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Inspired by Dashiell Hammett (1894-1961), and his work "The Maltese Falcon". Equally inspired by the erratic media fuzz made about the German political party called A.F.D (Alternative for Germany, reported right-wing, suspected outright Neo-Nazi). Needless to note; There was also a sloppy, and superficial, work called "The Invisible Eagle" about occultism in the Third Reich. Obviously, from someone with zero expertise in occult-practice. Academic ingrates and their overpaid & bored routine.
Winter in the year 1889:
Hammett and Coburn watched in horror, as the former sanctum turned into a hell-hole. Sturdy men of good faith and loyalty to their community of settlers they still chose to hinder that Evil from spreading. Nigh entombed herein, deep under the stone, they regretted having fled the thunderstorm, which had made them seek shelter in these accursed canyons of the Wild West.
The look in Coburn's eyes already informed Hammett about the martyrdom his trusted foreman had chosen. He would give his life to replace the wardstone they had destroyed in their deluded Christian zeal. A misunderstanding, which had cost them several lives, each of the slain an appreciated neighbor, family member, or loyal servant. The loss went awry due to their own guilt in releasing the devilish horror, fooled by their own religious arrogance.
"God, forgive us.", prayed Ezekiel Hammett.
"God, grant me the strength and fortitude.", prayed Jarod Coburn.
Without hesitation, and willing to sacrifice his life to get the job done, Coburn grabbed the stone block bearing the weird eye in a kinda star. It was really easily mistaken for a Satanic pentagram, but such a corrupted-alternate held no Evil at bay.
Movement from the lower tunnels made Hammett position himself to fire-cover Coburn best he could. Both men had lost older brothers in the American Civil War, which was ended in 1865. Both men were teenagers back then. Now it was their turn to face the reality of it, lives at stake, souls to be saved from a Satan the science of their age never managed to define.
Coburn's faith worked! While ferocious horrors were shot by Hammett the power of the wardstone began to thwart their access to the grotto, trapping them in the lower levels, albeit not defeating them completely.
Stragglers from the monstrous mob had to be killed by Hammett, as they fanatically tried to kill Coburn. Not just with their generic disregard for human life, but with the fiercest anger about Coburn's attempts to banish them from the grotto with that alien symbol of an eye.
The men felt aged and drained. Barely able to realize they had survived against the odds.
"I am down to my last bullet.", proclaimed Hammett, while staring at his old Colt Peacemaker.
"Thank God, the seal is restored.", gasped Coburn.
Melody Hammett, a born Griffith, strode over to her husband, seemingly coming from the entrance of the grotto.
She touched the golden crucifix he wore around his neck, smiled at him and said:
"God, bless us all."
Before Hammett could ever realize the deception his beloved wife grabbed the revolver with preternatural speed and strength, eyes full of malice, but still the face of a god-serving woman. She shot Coburn straight through the solar plexus and spine, dropping the good man dead.
Clawing her husband in a grip most wrestlers would envy, she gently whispered:
"Ezekiel, it is not that I stopped loving you. It is just that my hunger comes first."
Shocked and bleeding from her horribly powerful first bite Hammett dropped to the ground, knowing his doom had arrived. But God, in his mercy, allowed him to die witnessing that the wardstone did not allow his now fiendish wife to get close to it.
The man walking to the urban car, parked alongside the main road of the city, was clad like the downtrodden version of fictional Lex Luthor from the comics. Just that he was a still smoking, bit more hip-gold than healthy, kinda fellow about it. Hardboiled, for sure, even though older, he still moved with the same fierceness, which is often known from the less stealthy muggers and street-toughs.
Opening the car, after barely checking each of his pockets, from coat to hidden mini-cache, for the keys, he unlocked the box under the passenger seat next to the driver seat and extracted a smartphone, a holstered electro-shock flashlight, slim baton by design, and a revolver. Clumsily attempting to store them on his body, until he shook, shivered, and his face started to display an enervated look. He operated the still vibrating smartphone:
"Aristo Bum, private investigations.", spoke the baldy.
"Dad, you didn't leave your smartphone in the car, again?", inquired his daughter, by now named Clarissa Books, due to her marriage.
"Of course not, Clairy, I was in a meeting. We got a new case.", his invocation into the speaker.
