>be me
>private eye working out of his RV
>was a bright, sunny, non-windy day
>but we’re in International Falls, Minnesota
>in the middle of February
>so it’s still freezing enough to warrant busting out the trenchcoat
>God, I love playing it Bogart
>it was also a good idea to wear woobie pants-liner under my slacks
>walked into town from the KOA campground I was staying at
>the hot showers weren’t worth the sleep-killing noises of domestic abuse in the cabin next to my parking spot
>though it was odd that an orc dude and an elf broad came out
>and it was the big green feller that had a kaleidoscope of bruises
>so there I was an hour later, about 9:00 AM
>munching on a QuikTrip BLT croissant for breakfast
>don’t get the three-meat-treat pizza there
>I’ve seen five different people get food poisoning from that one menu item
>another half-hour later, I’m in the local police department’s lobby
>took a job off of a flier they had on the bounty board
>odd place to have it, but not surprising
>bounty boards are usually in city halls or county courthouses, in my experience
>it’s mostly in Fankasia where you’ll see them in ye olde taverns
>or Illinois
>fuckin’ civil servant unions
>swear to the /K/ube, they’re all payola’d by the Chicago Outfit

>so here’s the gig
>some ancient hippie is allegedly possessing people
>the decrepit LSD-burnout wants another 80 years of life
>and a brain that isn’t fried
>so he’s hopping back-and-forth across multiple men in their ‘20s
>seems he’s shopping around before he does a permanent hijacking
>none of the men know the guy’s name
>we only had a face and a voice to go by
>emphasis on ‘had’
>because right when I took a copy of the bounty, this fat short black woman runs (speed-waddles?) up to me
>she’s a cop, a forensics geek
>cracked the case just three days ago, and I’m the first lucky schmuck to take this mark since then
>see, everyone was working the angle that this astral-projector was a local yokel
>but lardass McGee thought outside the box
>she threw out a state-wide dragnet, even made some inquiries to the Mounties
>why WAS she so concerned to nail this geriatric?
>because she’s on the payroll of a gray-market banker that got possessed
>but since she’s in no shape to go out and do some gumshoeing, she passed the buck to the next chump
>fine by me, she already got her finders’ fee
>the bounty said this guy was worth $6,000 dead, 10K alive
>and her sugar daddy was secretly offering 11 grand on top of the six Grover Cleveland’s to waste this guy
>every damn time, every damn case
>there’s always a broad playing dirty
>except for those two bounties I took in St. Louis
>nothing’s scarier than running into crossdressing Albanian twink house-”wife” assassins in an alley at midnight

>as for the case being cracked, the shortstack dame hands me the autopsy file
>it’s on a possess-ee that was killed in an accidental car crash
>the morgue had clearance to perform a seance
>so IFPD’s brain detail finds the guy’s astral “frequency”
>and so the trail ran across the skies towards the Northwest Angle
>the file also had paperwork that would verify me once I got to Warroad Memorial International Airport
>Minnesota State Patrol was willing to let me hitch a ride to The Angle and paradrop out
>I went back to the campground, paid for my stay, and drove off with my home
>a shame that I had only one day to redeem that free plane ticket
>lost my chance to have that black bear-lady gas station clerk help me warm up the bed
>she made some real goo-goo eyes at me
>on the other hand, she’s a bearwoman
>they all sleep too much
>they blow through half your paycheck on fancy meats
>and drain your nuts so they can literally be a mama bear
>at least they have the warmest cuddles this side of the Missouri River

>drove up State Highway 11, straight for Warroad
>smooth ride most of the way (ironic)
>except for an accident about 40 minutes after Manitou
>these two faggots with a black Mack RB and a M42 Duster decided to play chicken on the freeway
>they both won 
>Manitou itself wasn’t even a fifth as bad as that anchorman I met in Duluth last week said it was

>stopped for a late lunch in Baudette
>grabbed a cold cut hoagie from a grocery store
>along with two 50-round boxes of my favorite type of .38 Special +P
>Winchester 130-grain bonded jacketed hollow points
>ate a late lunch while sitting at the debased base of that Willie the Walleye statue
>a lot of graffiti was on it
>all of it was expletives directed towards merfolk, game wardens
>and especially people who throw autism tantrums at littering
>this was definitely the work of harpies 
>Common Loon harpies, to be exact
>had a swell night with twins of that sort, last Valentine’s Day when I was in St. Paul
>that city’s gunlock group still has me on a blacklist for bailing on a mission
>fuck ‘em, the money wasn’t worth the risk
>even the /K/ube itself needs to make things worth my while if it wants me to do it’s bidding

>Kept driving, lost two hours from traffic
>on account of a major iced-road pileup in Roosevelt
>drove across a scenic byway
>called the Waters Of The Dancing Sky
>it’s as beautiful as the name implies
>you could get lost in your mind
>just from the perfect view of the vast plains to the south
>patches upon patches of green and/or yellow against a sea of white
>looked like they were bursting from the snow
>I’m no poet
>but there’s something to be said here
>about life springing forth from the Great White Nothing
>yeah, something like that
>I arrived at Warroad not long after
>passed by a high school, where some big sports shindig was going down
>seems they turned their football field into a giant hockey rink, judging from looking at the bleachers
>and even better, there was a car museum next door
>they had my automotive love
>my vehicular oneitis
>The Eliminator
>that Ford Roadster that guitarist from ZZ Top commissioned as a custom build
>they used a drawing of it as the front cover for the self-explanatory album
>but the car was a replica, according to the plaque
>seems the band took the real Eliminator back

