz clear that the world waz wrong with him.After getting to know the man,...i couldn't blame the world.
As the newest hire in Hansen industry inc. i was the whipping boy for Mr. Harry,my boss.The the previous newest hire had committed thereby creating the opening i currently occupied.
Since the vile Mr.harry was supposed to train me,i was pretty much bleeped up at the beginning.Mr. harry had just returned from sick leave and alwayz kept himself locked in his office.

I glanced absently on my watch.It was already 8:45pm and all the remaining cubicles were already empty.My stomach growled with annoyance for nt being settled since i ate a piece of hamburger for lunch.It was tym to go,i locked all my files and logged out my computer.I was about to leave when the intercom buzzed.it made me jump.
"Who's there? The voice belonged my bleep up boss,Mr harry.I pretended nt to hear and was hurriedly trying 2 to leave when the intercom buzzed again,"Pitt are u there?come to my office,right now.
Damn,i was busted.I walked slowly to his office and was thinking of the excuses i would give that i had to leave right away.Martial arts class?no,he already thought i was 2 militant,church?he wasnt gonna believe dat,date?not a chance,sick mother?...well that was worth a shot.
When i entered mr.harry's office all thoughts of my sick mom vanished.There was mr.harry standing stark naked staring up at the evening sky.
"Have a seat Pitt,he said"."uh,no thanks,i said,i have a sick mom.....
"I SAID SIT!,he said in menancing tone.Do you knw what night this is ?Tonight is a special night.
"A month ago i was given a gift and tonight i am a king!I know you gys dnt respect me and how u laugh at me behind my back.Especially u Pitt.I knw u want to stab me in the back.
I really didnt want to stab him in the back more like punch him in the face.It seems that my boss in going nutz cus it had a crazy look in his eyes.
"Just take easy,boss am nt out to get you,i am going 2 step out for a second."Then i noticed the dinner bag on his desk,something had fallen out of the bag.It was a human hand.A freaking human hand."Is that a human hand?"i blurted.My boss was already raving and ranting about meaningless plots to take his position.Holy shit,my was nt just nutz,he was also a serial killer too?
The naked crazy fat man pointed at the moon."The time has come.Tonight i am a god"he squealed.
As i watched in the pale lunar light,his fingerz began to elongate.His skin started sprouting thick black fur,his teeth elongated and his legs thickened.I froze on the spot,looking at the monstrostity in front of me.I had just discovered my boss was a werewolf.

To this day I don't know why at that moment I felt the need to make a confession to my rapidly mutating boss. Even though I was in accordance with Texas state law, I was in direct violation of the company's workplace safety rule.
"You know that 'no weapons at work' policy?" I asked the twitching and growing hairy monstrosity standing less than ten feet from me. His yellow eyes bored into me with raw animal hatred. There was nothing recognizably human in that look.
"I never did like that rule," I said as I bent down and drew my gun from my ankle holster, put the front sight on the target and rapidly fired all five shots from my snub-nosed.357 Smith & Wesson into Mr. Huffman's body. God bless Texas.
The creature that had been mr harry staggered back against the window, leaving a smear of blood and tissue as it slid down the glass onto the carpet. Some of the bullets had either missed or over-penetrated and cracked the thick window. Not staying to examine, I turned and ran, almost breaking my nose as I crashed into the door while trying to open it. I took the time to slam it behind me before sprinting down the narrow hallway, empty gun in one hand, fingers of my other hand groping through my coat pocket for my speed loader of extra ammo.mr harry's office door flew open with a bang. The thing standing in the doorway was clearly more animal than man, but obviously not any normal animal. My supervisor's fatty bulk had been somehow twisted into a sleek and muscled form. Long claws tore into the blue industrial carpet. Coarse black hair covered his body, and the wolf face was a nightmare come to life. Lips pulled back into a drooling snarl, revealing a row of razor-like teeth. Now on all fours, he raised his muzzle and smelled the air, howling when he spotted me.
The blood in my veins turned to ice.
Running in the direction of the elevator, I snapped the cylinder of my revolver closed with five more Federal 125-grain hollow points inside. The creature was fast, much faster than an Olympic sprinter, and I was no Olympic sprinter. My lead down the hallway dwindled in seconds. I spun and fired as it leapt at me, striking the beast in the face. His muzzle turned on impact and momentum carried him into the wall, crushing the sheetrock. Immediately he started to rise, jagged fur bristling down his back.
I'm a very good shot. The tiny revolver was not my best weapon for accuracy, but I did my part. Focusing on the front sight, aiming for the creature's skull, I pulled the trigger. With each concussion I brought the little gun back down and repeated the process. I was rewarded with a flash of red and white as a.357 hollow point blossomed through harry's brain, but I kept pulling the trigger until the hammer clicked empty. I was out of ammo.
My vision had tunneled in on the threat. My pulse was pounding like a drum. The adrenaline running through my system had tuned out the horrendous muzzle blasts. I brought the gun down to my side. Harry was dead.
I tried to control my breathing as I began to hyperventilate. Perhaps I was losing my mind, for lying not twenty feet from my cubicle was a dead werewolf. A monster from fairy tales, but somehow it was here, sprawled on the carpet, brains blown out. There had not been time to feel fear or any other emotion as the creature had been chasing me, but that all came out now as if a dam had burst. The uncontrollable shaking in my limbs was slow at first, but quickly gained in intensity as I got a better look at the beast on the floor. It was like being in a car wreck. The almost disbelief as the events unfolded. The lack of emotion during the impact. And finally the brutal realization of what had happened. I just killed a werewolf.

Then Mr. Harry rose up and snarled at me.
The exposed brain matter pulsed back into his head, and with a crunching noise the plates of his skull rejoined. The creature stood on his hind legs somehow, even with knees twisted like a canine's. With one taloned finger he speared a chunk of tissue from his fur and tossed it into his maw, chewing his own discarded flesh. Returning gracefully to all fours he shook himself like a giant dog, splattering the blood from his wounds on the white walls and motivational posters in the hall.
The monster howled again, long and high-pitched, and the sound ignited some primal survival instinct buried deep within me. I turned and ran faster than I ever had before. Somehow I kept my wits, and rather than trying to outrun the creature to the elevator, I twisted hard to the right and through a doorway, slammed the door, locked it, and shoved a heavy desk in front of it. A computer monitor fell to the ground and sparked. I was in the marketing room. A poster with a kitten forlornly holding onto a clothesline had the caption: hang in there. Thanks for the advice, buddy.
There was no time to think. I kept moving, hoping that the door and the desk would slow Harry down. It did, for a few seconds at least. In a cloud of splinters the werewolf began to tear the door apart, snarling, grunting, gradually pushing the desk out of the way. There was another doorway at the end of the office that led to a side corridor. I slammed the door behind me, but there was nothing there to block it with. Weapon. Need a weapon. My gun was still in hand, but it was empty, and a lightweight snub was definitely lacking as a club. I had a concealed weapons permit for defense against muggers and assorted scumbags. I had never thought I would need it to fight a creature from the Sci-Fi channel. There was a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall so I pulled it down and took it with me. It was better than nothing.
Down the corridor was the door to my department, if I could get through it and I had a shot at the elevator. Legs and heart pumping, I heard the door behind me crash off of its hinges. Not sparing the time to look, I yanked open the door to Finance and rushed through, trying to pull it closed behind me. The door slammed into Harry's claws and muzzle. I tried in vain to close the door but he was far stronger than I was. He swiped his talons down across my chest, tearing cleanly through my clothing and into me. Pain. Unbelievable pain. Screaming, I fell on my back and activated the fire extinguisher, directing the spray into the werewolf's gaping mouth and eyes. The creature howled, reared up on its hind legs, and covered its face. I lashed out with my foot, kicked the creature in the ribs and knocked it back into the corridor. Scrambling to my feet, I pulled the door closed and locked it.
My chest burned from the lacerations. The injury looked bad, and blood was soaking across my shirt, but the pain was now just something throbbing in the background behind the wall of adrenaline rushing through my system. The hurt would come later. I had a monster to worry about right now.