Staring at the smartphone, moving his left thumb across the touchscreen, the baldy sneered at the tool. Signs of a person not really fond of the high tech junk.
He swiped and pressed around on that touchscreen, seemingly disregarding the people around him, and the fact that he still stood in between the opened side door, and the car itself.
"Clairy, it's Dad, we got a new case, and I was in a meeting, when you voice-mailed! We talk later.", he attempted the verbal ward against a nanny effect.
The smartphone lights went off, and the man did shove it into an inside pocket of his coat, a slim one fitting it tightly, so it seemed designed for such a tool. Finishing that, he closed the car door, and locked it. Walking back to a building close by.
Panting, but still moving quickly and forcefully, he took the stairs, after staring the proverbial daggers at the elevator, and the handful of people in office-style clothing waiting before the closed door of the transport device.
"Lazy shits.", was all he muttered, then making his way upwards via the stairs.
The door was basically made from wood but reinforced with a silvery metal. When the man opened it, padding, along with the inside frame, was clearly to be seen, and a cheaply designed sign in the upper middle of the door displayed: Noir, Bum, and Punk - Private Investigations
The two office assistants resembled porn starlets and gave a dire contrast to the older man known, as Aristo Bum. Both were actively moving through the office, juggling a smartphone, or tablet computer, instead of killing their backside due to hours of sitting without proper blood circulation.
"Boss in?", inquired Aristo Bum.
"Yeuch.", welcomed the assistants, both not too fond of smokers.
"Addictive sicknesses, I have no delusion about it, and we know how much of an achievement it is to stop living in denial.", recited Aristo Bum, working hard to ensure the mocking undertone was not overheard.
"No boss, sweaty.", replied the brunette assistant.
Before the veteran detective could do anything else, the blonde assistant pushed him through one of the office doors, straight into a typical desktop room. A swift kick backward, albeit softly so, closing the door behind her. Her hands had his pant down, displaying a cheap short, instead of his notorious, self-made, string tanga minimalism. Unyielding the woman pulled down the underwear and went for a carnal act, formally known, as a blowjob.
No stranger to adult women, the man avoided gripping her head, instead gently resting his hands on her shoulders, as ruining her optics was not an option. Seconds passed by, with the two of them busy. It was a loveless, merely carnal act, though the wisdom of sexual release did not get doubted, as it seemed.
Both of them professionals, they quick-drew their own packages of hygiene handkerchiefs, cleaning themselves with the scientific promise of no harmful chemicals involved, and proper anti-pathogenic effect.
"Stylo patch?", asked the blonde woman.
"Yeah.", replied the bald man.
She left the room, while the bald man took a moment, obviously assuring that his gun & stun-baton flashlight were properly holstered. Soon thereafter he fingered for his smartphone and chanted:
"Clairy, dad has to work now, outbound. The phone will be business only, for at least two hours.",
Leaving the side office and steering the main office to the exit, he only sipped the coffee-to-go and snatched a package, the Stylo patch pack, handed to him by the blonde assistant, who obviously wanted him to continue walking forth.
Again he took the stairs, with zero hesitation in his body movements, while passing the elevator, as if it was a crematory oven. Fat, but still athletic, he hopped down the first stairs, obviously enjoying a minimum of sports. Or smart enough, to test his physical fitness status before facing duty outside.
He entered the car, once more, due to the miracle of not being killed by some driver far over maximum speed, and drove off, clearly himself a driver with serial tendencies, whenever behind the wheel!
Disembarking from the car, in slow motion, the bald man walked over to a slim, blonde fellow, apparently at least ten years younger than the baldy.
"Stylo Punk.", announced Aristo, once more working hard to not get caught enviously staring at Stylo's supercool street-artist clothing.
"Aristo Bum.", returned Stylo Punk.
Both men smiled, not too hearty, but with one streak of that divine bliss in it: That feeling, which triggers, when life, for the moment, is unconditionally good.
"Noir already here?", asked Aristo.
"In a way, yes.", replied Stylo. Pointing at the crime scene, close by, so obviously already scolded for trying to close-in, and have a better look.
"Dammit, can't see the elder dragon, where EXACTLY is she?", wondered Aristo.
