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Monday, May 18

Wild Hunt: Part 14 – Apocalypse Remix

Jim-Bean was back to his old self, his protomatter body having processed the PCP out of his system after he gulped several glasses of water. He marched up to the private area of the club, the Green Bar. Two bouncers stood before him.

“Federal agents,” he said, flashing his badge. “I want to speak with the owner.”

“He’s not speaking with anyone he doesn’t want to speak to.” The bouncers shook their heads. “Your badge is no good here.”

“Fine,” said Jim-Bean. He squinted at them. “Let me be a little more persuasive. Why don’t you let us in?”

The bodyguard smirked. “That might work at the door, but it won’t work here.”

Jim-Bean looked puzzled for a moment. Then with an elaborate sigh, he reached for his Glock. “Fine, we’ll do this the hard—“

There was a cold, clammy grip on his shoulder, as if a coat rack had accidentally caught hold of Jim-Bean’s jacket. When he turned, the man in the photos was standing there with one hand on his arm. Only it didn’t feel like a hand, more like a dead tree branch, completely lifeless and cold.

It was Hubert. He had prominent, high cheekbones, a narrow chin, a long face, and a heavy brow. His features were distinctly Aryan, as was his tousled blond hair. He looked twenty-five, but his skin had a somewhat plastic complexion to it.

“Gentlemen, that’s not necessary. I can introduce you to the owner.” [MORE]

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posted by Michael Tresca at 6:58 AM


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