The werewolf punched through the wooden door, talons narrowly missing my flesh as he searched for me. I raised the fire extinguisher above my head and lashed out at the hairy arm, smashing it again and again with blows that would easily have broken ordinary bones. Finally the forearm shattered with an audible snap, but Harry was not deterred. The claws kept swinging, and within seconds the limb had seemingly healed. Shouting unintelligibly, I continued bringing the extinguisher down on Harry, the metal echoing with each hit.
We were at an impasse. He could not push through with me crushing his arms. His animal mind must have come to that same realization. As fast as it had appeared, the arm disappeared, leaving nothing but a gaping hole through the heavy oak door.
My breath came in ragged gasps from the exertion. Nothing seemed to hurt him. I had to think of something… Silver. That's what always worked in the movies. Where was I going to get silver in my office? But I knew the answer to that one immediately. Nowhere.
If I could make it to the elevator I would be home free, but to do so I needed to cover forty feet of Finance, and then about a hundred feet of hallway. Cradling the fire extinguisher in my arms I stumbled for the door. In the darkness, the green light from the exit sign was my beacon. The blood running down my stomach was warm and slick. I made it as far as my cubicle before Harry got a running start and crashed into the room. There was no way I could escape before he would be on me, claws and teeth flashing, and I would be a dead man.
Flight wasn't working, so now it was fight time. At least I was on my home turf.
"Harry, you son of a bitch! Come and get me!" I roared as I sprayed him with the fire extinguisher. "This is my cube!"
The werewolf swatted my improvised weapon away, breaking my left hand on impact. He rammed into me and hurled me straight into the air. The ceiling tiles barely slowed my flight and I rebounded off of a heating duct with a resounding clang. I fell onto the top of my cube wall. It was not designed to take the impact of a three-hundred-pound man. It collapsed and I slammed onto my desk.
Keep going. Groaning and trying to catch my breath, I tried to think of something, anything, that I could do. The werewolf's head rose at the base of my desk. I kicked him hard in the face. Harry bit my shoe off.
With leg muscles like coiled springs, the werewolf easily hopped up beside me, claws clicking on the hard surface like fingernails on a chalkboard. I felt the instinctive twinge down my spine. I tried to roll off the desk, but Harry effortlessly sunk a claw deep into my thigh, pinning me down. I screamed in pain as the talon pierced through the muscle. Grabbing the back of his hairy claw with my one working hand, I tried to pull it out. It wouldn't budge.
He had me. I lay there bleeding with my leg pinned to my desk. The werewolf seemed to be enjoying himself, taking his sweet time, savoring my pain. I wondered if somewhere deep inside that animal Mr. Harry was there, enjoying this, loving the power, finally being able to strike back at the world he hated so much.
My fear was replaced with anger.
The shooting pain in my leg was unbearable, and all reason told me that I was a dead man, but I would be damned if I was going to die at the hand of that fat piece of shit Mr. Harry.
The werewolf opened his jaws slowly, impossibly wide, and lowered them toward my face. His breath was hot, and stunk like rotting meat. He was going to eat me and somehow I knew he was going to do it as slowly and painfully as possible. Trying to be inconspicuous I reached into my pocket. Harry licked my face. The tongue was damp and rough and I cringed in revulsion. Bastard probably wanted to see what I tasted like first.

My pocketknife opened with a snap the instant before I jabbed it into his throat. The three-inch Spyderco was not really a fighting knife, but I put it to the test. Twisting and pulling, I tried to do as much damage as I could. Blood geysered across my cube as I severed his jugular. He jerked his claw out of my leg, and I almost fainted as blood flooded out the gaping hole. I pulled the little blade back and stabbed it into his eye. My knife, slick with fluids, slipped out of my hand as Harry pulled away, and it remained stuck in his face. He lashed out, striking me in the head. The claw tore down to the skull, opening my flesh, dragging down across my face. I felt it in almost clinical detachment, knowing it was bad, but beyond the point of feeling or caring. My whole life had dilated down to one simple thought: Harry must die. Lights flashed in my eyes as my enemy roared.
"Regenerate this!" I bellowed as I grabbed my letter opener off of my desk and stabbed it repeatedly into his chest. Reversing my grip, I thrust it up through his bottom jaw, lodging it deep into the roof of his mouth, pinning his muzzle shut. Then I kicked him in the balls and smashed my chair over his head for good measure. He hit me with a backhand that knocked me across the room like a human cannonball. I crashed through a potted plant and rolled across the carpet.
Disoriented, I left Harry swirling about like a tornado of death while I limped away, trying to stop the massive bleeding from my leg. The werewolf thrashed, trying to pry one little knife out of his eye socket and a letter opener out of his mouth. I had landed near Harry's office so I pulled myself through the door. Options were running out. I was going to pass out soon from blood loss. The only thing sustaining me was anger and determination, and that wouldn't last much longer. I needed to think of something, and I needed to think of it quick. Taking stock, I saw filing cabinets on each side of the door. Chair. Desk. . Some lady's hand. But nothing that I could use as a weapon.
I could hear the werewolf raging, smashing apart my cube, destroying anything within reach, ripping and snarling, then gradually quieting as he caught my scent. He was coming for me again. I was waiting for him.
But not where he expected. As Harry charged in, led at this point only by instinct and pure animal fury, I jumped from the top of the filing cabinet onto his back. We collided with a great deal of force and he crashed snout first into his desk. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I choked him, straining as hard as I could. "Let's see how tough you are without air!" I screamed in his pointy ear. We flipped over the desk but I stubbornly held on. His jaws snapped shut but I was safely under them. He reached over and raked razor claws down my back. We spun crazily and crashed into the already damaged window, shattering it and sending shards raining to the ground below. By some miracle we did not fall. Keeping my damaged left arm around his throat, I grabbed his muzzle with my good hand and wrenched it to the side with all of the strength and anger and fear that I had left. I grunted under the strain and roared. The beast's spine was like rebar. Somehow I pulled harder.
The werewolf's neck broke with a sickening pop. Severed from the impulses firing in his brain, the creature's body spasmed wildly. The claws dropped away from my ravaged back and he lay under me, flopping violently. I rolled off and dragged myself away, barely able to stay conscious. Pulling myself along with one arm, shoving with one leg, the other leg limp and leaving a wide trail of blood, I made it to the other side of the desk and collapsed.
I heard the scraping of bones again as Harry's vertebrae realigned. In a second he would be back up, and I would not be able to fight him off again. With my good hand I struggled up so I could see over the desk. There was Harry's dinner, and in my brain that was running dangerously low on blood and oxygen, it struck me as funny. "Need a hand?" I asked nobody in particular and giggled.
The werewolf was starting to sit up. In another few seconds I would be providing him nourishment. Then he would be off killing innocent people at every full moon. On the other days of the month I was sure that he would just keep being the worst boss in the world. I don't know which one made me angrier.
Harry swiveled his from head side to side as he regained his senses.
"Not this time, asshole!" I said as I heaved all of my weight against the heavy desk. With a groan of protest it moved from its depression in the carpet. Desperately shoving, my one good leg straining for traction, made even more difficult because I was missing my shoe, I pushed the desk into Harry, knocking him over, and before the werewolf realized what was happening I had pushed him and his damned desk out of the window.