"Right on the slider, next date is the coroner, and I mean on a slab in the pathology.", said witty Stylo Punk.
The shock did set in, and the bald man's facial motions froze. Their boss had not ordered them here, their boss had been killed here.
"Smartphone was in the car again.", assured Stylo Punk.
"Grab your patch-pack.", countered Aristo Bum.
Stylo Punk took the package handed to him. It included everything a man might need, after having bolted out of the bed of some mate, or a bunch of 'em, and with only minutes to rush under the shower and show-up at work.
"Office knew.", verified Aristo.
"As if the stench of nicotine abuse, an ill-tempered sexist streak, and routine wouldn't telltale why...", balanced Stylo Punk.
"No bad blood on that.", accredited Aristo Bum. "The assistants made their choices, and rightly so."
The evening had been a disaster without a herald, at least, when asking Aristo Bum. Their boss killed implied trouble manifold. First of all, it meant the funding was at risk, as financial issues would arise. Bureaucracy alone ensured that. Second, there was someone murdering within their social surroundings, and it could be possible that the motive for the crime had to do with the job, not just jealous spouse has gone psycho, or street crime they had nothing to do with.
Spending the night waiting outside of the pathology department was only cute in old movies, but not the professional truth of it. Private investigators had no special entitlement, and hence the office had made the expected appointment with the pathology WITHOUT Aristo & Stylo squeezing themselves into a car parked in shadow.
Next morning, when entering the little private investigation agency, their own workplace, felt like walking straight into the tomb of the dark, legendary vampire. Seriously. The adult kinda feeling, no emo couch-whining at his, or her, therapist, nigh overwhelmed Aristo Bum [Author note: The author is an emo himself, albeit only occasionally so, and it is my warning that hate, the kinda hate spawning racism & hate crimes, IS actually one of those emotions. Emos are emotional, not dumb, neither auto-harmless, nor eager to be victimized].
Their assistance, usually hyperactive, or at least lurking for Aristo Bum and Stylo Punk, played the secretaries, suspiciously eager not to be noticed. Tits stashed away, granny style, heads bent low, cowering, and all lackey. The bald man had to stop himself from grabbing his handgun here, trapped in red flag land.
The side rooms were two toilets, two smaller offices, streetside one for sunny-side-up Stylo Punk, backyard one for Aristo Bum, and across the entry was the big office of recently deceased Mrs. Noir. Aristo found himself railroaded there, with only one coffee-to-go pressed into his left hand. Telltale that Stylo Punk was already in there, and with a client, or worse. Noir's husband? Lawyer? Attorney? Mafia boss with a personal grudge against both of us? Mysteries of the passing moment.
An old computer game inspired the original terms, but to Aristo it translated: "You face Death itself, manifested, as the publicly known Dr. Anison Wydelle, high and mighty politician, most feared woman of her age, and commander of more killers than it would need to fight one more world war!
Stiff, and perplexed, Aristo found himself intimidated, fiercely so, by nothing but a slim woman of perhaps 5'7 in height and clad with typical business clothing. Though, visibly, clothing of the more expensive type.
The bald man moved nonetheless, offering his hand in a formal greeting, without even one look at Stylo Punk. The suggestion of 'talking behind the back' was drilled out of professionals, as pissing off the customers wasn't the way to earn money.
"Dr. Anison Wydelle, a pleasure to meet you.", announced the woman.
"Aristo Bum, private affairs agent, welcome.", replied the baldy.
"Please, have a seat, we take pride in our room service including desinfection, and non-coloring textiles.", lectured Aristo Bum.
A worrisome look was exchanged, from Aristo Bum to Stylo Punk, as the mere fact of Stylo still being dumbstruck, and the unexpected surprise of the morning clearly had gotten the better of them.
"Dr. Wydelle, how can we be of assistance to you?", came the chorus of Aristo & Stylo.
"I am here to secure my assets. You see, the late Mrs. Noir had been an outstanding loyalist of my political course. And the tragic, subsequent suicide of her loving husband must have been such a torment, to both their families, that I did not burden them any further. Instead, I came myself.", chirped Anison Wydelle.
"We are honored, Dr. Wydelle.", lied Aristo & Stylo, once more in unison.
