Ghosts in the Pumpkin Soup

Chapter 19: The Bonezi Brigade

Mr. Unlucky took another shot of Joe Juice. The dubious liquid lit a brilliant fire inside him, then it whimpered away just as quickly. His search for the Graveyard Theory has left him strung out, and if this Power Ranger mother fucker kept staring at him from the other side of the pub, he would volunteer him for stress relief. The Light's End Pub was packed with Samhain revelers and quest givers. With all the festivities and potential for adventure, this douche opted to stare at him. Mr. Unlucky could tell the Power Ranger was looking at him, it didn't matter that his face was hidden under a domed helmet. Justice waved at him, but Mr. Unlucky returned the favor with a middle finger and went back to pouring another round.

"Rabbit mask," Justice said, "are you the one who hunts for the Theory?"

Mr. Unlucky practically jumped, but he's dealt with fast-movers before. "Fuck off."

"Abaddon's Horn."

Mr. Unlucky almost choked on his next shot. Was this guy for real? Name-dropping artifacts like he knows his shit. "What about it?"

"I have it in my possession."

Mr. Unlucky smashed his glass over Justice's head and tackled him out the door. He pinned him to the ground.

"Fuck you," Mr. Unlucky said, "don't fuck with me."

A crowd gathered around them, mostly because they were blocking a walkway and not wanting the extra attention, Mr. Unlucky let go and pushed his way through the curious onlookers and back into his seat at the bar. He motioned the barkeep for another shot when he heard gunshots outside. He, along with the other bar-goers, went along with their business as usual. Gunshots were nothing to get worked up over. That is to say—until a hurricane of bullets stormed through the bar, dropping poor folk who weren't strong enough for auras—which was about everyone other than Mr. Unlucky and Justice. They dived for cover behind the bar. Mr. Unlucky had enough aura to block a few more rounds, so he had to be careful. Loud laughter followed by more gunshots came from outside. There was more than one hostile. Justice quietly motioned to the back door. Mr. Unlucky hesitated; he didn't trust the Power Ranger. But Mr. Unlucky followed anyway, keeping his head down so no one could see him through the purple glass window, only because it was the best option at the moment. Outside he heard someone yell, "Happy Samhain mother fuckers!" followed by a few more gunshots.

The two of them made it safely through the back. Mr. Unlucky peeked around the corner to see who was unlucky enough to try and kill him today. It was a band of skeletons in old German army uniforms from some Midgard war. Mr. Unlucky knew enough to recognize the uniforms, but he didn't spend much time researching Midgard history—or Earth—whatever the fuck midfolk called it these days. Back to the matter at hand—these skeletons were bandits with a Nazi fetish. They called themselves the Last Reich at first, then Hitler's Baes, then Bonezis. Just a bunch of loud-mouthed assholes who went from town to town, causing trouble until they were chased off by the Lavender Corps or more powerful underfolk.

How they were still "alive" baffled Mr. Unlucky. He should fix that. He counted the Bonezis he could see parading in the town square, toting their sub-machine guns modeled after the German MP40. There were nine of them, and that was only the Bonzies he could see. They tended to leave a sniper hidden somewhere to cover their asses. Mr. Unlucky needed his bullet sprayer, which he left in the second floor of the pub. The Power Ranger was gone. Coward, Mr. Unlucky thought as he climbed up into the window of the room he rented. More gunshots rang, followed by more taunts. The underfolk here were weak. Mr. Unlucky couldn't believe he was the only guy here willing to fight back. This would never be a problem back in Nevermoor.

Mr. Unlucky pulled out a guitar case from under a straw bed and opened it to find his beautiful bullet sprayer. It was modeled after a tommy gun with some personal modifications. Sleek blackwood was used for the stock and foregrip. He was down to a single hundred-round drum magazine, and he was out of trick cards and explosive dice. Mr. Unlucky loaded his gun and took cover next to the window on the other end of the room. He got a clear view of the Bonezis. There were only nine he could see, and his gun wasn't very accurate. He would have to make short controlled bursts and keep moving. If they catch him in one spot, he's done for. He glanced into the window across the street and saw the glint of a scope. Just as he predicted, a sniper. How was he going to solve that problem?