I could tell I was dreaming. Everything had that fuzzy, disjointed dream feel to it. First I had flashes of dragging myself toward the elevator, my belt being used as an improvised tourniquet on my leg. However, in my dream it didn't hurt a bit. Movement was slow as though I were underwater. There were glimpses of an ambulance and men sticking me with needles and pounding on my chest.
The next scene was weird, since I usually dreamed in a first person perspective. I floated weightless as I looked down and watched people in masks shock my heart with a defibrillator.
Back in the first person again. Now I stood in a field. A good, strong, green crop of some kind. My feet were bare and I could feel the wetness of the dew as I wiggled my toes. The sky was dark blue and the air smelled fresh and clean like after a summer rainstorm. A herd of cows grazed in the distance.
A man stood nearby. He was old and bent. His white hair was wild and he had a kind smile, but hard eyes behind small round glasses. He leaned on his cane and waved.
"Hello, Boy." The old man had some sort of heavy Eastern European accent.
"Are you God?" I asked.
He laughed hard. "Me? Ha! Is good one. 'Fraid not. I just friend."
"Am I dead?"
"Almost. But you need go back. You have work to do. Yes, much work."
"Work?"
"A calling. Is hard, but is good."
"A calling?"
"From before you born. How you say?"
"Preordination?"
"More like you get short straw. Now go. No time. I send you back."
"Will we meet again?"
"Only if you are foolish boy and get dead again."
The nice dream ended and my world exploded in pain.
There was a steady beeping noise. It matched pace with my heartbeat. Bump-bump. Two black shapes stood over me.
"I say we waste him now."
"Not yet."
"No way he's clean."
"You know the rules."
"The rules are wrong. I could smother him with his pillow and nobody would ever know."
"I would know."
I went back to sleep.
I awoke to the smell of hospital antiseptic. My eyes were matted shut, my mouth was horribly dry, and my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I had that weird, tingly, high on painkillers feeling, which I had not felt since the last time I had surgery years before. Forcing my eyes open and gradually adjusting to the muted light, I could see that I was in a hospital room. Hospitals make me nervous and uncomfortable, though right now it sure beat the alternative.
Trying to sit up, I realized that I had an IV(thats a drip) running into my arm, bulky bandages placed on my chest, legs, and back, and my left hand was in a cast.
Wincing at the tightness in my scalp, I carefully reached up and touched my forehead. There was no bandage there, and I counted at least fifty stitches that ran from the crown of my head, right between my eyebrows, across the bridge of my nose, and ended on my cheek. I was thankful that I did not have a mirror. Being naturally curious, and of course fearless on a morphine drip, I lifted up the edge of the big bandage on my chest. They had used staples to close the deeper lacerations there. In my drug-induced stupor, it struck me as funny that the doctors had shaved my chest. That would probably itch bad later.
I did not remember how I had gotten here, or even how long I had been out. My watch could tell me what day it was, but it was missing, as were all my clothes. All I had on was a flimsy gown and a medical supply store's worth of bandages.
As my senses gradually returned, I started to remember what had happened to put me here. I had to admit that at first I blamed my strange memory on the drugs. Killer werewolf boss? Yea, whatever they gave me, it sure was some good stuff.
You imagined the whole thing, the logical part of my brain told me. You must have been in some sort of accident, and woke up here. There's no such thing as monsters. Mr. Harry didn't turn into a werewolf. You didn't push him out a window. Those can't possibly be claw marks. They're from a car wreck or something. The whole thing is a bad hallucination. Everybody at work will laugh when they hear your crazy story. Harry is probably there now, complaining that you are out and taking sick leave.
Screw you, logical brain. I know what I saw.
There was one way to find out what put me in here. There was a call button attached to the IV. I pushed it and waited, trying not to dwell on the image of Harry's face turning into an incisor-filled muzzle. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened. Unfortunately, it was not a nurse.