"Each of you is given the six week period of reconsidering the running contract. Otherwise, you need not worry, as the business, as usual, will soon proceed. One minor scolding I am obligated to include, absence or not, no more smoking in this room.", intoned Dr. Wydelle.
"Of course.", verified Aristo & Stylo, once more in obvious agreement.
"Gentlemen, my schedule runs tight, and I must get to the point. Please, forgive my rudeness. Update me on the obfuscated thunderbird. Now.", punchlined Dr. Wydelle.
"There was something in the media, a while ago, but we never had a case even mentioning it.", remembered Stylo Punk.
"Some conspiracy crap, abused by some academics to snatch fame and attention? Decades-old fraud by now.", summarized Aristo Bum.
"Mr. Bum, please, a bit more detail, as I could nearly feel insulted by considering me that naive.", chirped Dr. Wydelle.
"Even to the deadliest hot chic on the planet, it is, as I said. Occult symbolism, abused by a small team of academics, who, back then, thought they could fame-phish it to snatch easy money.", said Aristo Bum.
Without flinching their new boss countered:
"Mr. Bum, it might be easy to overlook, but a certain rant had not escaped all attention. And, to be more specific about it, the fact that the rant included a reciting of more than 20 occult books, not ebooks, all without ISBN number, ergo outside what you tend to call mainstream, and published independently. Rant-author Aristo Bum, in an age, which had no organized, or easy to use, self-publishing of any virtual type. And, it wasn't only the titles recited in that rant.",
"Yeah, I know. But, you asked about the obfuscated thunderbird, a mere myth abused, and not about my competences, or areas of expertise, when it comes to occultism.", stated Aristo Bum, visibly confused about the talk going totally away from his expectations.
The feminine death-angel with boobs stared at the baldy, as even a high up, like Dr. Anison Wydelle, needed a moment to check on her suspicions, read body language, and ignore the clumsy sexism of a downtrodden moron. Plus the mental off-shaking, potentially due to past misdeeds, or temper tantrums, of Aristo Bum.
She took off her glasses, got herself a kerchief from her pockets, and made a show of cleaning her glasses.
"It could be that age thing, midlife crisis, and such. Really, Dr. Wydelle. I mean, it is the same on martial arts, the once young enthusiast became fat and older in the meanwhile...", but a suspicion started to gnaw at Aristo. So he continued:
"Dr. Wydelle, I have zero intent to provoke you. And, no matter, which political rumors circulate: I am not in league with your competition, and neither am I eager to usurp your proverbial throne. One could say; I see the woman, not the power and money she wields, and one could say: I have moments of a sexist attitude. But, I am not trying to hold back info, and I have no problem being a loyal employee.", babbled Aristo.
This time a very slim smile appeared on the face of Dr. Wydelle.
"I believe you, Aristo Bum, and, in respect to your honesty, I tell the both of you straight: I want you to find that obfuscated thunderbird, and help to ensure that I get my hands on it.", shocked Dr. Anison Wydelle.
Aristo's head turned, as the jolt going through Stylo Punk did indeed remind of some unaware victim being tasered.
"I'm fine.", declared Stylo Punk.
Dr. Wydelle had begun her departure, when Aristo called her once more:
"Dr. Wydelle, I may need your card.", reported Aristo Bum.
Emotionless eyes fell unto Aristo, and another awkward moment passed by, as the two submissive secretaries, the woman in power, and the baldy found themselves trapped within the equilibrium of the situation.
"Of course.", spoke Dr. A.W., as she handed him the traditional mini-sheet with contact data.
Aristo snatched it and went straight into his office, fully focused on digging up the oldest files he might, or might not, still have a copy of on his computer.
Barely eight seconds later the arrival of Stylo Punk disturbed his computing.
"Aristo?", asked Stylo.
"Yeah, what is it?", inquired Aristo.
"How did you... Did you sexually harass lady callous, the bane of democracy, and fascist monster regent, in there?", asked Stylo Punk.
"Barely. I mean, she is one hot chic. Plus, it wasn't, as if you were the talkative one in there, Stylo.", concluded Aristo.
Blinking, and awestruck, Stylo Punk contemplated the data his ears had just received. The yin & yang of the moment, inside a simple office room. No Feng Shui needed.