"Mr. Pitt. I'm Special Agent Myers and this is Special Agent Franks. We're with the government." The two men flashed their credentials in my general direction. One agent was a dark brooding type, obviously muscular and grim of attitude. The speaker was older and looked more like a college professor than a Federal agent. They were both wearing suits, and neither looked very happy. They pulled up chairs. The professor crossed his legs, steepled his fingers, and scowled at me. The younger one pulled his gun.
"Move and I'll kill you," he said, and I did not doubt him for an instant. It was a Glock, and it had a sound suppressor screwed onto its muzzle. I did not know what caliber it was, but from where I was sitting the bore looked freaking huge. The suppressor did not waver. I did not move.
The professor spoke. "Mr. Pitt. Would you care to tell us what happened at your office?"
Speaking was difficult with my bad case of cottonmouth. "Msssph umm suh…" I told them. "Wah um fa?" They could probably tell that I was either asking for water or speaking in tongues. The professor hesitated and then obliged, taking a cup off of the dresser and pressing the straw to my lips. The cold wetness was the best thing in the world. The agent called Franks leaned slightly forward so he could still shoot me if necessary. That guy obviously took his job very seriously.
"Ahhh… Thanks," I croaked.
"You're welcome. Now tell us what happened before Agent Franks here gets cranky."
I paused, not really wanting to tell the FBI that my boss had transformed into a monster and tried to eat me, before I managed to snap his neck and shove him out the window. They would lock me up for sure if I said that, so I improvised.
"I fell down the stairs." Hey, I was on morphine. It was the best I could come up with on short notice.
The professor frowned. "Cut the crap, Pitt. We know what happened. We watched the security tapes already. Five days ago, your supervisor, one Harry, transformed into a lycanthrope, a werewolf in this case, and attempted to kill you. You fought him off, and pushed him to his death."
I was shocked. The FBI agents seemed to not have a problem with the idea that my boss had turned into a werewolf. I was also surprised that I had been out for five straight days.
"It was self-defense. I'm the good guy here. Why the gun?"
"You know how people become werewolves, don't you, Mr. Pitt? That's one thing that the movies get right. If you're bitten by one you, too, will be infected. The DNA-altering virus lives in their saliva. If you're clawed there is a smaller chance that you can be infected, but it's still possible. If we had found a single clear bite mark on you, we would be disposing of your body right now. Under the Anti-Lycanthrope Act of '95 we're supposed to terminate all confirmed were creatures immediately. I'm sorry."
"I don't think he bit me," I squeaked. But I felt a lump of dread in my gut. He had mauled me pretty badly. Was I going to turn into a werewolf? Or was the FBI just going to shoot me first?
"Silver bullets," grunted Agent Franks. He kept the Glock centered on my head. I don't know what kind of Jackie Chan move he was expecting me to pull, but I wasn't planning on going anywhere. I could barely move. "Just in case."
"So now what?" I queried.
"We wait. A sample of your blood has been sent for testing. If it comes back positive you will have to be put down. If it comes back negative, you're free to go. We should be getting a call shortly."
He said "put down" like I was some sort of dog. This encounter was just strengthening my already strong anti-authoritarian tendencies.
"You'll just let me go?"
"Yes. Though if you ever speak of this in public you will be in violation of the Unearthly Forces Disclosure Act, and you'll be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."
Franks nodded and muttered, "Lead bullets." His conversation skills seemed rather limited.
Myers' eyes betrayed an emotion that I thought might have been pity. "Look, Mr. Pitt, this is for your own good. If you're infected, we're doing you a favor. Otherwise in three weeks you'll be eating little old ladies and babies. Hopefully the tests come back negative, and we forget this ever happened."
"So what now?"
"Just chill for a while," Agent Franks said.
"Easy for you to say," I said.

A doctor came in and took my pulse . A nurse changed my drip and checked my bandages. The staff seemed intimidated by the agents, and left without talking. Flowers were delivered. They were from Hansen Industries, with a card wishing me a speedy recovery. Along with the card there was also a letter on Hansen Industries stationary that informed me that I was fired for violating the Official Workplace Safety Code No Weapons in the Workplace Rule. If I did not want to risk an interruption to my Workers' Compensation, I had best not protest the firing. Hugs and kisses, Human Resources.
I pushed the button on the motorized bed so I could sit upright. Myers turned on the little TV and we watched Jeopardy. Watching television kept my brain occupied, and more importantly kept me from dwelling on the possibility of ending up dead, or even worse, like harry. Myers was pretty good, but I was destroying him. I'm a Trivia King. Franks kept the gun in his lap and sipped a Diet Coke. I tried not to think about the fact that the nice men from the government were here to shoot me in the brain with silver bullets. The feeling of helplessness was horrible. I just had questions.
" So, Myers, how bad was I injured?"
"You lost a lot of blood and technically died on the operating table for two minutes. No brain activity at all. You have about three hundred stitches and staples in you and some broken bones. If we don't have to shoot you, you should heal up just fine. But you won't ever be pretty.
The thought that I had actually been dead was interesting. That was kind of cool. I wondered if I could use that as a pickup line.
" What happened to Mr. Harry?"
"He landed on a Lincoln Navigator. The desk landed on him. He was pulped. Nobody else got hurt." He was frustrated. I was tearing him up in the Famous History category. I could tell the professor was used to winning. Harry didn't pull back together or anything did he?"
"Damn, you're fast. Nope. Lycanthropes can regenerate from just about anything other than silver, but it takes energy to restore tissue. There's only so much energy stored in one body, so if you inflict enough damage on them, they die."
"Fire," grunted Franks.
"Indeed, fire works great. Wait, I know this.
I made a buzzing sound.
The senior FBI man changed the TV channel to CNN and sulked. Well, at least I had the satisfaction that if they were going to kill me, I had defended my honor on the field of useless knowledge. The news was saying something about a huge pipeline explosion in a remote part of Russia apparently caused by Chechen terrorists. I tuned it out and went back to harassing the agents.
"Does this kind of thing happen all of the time? How did Harry become a werewolf? Are there many more out there?"
"You ask too many questions," Franks said.
"My associate is correct, Mr. Pitt. This subject's on a need-to- know basis. You just need to know to keep your mouth shut."Fine. I figured I would just go back to sleep. Stupid agents.
There was a knock on the door. It must have just been a mere courtesy knock because whoever it was immediately barged in. Franks barely had time to hide his Glock im his waist band.
The man was of average height and lean, with short-cropped, blond hair, probably in his mid-forties. With no really remarkable features, he was not a memorable-looking guy, but let out an old-school toughness when he walked into the room. A cigarette hung lazily from the corner of his mouth in clear violation of hospital rules.
Myers grimaced and it looked like Franks gave some serious thought about pointing his gun at somebody else for a change.
"Well, if it ain't the junior danger rangers. How's the murdering witnesses business?" the man asked, reaching into the pocket of his leather bomber jacket and pulling out a business card. He stuck the card into the edge of my wrist cast. It stuck there, vibrating slightly.
"Screw you, Ed," Franks said.

"Situation's under control. No need for you here," the professor stated in a cold voice.
"I'll be ice-skating in hell before I believe that you federal arse holes have anything under control."
"You better shut up," Franks growled.
"Or what?" the man said with calculated confidence and just a touch of a southern accent. "Going 2 arrest me? You might not like it much, but we're a legitimate business again. If you Feds hadn't booted us out of the vincinity, that werewolf wouldn't have gotten away, that fat guy wouldn't have gotten bitten, and this guy never would have gotten attacked."
"National parks are our jurisdiction. Your people can't legally be armed in them, so you were out of luck. So you just need to calm down," Myers stated in a manner that suggested he was used to being obeyed.
The new guy sneered. "I need to calm down, Myers?You could have let us break a couple of stupid laws and you wouldn't have two dead people and this one." He jerked a thumb in my general direction.
"The rules are there for a reason. Not obeying the rules is what got you shut down the first time. I think it was a mistake to ever let your kind back into business."
Needless to say, the atmosphere in the room was very tense. I was pretty much forgotten in my heap of bandages and bedpans. Myers and the interloper were locked in a staring contest. Franks looked ready to escort our guest out, preferably headfirst down the stairs. Anybody who made these guys that uncomfortable was all right by me.
"Umm… Not to interrupt this love fest or anything, but who are you?"
Finally Myers must have blinked and ended the stare off. The stranger looked at me as if he was sizing me up. His eyes were cold, blue, and intimidating. After a long unblinking moment he finally must have decided I passed muster, since he held out his hand to shake mine. Franks removed the Martha Stewart magazine to display his gun, just to remind me not to try anything.
"Name's Edward Harbinger. I'm with MHI."
"Mike Pitt. CPA." His grip was like iron. "MHI? Is that like some top secret government agency or something?" I asked.
Agent Myers grinned cruelly. "Not even close."
Harbinger just scowled at them. "No. If I worked with these idiots I would kill myself. We're a private organization. We're a for-profit business, and if I do say so myself, we're the premier leader in our field. One which I would say that you would probably be pretty good at. You did good back there."
"Thanks, but I don't think it's going to be good enough. These guys tell me that I'm probably going to end up turning into something like my boss." It was an ugly thing to say, and I could feel a great cold weight in my chest as I said it. "I don't want to end up like that."
The stranger shook his head. "Don't worry about it."
"Recruiting some fresh blood, Harbinger?" Myers interrupted. "Right now Mr. Pitt is in our custody, and he doesn't go anywhere until I say so."
"I'm not recruiting, Myers," he responded. Turning back to me, he continued speaking as if he had never been cut off. "Have you asked yourself why every one of your injuries is bandaged except for that great big slash on your head?"
Subconsciously I reached up and touched the nasty pile of stitches that snaked down my face. All I knew was that it was going to leave a horrible scar.
"It's uncovered so they could watch it. If you had started to heal unnaturally fast, they would have dropped you dead in a heartbeat. From the amount of damage you sustained, I'm sure they were positive that you were going to make the change. I don't think anybody has ever been that torn up by a were creature and lived. I'm also guessing that since you haven't started to heal yet, they've sent out for a blood test to be sure, because they're probably itching to finish you. But they don't dare, just in case you're still human."
"They said they were waiting for a test."
"Damn right they are. But let me tell you something. I wrote the book on these monsters. If you haven't shown any signs after five days, I give you my word that you ain't infected."
"Really?" I felt the first real surge of hope since I had woken up in this antiseptic dungeon.
"You're going to be fine. Look, when these jerk-offs get their test back negative, and you get out of here, give me a call. You have my card. We need to talk. Get some rest." Strangely enough, I believed the stranger's promise. He did not strike me as the kind of person to sweeten an ugly truth.
Harbinger stalked out, rudely bumping into Agent Myers on the way. The senior agent appeared ruffled but he did not speak until after the door shut and our guest was gone.
"You'd best stay away from that bunch, Pitt, if you know what's good for you. They're going to screw up some day and every last one of them is going to end up in prison or dead. They don't respect governmental authority."Alrite,wait for the damn result,am going to bed."

NICE WRITE UP

enohbong: NICE WRITE UP

thankz a lot.first to comment award goes 2 u.

It's nice of you getting me to know about this book, can i know the name of it so i can read it??, you arnt really pasting fast enough for me. Thanks

BasseyJ: It's nice of you getting me to know about this book, can i know the name of it so i can read it??, you arnt really pasting fast enough for me. Thanks

actually its a work done by me and edited by my sis.

Sorry viewerz for the lack of updates.coming soon.

d michael: actually its a work done by me and edited by my sis.

Okay, you write well, keep the updates coming

d michael.
this is simply captivating

I rate a 3 stars

4 if you update consistently

and a whooping 5 stars if you complete this wonderful story.

Hoping to rate you a 4 soon

Evad: d michael.
this is simply captivating

I rate a 3 stars

4 if you update consistently

and a whooping 5 stars if you complete this wonderful story.

Hoping to rate you a 4 soon

i hear u bro.

It actually only took me a few minutes to fade out. My body still ached with painful injuries and the painkillers still flowed through my system, but I was careful to first safely cradle the business card in my hand.
The agents went back to watching TV.
I had a strange dream. It was hazy and unclear, jerky and disoriented, violent and quick. Not like a normal dream at all.
There was a battle. I did not know when it took place, but somehow I knew that it had occurred in the past. Details were covered by moving clouds of snow. Huge numbers of soldiers defended against a single unnatural being, trying in vain to keep him from his goal, and dying by the numbers. The only thing that mattered to him had been taken, and he had come to reclaim it. He was the Guardian.
There was an evil thing in the dream, even more deadly than the Guardian. It too was old, cursed and tainted, and seething with rage and hate. It was weakened by failure, and retreated as the Guardian approached. Its final minions fell before the immortal killer as the cursed thing fled into the ruins.
The last soldier waited for the Guardian. He had been the leader of the blood-drenched, elite force. He stood defiant in his black uniform, towering, proudly shouting that his lord would return to finish what they had started. The soldier placed his pistol against his temple and ended his life.
The final moments of the dream had a small bit of clarity to them. I was able to finally see the Guardian. He was a giant of a man. Every inch of his skin had been covered in strange tattoos. The ink lines moved like living things. He looked right at me across space and time. His eyes were solid pools of hate-filled black.
"Thou shall die by my hand."
I woke up with a start. What a freaky dream… I had no idea what that had been about. Weird shapeless evil things, tattooed killers fighting in the snow, and a bunch of soldiers screaming in German. I blamed it on the drugs.
A cell phone was blaring an annoying downloaded ring tone.I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. There was some fumbling and then Agent Myers' voice. "Myers." I eavesdropped intently, hoping to get an early clue to my fate. By nature, I'm not a particularly religious man, but I found myself praying that the stranger had been right. Twenty-four was too young to die. I would miss my parents and my brother, and I wished that I had more time to fix my relationship with them. I wished that I hadn't wasted so much time on the little things. It was too late for that now. My life came down to the contents of a single phone call, and the trigger pull of a Glock.
"Uh-huh. Yes. Alrite… Okay… Sure… Bye."
Well, that end of the conversation sure didn't help much. I stiffened up and waited for the bullet to blow through my skull and mushroom in my gray matter. For a long moment I wondered if Franks was a good shot.Would it hurt? I bit my tongue. There would be no begging; better to end it this way than twisted into something inhuman at the next full moon.
The wait seemed to last an eternity. There were a few whispers and a small rustle of movement, but no flash of gunpowder, no crack of muzzle blast. The only constant was the quiet beep-beep of the machine matching my heartbeat. That particular pulse was noticeably faster than it had been a moment before. It was hard to pretend to sleep when electronic devices were so ready to betray you. My lungs ached from holding my breath, and my stomach muscles were clenched painfully tight. Some sick part of me hoped that my exploding head would make a real nasty mess on their cheap suits. Dry-clean that, you jerks.
Finally I heard the agents move. The door opened slowly. I risked a quick peek as the two FBI men walked quietly from the room. Franks looked dejected, deprived of his chance to legally kill somebody, and surprisingly enough Myers appeared to be politely trying to keep the noise down. The door closed and they were gone.
Minutes passed as I made sure they weren't coming back, but all was still. The call had come. The stranger's promise had been true. I was not infected, was still human, and wasn't going to die. I laughed until I pulled something in one of the many cuts in my back and then I cried in pain and then in relief. As I said earlier, I was not normally by nature a pious man, but on that night I sure was. I sobbed and heaved as all of the stress left me spent and wasted.
There were two final things to do before I went back to sleep. I grabbed the bouquet of get-well flowers from Hansen Industries and hurled it across the room. and hurled it across the room. It had been a stupid job anyway. Then I pulled the business card out, brought it up close to my face, and tried to read it with my blurry eyes. I couldn't focus well enough to read the fine print, but I could read the heading.
Monster Hunter International
Monster Problems? Call the Professionals.
Established 1895.