Switzerland, Hotel Seehof Davos:
A jet-lagging duo approached the stunningly beautiful classic of a hotel. Snow and wind adding to mother nature's panorama to view. The unbelievably fair pricing impressed the duo of street-survivors, as it was rarely found, in this modern age of planet-contaminating capitalism gone awry.
"How did you arrange this meeting using only a tablet PC?", asked Stylo.
"Bounty hunter websites, plenty enjoy cashing such extra services.", said Aristo.
Their contact was an old man. Someone, who still knew the age, and profession, of operating a bookstore. Somebody, who had dedicated his life to the preservation of knowledge. The neutrality of such professionals could be abused, but actually such was true about most people. And in the smartphone age it needed some remembrance to dig-out old lore.
Someone, like senior Karl Scheidegger, the antiquary, book-lover, and preserver of knowledge.
Twelve hours of delving in old tomes passed by, before the detectives finally found a clue.
"Stylo, it is beeping simple! The myth and the statue are two separate topics. And, with our boss eager to get that statue, we know what to focus unto.", proclaimed Aristo Bum.
USA, Quality Inn Navajo Nation Capital:
Oldschool: The dust storm was merciless, and more than one forlorn dweller believed to hear the Wendigo kind of spirits outcry in the wind. Settlers panicked, worried senseless about their beloved children. Gunslingers and native scouts found themselves ill-prepared, for the trial of divine fire, which their greed and corruption had provoked. But, even in the hour of darkness, and on judgment day, GOD did not abandon the innocent, nor did GOD deny to protect the faithful. And so, from deep within the desert wasteland, appeared two riders. Unshaken by the storm, unimpressed by the threats of imminent, gruesome death. The lone range redeemer, Stylo Punk, and hell's most unwanted hero, Aristo Bum, rode into the small settlement, on a direct mission from GOD!
Modern: The two detectives had booked their hotel rooms, as usual, took a cabby from the airport to here, and got their lazy asses out of the car, stumbling towards their separate hotel rooms, all eager to plunder the mini-bar. An hour later, they started their talk & posture charade.
"Aristo, what did Dr. Wydelle mean with that occult rant reminder?", inquired Stylo Punk.
"For our case, now? The Wendigo, windigo, or wetiko rooted myth, contrary to cheap horror movies, and contrary to the psychiatric definition of a psychosis resulting in cannibalism, is about invoking, worshiping, or outright unleashing, a kinda hunger via spiritual, occult, or guerrilla warfare, kinda means. To simplify the kind of shitstorm it means, think Helena of Troy, when it is the classics, or the Nazi going monstrous unto Jewish and gypsies of the Roma and Sinti, as a larger scale example. The lusting, for the statue then, means somebody wants to either unleash similar trouble, or banish it.", said Aristo Bum.
"Sheesh! That makes it dangerous grounds.", said Stylo Punk.
"Yeah, the killer type of loonies, the frauds, the esotericism noobs, and real cults from outside of anything we could call mainstream, or sanity.", admitted Aristo Bum, with a visible weariness: Like someone, who had endured it once too often before. And neither 1972, nor 1941, nor 1902, or 1889 were the only known cases of similar occult efforts.
Before any further talk became necessary their contact arrived. Hopping out of his jeep, a modern offroad vehicle, probably former army model, he was quick to be done with the agreed upon exchange of data, and verification of leads, trails, and clues.
"Whoa, Aristo, it is damn plain to see.", stated Stylo Punk, while still staring at the freshly made 8 billion pixel copy-shot of a picture from an old deerskin.
"Yep. One could say only a symbol away from Adolf's failed gay-marriage with Josef (Broken Hitler-Stalin Pact).", spoke an embittered Aristo Bum.
"What is pissing you off?", asked Stylo, who knew bad jokes on serious topics were signaling Aristo lusting for blood.
"The lower heights. Monetary needs violating my wellbeing, and my spiritual equilibrium.", confessed Aristo Bum.
Though, having seen it with his own eyes by now, Stylo Punk felt less confident, about mainstream data on it. That Native American birdie, depicted on a nigh ancient deerskin, was more than two hundred years older than the eagle of Nazi Germany. The Reichsadler. And, those birdies could be twins, as it was impossible that they had been drawn by the same artist! The only notable difference was the lack of the twisted cross on the Native American one.