Physical therapy sucks. Recovery sucks.The worst, unless you happen to have your parents invade your home in an attempt to comfort you. My folks had flown in when they had been informed of the "incident," and had immediately set about being a huge nuisance.
Before that, however, my hospital stay had dragged on for another week. Apparently, dying, even if only for a minute or two, could be quite a stressful event. The doctors had been impressed that I was even alive. When I had asked one of them approximately how much blood I had lost, he had responded dryly with "most of it."
Treatment had consisted of me trying to move around without tearing anything. Gradually my strength returned until I was able to hobble a few feet on my own and even digest some of the hospital food. Detectives from the Dallas Police department had come out to interview me. They did not say anything about supernatural monsters or the FBI agents, and believe me, I did not bring them up either. Instead the cops were under the impression that Mr. Harry had been some sort of deranged serial killer high on drugs and armed with a 14-inch bowie knife. I was sure that my new friends from the federal government had arranged the crime scene to show whatever story they wanted, and it certainly didn't involve werewolves. The police thanked me for ridding the world of a very bad man, and told me that their investigation showed a clear-cut case of justifiable homicide. There was no indication that I was going to be sued for anything, and they even arranged to return my.357 once everything was cleared through the prosecutor's office.
The local papers had run stories about my heroic defense against the crazed serial killer. In an amusing note the cover story featured both of our employee pictures. I'm sure that most casual readers would conclude that my picture showed the insane murderer, since I was big, young, muscular, generally ugly, and beady-eyed. Mr. Harry looked more like the victim type, a fat, middle- aged, middle manager, with big sad eyes and triple chins. Looks could be deceiving. During my hospital stay I had repeatedly turned away reporters. The last thing I wanted to do was to make up a story, or screw something up and draw the ire of the FBI. I had even turned down a potential guest spot on Oprah. My mom had gone wack when she found out about that.
The folks had arrived right before I was discharged. Now, don't get me wrong. I honestly love my family. They are good people. Crazy, but good.
"Damn, boy, you look like shit," was the first thing that my father exclaimed when he saw my face.
My father was an upstanding citizen, a decorated war hero and member of the Special Forces community, a man who was respected by his peers. At home, however, he was an emotionally distant and stern man who had a hard time relating to his children. When I was younger I had taken this to mean that he did not approve of us or even really like us much. I had dealt with that by trying to follow in his footsteps. My younger brother had dealt with that kind of thing by dropping out of high school and forming a heavy metal band.I think I got the shaft in that deal.
Apparently my father was a little ashamed that I had gotten so torn up by a fat little man, when I myself was young, fit, and-since I had been brought up right-carrying a gun. I imagine that if Harry had succeeded in eating me, my father would have been more embarrassed that a Pitt had lost a fight, than saddened by my actual demise. The last time my father had been obviously ashamed of me was when the Army recruiters had turned me down because of a childhood history of asthma attacks. That had been a tough day for him.
He had brought his sons up to follow in his soldiering footsteps. In fact, the idea for my first name came from the Owen submachine gun that he had used to save his life in the backcountry of Cambodia during a war that never officially existed. He thought the name had a nice ring to it, and the actual gun had come in handy for shooting down communist insurgents after he was trapped deep in enemy territory with nothing but an ancient Australian weapon older than he was. Believe me, as kids, we had heard all of those stories.
"Oh my baby! My poor poor baby! How did this happen? You poor thing!" was the first thing from my mom. It continued like that for several minutes in a barrage of hugs, kisses, and dampened handkerchieves. Mom was the emotional one in the family. She also showed her love by cooking, which is why I was always the chubby kid growing up. In my house, if you weren't eating, obviously you were not loved. Needless to say, the Pitts tended to be big people.

Evad: *in ryback's voice*
Feed me more

This is wonderful
just superb

alrite bro.

My parents had taken me back to my apartment, where to my surprise they promptly settled in for a stay. I tried to assure them that I would be fine, and that I would not need any help. Since I could barely walk and was still covered in bandages I don't think I made a very convincing argument in favor of my independence.
Weeks passed as I gradually healed. My strength was returning, and after a few doctors' visits, I was running out of stitches. I had to admit that I loved my mom's cooking, and between the lack of exercise, atrophied muscles, and 3,000-calorie meals I was starting to put on some weight. The trademark stuff came in the constant questioning. "Why no girlfriend? When are you going to get married? When will you find another job? What are you going to do now?" These were always followed by suggestions to move back home where I could find another job and meet a nice girl.
Friends came to visit several times. Mom rented lots of movies for me to watch. I caught up on my reading, and checked the job adverts for a new job.
Dad mostly played poker.
This whole time the business card that I had received at the hospital lay discarded in a drawer in my bedroom. I had thought about calling the number, but couldn't bring myself to do so. It was much easier not to think about a world where creatures like Mr. Harry existed.
The hardest part was not being able to talk to anybody about it.
One night I received a phone call from my brother Josh. His real name was David, but it had been a long time since anybody other than parents had called him that. Since I was the only one in the family that he ever spoke with, and that was only on rare occasions, he had not known about the Incident until then. He had called as soon as he had found out. We spoke for a while, him wanting the blow by blow, and me giving him the FBI approved version. Of everyone that I had spoken with, he was the one I was the most tempted to tell the truth to, but I really didn't want the government to kill me, so I refrained.
I had asked how he was doing. His band, Red Point Killing Machine, was doing well and they were going to release their next album,in the next month. I made him promise to send me a copy, and VIP passes for when his tour hit Dallas. He told me he would, as long as I managed to not get murdered before then. I gave him my word that I would try.
The night before my parents were scheduled to fly out, my father took me aside for a conversation. He waited until Mom was occupied in the kitchen cooking another four-course meal, then motioned me into the living room.
"Mike, we need to talk."
"Sure, Dad. What's up?" It was not very often that my father wanted to speak with me. He usually just spoke at me, but tonight he seemed rather agitated.
"Look, son, let me just come right out and say it. I know you aren't telling us everything."
"Huh?" This was a surprise. "What do you mean?"
"I've seen your injuries. I've seen knife wounds, hell, I've given knife wounds. Those aren't knife wounds."
He had me there. I didn't know what to say so I just nodded.
"Plus, I know what you did to put yourself through school, and I know that you never told us because you didn't want your mother to worry."
That made me jump. I had had no idea that he knew.
"What do you mean, Dad? I worked in a warehouse."
"Sure you did, for a while, except after that you bounced in a bar, and you used to compete in underground wrestling for money."
"How did you know?"
"Remember crazy George from my office? He had a gambling problem. Old guy would bet on anything. He caught one of your performances one night. Called me the next morning to tell me how he had seen my boy kick the living hell out of some tough customers. So I did a little checking is all… Was the pay good?"
Early on in life, I had discovered that I had a remarkable gift for violence, which had been encouraged and cultivated by my father. That, coupled with my physical ability to soak up a beating, had enabled me to make some pretty decent money on more than a few occasions. It didn't have the perks of accounting, but I do have to admit that punching people in the face had its own certain charms.
"Twenty percent of the house if you win. Five if you lose. Very illegal. I did the bar gig for a while.I neglected to mention that we had had problems on an hourly basis and it was the kind of bar where the local paramedics had our address memorized cuz people regularly got hurt. "I only did that kind of thing long enough to pay for school." That was a shameful lie, but I could never tell my father the truth about why I had quit. "How come you never said anything?" I asked after a time.
He looked a little sheepish for a minute. Confused by emotion he quickly turned up the gruffness. "Not my business, you were an adult."
I believe that was the closest he had ever come to giving me a compliment."But anyway, what I'm getting at is I'm guessing you've got experience handling guys with knives." He had no idea. My body had a lot more scars than just the new ones. "I want to know how that asshole managed to wipe the floor with you, break walls, smash furniture, get shot ten times, and still manage to rip you open?"
"Drugs, I guess," was the only response I could think of.
He continued, "I've seen wounds like that before. I saw a guy who'd been clawed by a tiger once. Looked like what happened to you. He got raked up and down, dragged around. The cat toyed with him for a while. Unlike you, he had the muscles on his back eaten right off, right down to the bone like we would eat a fried chicken, and that was 'fore he got flipped over, and cracked open so it could eat the sweet spots out from his guts." I remembered that story, if I recalled correctly. Dad had shared the long gory version as a bedtime story when I was about six.
"I don't know what to tell you, Dad."
He looked me hard in the eyes. He was still a remarkably intimidating man, physically and emotionally. "Look, I know there's some weird stuff out there. I've heard stories from people I trust. I've seen a few things myself back in the day that no rational man can explain." He shook his head vacantly as if he was trying to forget something. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I know you didn't just tangle with a normal man. If you want to tell me the whole story, I'll listen."
I didn't reply.
He scowled, eventually tired of waiting, and left the room without saying another word, no doubt ashamed of me once again.
They flew out the next day.
I cursed and swore as I hobbled through my apartment, crutch banging randomly into objects as I tried to make my way to the entrance. The bell rang again, and this time they held it down, and wouldn't let up. It was a very shrill doorbell.
"Just a minute!" I bellowed as I stumbled around the couch. My leg was getting much better. That had been by far the worst wound, and it was still the most tender, especially when I tried to walk on it. The rest of my injuries were healing nicely, and even my hand cast had finally come off. I promised myself on my long journey across the living room that if the person ringing my doorbell was with the media, I was going to shove my crutch through the reporter's chest cavity and leave the corpse propped up in the hallway as a warning to the others.
Peering through the peephole, all I could see was darkness. The hallway light had burned out again. "Who is it?" I yelled through the door, ready to give the crutch treatment if they said anything about a newspaper or television station. The media were apparently drawn to my story like flies to garbage, probably due to the made-for- TV movie feel of the whole thing. Serial killer thrown from a high building? Sounds like a winner to me.
"Edward Harbinger," came the muffled reply. "We met at the hospital."
I had almost managed to forget about that business card. Almost.
"What do you want?" I shouted.
"I need help with my taxes, what do you think I want?"
I debated opening the door. On one hand I could go back to my normal life, find a job, pretend that the biggest dangers in the world were good old-fashioned bad people, and sleep well at night. On the other hand I could get some answers.
Curiosity won out in the end. I unlocked the two dead bolts and opened the door.
Harbinger had brought a friend.
She was beautiful. In fact she was possibly the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was tall, with dark black hair, light skin, and big brown eyes. Her face was beautiful, not fake beautiful like a model or an actress, because she was obviously a real person, but rather Helen of Troy, launch- a-thousand-ships kind of good-looking. She wore glasses, and I was a sucker for a girl in corrective lens. Since I was ugly it was probably some sort of subconscious reaction in the hope that I might have a chance with a cute girl who couldn't see very well. She was dressed in a conservative business suit, but unlike most women I knew, she made it look good. If I were to guess I would have said that she was in her mid-twenties.
"Mr. Pitt?" she asked. Even her voice was pretty. She was a goddess.
I tried to answer, but no words would come out. Talk, idiot! "Um… Hi."
"You can, um… my name is… Mike. My friends call me Z. Because of my middle name. It starts with a Z. Or whatever works for you. Come in. Please!".
She smiled and held out her hand. "Juliet Ford, pleased to meet you." Her grip was strong, with surprisingly callused, working hands. Her handshake sent the message that she was no wimp. Had I found the perfect woman?
Her eyes widened when she saw my face. The scar.

NYC story.......checkout dis link... www.nairaland.com/1557383/road-fame-fictional-story#20372630

Evad: ^^ Ok d michael, lemme give a few thoughts on this story.

Aside the fact that this story is simply captivating, breathtaking and epic, here are a few issues you should look into

→Spacing, try and space your work, let there be a line or two after each paragraph, you could use this post as a reference/guide/copy

→Try and publicise advertise this story on other trending threads so as to get viewers and more comments and probably make front page

→What all readers want, feed me more!!!

More ink to your pen bro -if there's anything like that-

owk bro,i feel u.xo hw do i publicise dis story?

It was healing nicely, but I knew that it was still grisly. Once the swelling went down I was left with a massive red strip that evenly halved my forehead, split the bridge of my many times broken nose and ended up on my cheek. It was brutal.
She looked away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare." She had a small hint of a Southern accent.
"It's no big deal. Just a scratch. Think of it as Harry Potter on growth enhancers," I said, trying to make her feel comfortable. "Come in, grab a seat. You need anything to drink?"
"No thank you," Juliet said. Juliet… Such a pretty name.
"I'll take a beer," Harbinger growled.