The journey back started.
Jerusalem, Leonardo Plaza hotel:
"Wonderful swimming pool.", said Stylo Punk.
"I don't like the heat. A health issue.", said Aristo Bum.
"We were pretty lucky during these last weeks.", said Stylo Punk.
"Yeah, no more thunderbird magick sermon. At least that much is granted.", spoke Aristo Bum.
"I've sketched some pictures, you know, selling the finished pieces over at Punky artworks dot com.", mentioned Stylo Punk.
"I survived worse than being not man enough, at least in some woman's head, or for real, Stylo. Don't worry." proclaimed Aristo Bum.
"Bikini babes with poisoned needle-pistols." contributed Stylo Punk.
"Cocaine before breakfast, the actors playing us will be 25 years younger, and of course the good guys win the ladies hearts." sighed Aristo Bum.
"Perhaps a time-traveling cyber-dragon helping to stop the bad guys." contemplated Stylo Punk aloud.
"Yeah, and less gutter-prose, so one time my daughter is not ashamed of me.", concluded Aristo Bum.
Six weeks ago, in the Native American reservation, they both thought they were about to go for a legendary treasure. Albeit only, to hand it to a woman few would see, as any less evil than Dracula's bride. But, real life has never been like glamour movies. No heroic duo outmatching the crime lords of the planet, plus the more fanatic legal collectors, and anybody, who could be bribed or recruited. Needless to mention the need for being flawless hackers, to even attempt bypassing, or outwitting modern surveillance technology. Their abduction to a certain 'non-existent' moonbase had bashed their egos senseless. But, their job was done. They had served, as one of many distractions, instead of being the celebrities. Released from their involuntary custody they woke-up in their hotel rooms and had the joy-talk with the office done. They had survived, they even got paid, and they had visited some interesting places on the planet. It wasn't the worst case of their lifetime. It just ended without any glory. And, as devoid of success, as their personal lives had always been. Or, so it seems.
The Wewelsburg, Germany 2020:
Dr. Anison Wydelle smiled. For, in her ambivalent way, she could only agree. She had been invited here to remove a great Evil, serving modern democracy to undo a monstrous Nazi crime. Ken Maastricht had invited her, so she could prove herself washed clean from all the old taint, which had indeed wrought the Shoah and a World in Flames.
The room had served SS officers, as a mockery or parody of the Round Table known due to King Arthur Pendragon aka Arthurian legends. Back in the Third Reich the smarter military elite was guest here, when invited by the leadership.
Maastricht opened an old book, a book so rare that few believed it existent at all.
"I see it, dear Ken, but I still caution against rash measures. Are you sure that flaming eye is the root of this Evil?", inquired Anison Wydelle.
"Of course, I am. I studied the sources for years. And I was there, when the sign was mimicked into the Tolkien movies, so associating it with Evil becomes common knowledge, even to the ill-educated masses.", said Ken Maastricht.
"So, how do we proceed?", asked Anison.
Maastricht showed her the pictures in his tome. Elaborating, how chant and incense were used by tradition, and merely due to academic correctness of detail.
A beeping sound announced the spoken text message on Ken's smartphone, disturbing the ritualized task, as any ignorant would:
"It's Annygret, Ken. Make sure that fascist bitch will not expect us to owe her, dear."
Ken Maastricht smiled his most-apologetic smile, best he could:
"Apologies, Anison. Lady Krampf-Knarrenklauer is not too fond of you."
"I know.", verified Anison Wydelle.
Twenty minutes later the ritual was finished, and the supposedly evil eye had lost its energy.
The dim lighting reminded of crude, old horror movies, when Ken Maastricht asked his companion:
"You look pale, is everything alright?"
"Sure, I just grew a bit hungry, Ken.", said Anison.
Five minutes later the woman was alone in the room, the mortal-remnains of the already forgotten Ken Maastricht stuffed away in a cupboard. Copying his data from the phone via Bluetooth, Anison Wydelle used her own smartphone.
"Now that we helped democracy along we should really invite the others for a little feasting.", said Anison.
"Consider it done!", replied an unknown male voice.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Andre M. Pietroschek.
Published on e-Stories.org on 02/28/2023.
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