"Sorry, no beer," almost adding that I didn't drink, but not wanting to look like a wuss. The truth was after spending so much time working around drunks, I never touched the stuff.
Harbinger just grunted in disappointment. They both sat down on my retail store couch. It took me a minute to get my crutch repositioned so that I could move gingerly to a chair. It's hard to impress a pretty girl when you're a big clumsy oaf balancing on a stupid padded aluminum stick. I flopped down and dropped the crutch.
"Feeling better?" Harbinger asked.
"Much. Doctors say I'm healing fast. I got my cast off, and I can start doing upper body exercise again as long as I'm really careful not to push too hard."
"You lift?"
"A little bit," I answered. In truth, before the Incident I had been pushing just over a 400-pound bench press. I didn't look it, but that was the bad side of being both tall and stocky. Because of the injuries on my chest and the amount of time off, I knew that it was going to take a while to get up to that weight again.
"Careful you don't hurt yourself. You got banged up good. In fact I've never seen anybody take on a werewolf like that and live. Not without some good silver weapons at least, but tangling hand to hand, that's crazy. You were lucky." He talked about werewolves like it was a common and everyday item of no special interest. Like a normal person would refer to a vacuum cleaner or a toaster.
"Mr. Pitt… Sorry… Mike," Juliet started, "what we're about to say may sound a little weird, but after your recent experience you of all people will understand that we're not crazy. Ed and I represent a company called Monster Hunter International."
"Okay. I'm listening." Juliet could tell me that she was from the moons of Jupiter and I would give her my full attention. Less weird than that? Piece of cake.
"MHI is a private organization, and we handle monster-related problems. I guess you could say that we are in fact Monster Hunters."
"Sounds reasonable." I smiled. It didn't sound reasonable at all. It sounded wacky as all get out, but if I told a shrink about my Harry experience I would be in an asylum inside of fifteen minutes. So I listened.
"As you now are aware, monsters are very real. They're out there, and are a serious threat to the world. Our company specializes in neutralizing monster threats," she said.
"Good money in that?" I asked jokingly.
Harbinger reached inside his jacket, pulled out a plain envelope and tossed it to me. I caught it.
"What's this?"
"There's a federal bounty paid on undesirable unnaturals. It's called the PUFF," Harbinger stated.
"Puff?"
"Perpetual Unearthly Forces Fund," Julie answered. "Teddy Roosevelt started it when he was president. PUFF is a tool for controlling monster populations. It's a big source of income for MHI. We make the rest in contracts set up with various organizations private individuals with monster problems."
"Go ahead and open it," Harbinger suggested. "The Feds weren't going to tell you about it, but you killed a newly blooded adult werewolf by yourself. That makes you the sole recipient of any bounty for that particular creature. I took the liberty of doing the paperwork for you. I didn't think you would mind."
Inside the envelope was an ordinary-looking check. Sure enough it was from the Department of the Treasury, with PUFF stamped in green ink under their insignia. It was made out to one Mike Zachary Pitt in the amount of $50,000.


I think that the noise I made could best be described as a squeak, only less manly. This could not be real. My job, which I had been fired from so recently, had paid less than that in a year. "You have got to be freaking kidding me!" Fixing Juliet with an incredulous look, I did my best to raise a single eyebrow.
"Nope," Julie laughed. She had a beautiful sounding laugh. "That check is totally legit. The bounties change depending on the severity of the monster populations, and the number of human casualties. In this case lycanthrope attacks are at an all-time high, and this particular specimen had already taken a few victims the night before. Now if he had been older, or had eaten more people, then you would be looking at a bigger bounty."


"So you're telling me that the government gives people money for killing werewolves?" I was prepared to take her word for it, but I was definitely going to limp down to the bank and try to deposit this thing as soon as they left.
"Yes, and other types of monsters."
"Others? So what else is out there?"
She shrugged. "Lots of things, but I don't want to get too far off of the subject. If you don't agree to our offer then anything I tell you can never be shared with the general public, or the government will arrange for you to have a car accident or something equally bad, and I'm not kidding about that one bit. They have a strict policy of keeping all of this secret. So before I tell you what else is out there, let me ask you if-"
I cut her off. "Are there really zombies?"
"Owen, please, I need to…"
"Yes, there are zombies. A whole bunch of different kinds. Slow ones, fast ones. Nasty bastards," Harbinger said.
"Vampires?"
"Oh yes. And let me tell you, they ain't the nice charming debonair kind of thing you see on TV, those suckers are meaner than hell. Trust me on this one; pop culture makes them all intellectual and sexy, there ain't nothing sexy about getting your jugular ripped out. There're actually a mess of different kinds of undead."
Julie sighed as she gave up on her pitch. I was going to find out what exactly was real, and Harbinger was more than willing to talk. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and also getting a kick out of Julie's discomfort.
"Bigfoot, the Yeti?"
"Yep, but no bounties because they ain't really a problem."
"Chupacabras?"
"Goat suckers. They'll tear you up."
"Giant mutant animals?"
"Sure, but the Japanese have cornered that market."
"Sea monsters?"
"Yes, but only bounties on the evil kind."
"Wow, no kidding? Space aliens?"
"No intelligent little green men, if that's what you're thinking of. If those are out there we haven't ever dealt with them."
"Ghosts?"
"We have a strict policy: we only hunt things that have physical bodies. No physical body, no contract, and no way to collect a bounty either. We stick with things that are flesh and blood, or at least bone, exoskeleton, or slime."
We continued on like that for a few minutes, with me thinking of every creature from every horror movie I had ever seen, and Harbinger letting me know if it was real or not. Every answer he gave was in total seriousness. If he was making any of this crazy monster stuff up, I sure would hate to play a game of cards against him.
Finally after asking about the creature from the black lagoon and finding out that that was actually based on a true story, Julie had had enough and jumped in. She elbowed Harbinger in the ribs. "Sorry guys, back to business. Mike, we're looking for new Hunters


Because of the nature of what we do, we can't exactly advertise. Usually we meet people through our business who have monster experience, and who have handled themselves well."
"I did okay, I guess."
Juliet laughed again. Harbinger smirked. She pulled a DVD case out of her purse. "Do you mind?" I shook my head and she stood up and put the disk in the player and turned on my TV. "I don't think you've seen this. As far as your former company is concerned, and as far as the Dallas PD knows, this doesn't exist."
"Put it on channel three. There you go."
It was a black and white security video of the fourteenth floor of my former office building. The screen was split into four squares, each with a different view. It was surprising where some of the cameras were pointing, as I had never been aware of any cameras in those locations. There was even one that had a good view of Harry's office.
"They have hidden cameras all over the place. I guess you folks have a big problem with employee theft," Harbinger stated. I knew I should never have taken those Post-It notes home.
The video started. The digital readout showed the time as 8:05. I thought that I looked silly, as most people do when they watch video of themselves. There was no sound, but it unfolded pretty much exactly as I remembered it. Only this time I was surprised by how fast everything happened. The transformation that had seemed to take forever actually happened rather quickly when seen from a strange angle in clinical detachment. The entire battle had been over in a matter of minutes, yet for me time had dilated down so that each fraction of a second had been an eternity. The creature was not nearly as intimidating on the screen as he had been when his hot breath was straining at my face. The third camera winked into static as my body was put through the ceiling tiles. We combatants would disappear from the cameras for a moment, only to reappear jerkily in another frame a few seconds later. In black and white I was surprised how plain all of our blood appeared on the walls. Finally I watched as I snapped the werewolf's neck and pushed the desk out the window.
I realized I was breathing hard.

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you grab?

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