>someday, I’ll settle down
>maybe with one of those Loon harpies
>for all I know, I already fertilized one of their eggs
>but when that day comes
>when I park this Winnebago Spirit in a driveway
>take the for-sale sign off the front lawn
>and enter the world of homeownership
>maybe then, I’ll stick to one city to make some big bucks
>go legit, bluff or bribe my way into an easy job in the construction or import/export business
>and get a red Roadster hot rod with yellow, black, and gray stripes on the sides
>but until then, the missions continue
>and speaking of that, I arrived at the airport
>seven hours before the deadline
>an Air Marshal is at the drop-off zone
>holding a sign with my latest alias on it
>I’ve got four in total
>gotta stay two steps ahead of the NYPD and NCIS
>don’t ask why, but I’ll sum up that it involved the theft of an entire Sentinel-class cutter
>I waved at the Marshal
>then I went to the parking lot
>told the attendant that I had no idea when I would be back
>she said it didn’t matter
>Wells Fargo was comping me
>so that’s where the sugar daddy banker worked at

>I got out
>locked the RV
>and brought as many pre-loaded speed-strips and speedloaders that my pockets could carry
>the Marshal rolls up in a golf cart
>says the other passengers came a day early
>so everyone was waiting on me
>I took his offer for a ride
>in less than ten minutes, we pulled into Hangar Four
>where inside was a whole-ass C-130 Hercules
>the Marshal wished me luck
>shook my hand
>and handed me an envelope
>which specifically said I was not to open this until I had arrived at the final stop
>walked up the ramp into the plane
>greeted the pilot & co-pilot
>pilot hands me a can of Bud Lite
>but I politely declined
>I don’t touch light booze
>go big or go home
>went to the passenger seats
>found out about the other passengers
>they’re all humans
>more nutcases
>they’re big-game hunters
>and their prey is abhumans that were already serving life sentences
>brought to you by dirty Mounties taking money from bored millionaires
>richfags too pussy to look for inner-city street-combat
>where the prey can shoot back
>the official flight plan was that the plane was headed for a private airstrip-lodge near Kingfisher Lake
>far out into the wastelands of northwest Ontario
>might as well be Nunavut, if you ask me
>unofficially, they’ll be flying over Angle Inlet
>and that’s where I paradrop out
>so we flew off, deeper into The Frozen North
>one engine had icing troubles, but we were overall fine
>two hunters start circlejerking about how they’re gonna play with their prey before the last trigger-pull
>another hunter had brought out his authentic Vietnam-era Remington 700
>paperwork proved it was a MACV-SOG relic that definitely had a Victor Charlie bodycount
>I was impressed
>figures that this hunter was the only one who didn’t have his head up his own ass  

>so we made it to the tip-top of the contiguous United States of America
>one hunter had already negligently discharged his Glock 17 into the hull
>but it was just a nine-mil, who gives a shit?
>bill him for the dent, I say
>and forget about it
>I was told by the co-pilot over the intercom
>to head down to the ramp-room
>I did
>he’s there
>hands me a duffle bag
>it’s got white Pit Viper goggles
>a plain black ski mask, nothing but two eyeholes
>a pair of snowshoes
>and a parachute
>pretty obvious what’s going to happen at this point
>I took off and folded my trenchcoat
>plain black US Navy standard-issued one
>yes, I got it on that boat
>put the coat and the snowshoes in the parachute’s storage compartment
>along with my trusty revolver and all the ammo
>I put the mask and goggles on for last
>one minute later, a red light turns on
>the pilot says I’ve got six seconds to jump before we enter Canadian airspace
>I jumped after three
>falling through the sky, almost no clouds in sight
>I had an even better view over all the land and lakes on both sides of the border
>you’d have to see it for yourself, to truly understand nature’s beauty
>the ice-covered rivers and lakes
>the tundra
>juxtaposed by buildings, cars, and small pockets of clear blue water that the ice ain’t covering
>I pulled the ‘chute tab at what seemed to be a good time
>wound up landing in a orchard right on the south edge of town
>here I was, at the edge of America
>tossing a parachute into a McDonald’s garbage bin
>hoping to the /K/ube that no one saw me

>it’s late in the afternoon
>walk into the McDeez and buy a medium order of fries
>sat in a corner spot where no one can look over my shoulder
>opened the envelope 
>it had a well-detailed artist’s rendition of the target
>glasses, combover, hazelnuts eyes
>also had a paper saying he was somewhere at Prothero’s Post Resort, a few miles northwest
>and that in the off-chance he sees me coming, it’s got info on his plant-o-mancy skills
>after I finished the mini-meal, I walked
>a rental car pulling up would make too much of a scene
>sucked in the sights and sounds
>hard to believe this place was a borderline ghost town, not too long ago
>had a population of 60 before the /K/onvergence
>now it’s 7,000
>all on account of polar animal-folk preferring the US over Canada
>Fan/k/sians coming over to this side, choosing this novelty of an region to live in
>and plain jane Americans and expat Canucks settling down here for one reason or another
>overhearing the conversations of other people, it seems that a lot of urbanites came here
>all wanting to get as far away as they could from their old lives, without resorting to Alaska
>also almost got trampled by a Centaur
>she rushed out from a house
>crying and ranting about how her boyfriend was a clopper who only wanted her gorilla-grip moose-pussy
>My Little Pony and its consequences, have been a disaster for the neurodivergent section of the human race

>so I arrived at the resort after hitching a ride in the back of a Geo Tracker
>gave me time to put my coat back on
>and properly conceal my Colt Night Cobra
>jumped off at the front gates of the resort
>put on a wig and sunglasses
>walked into the front lobby
>pulled out a fake NCIS badge I took off one of their dead agents back in Yonkers
>told them to tell me where a guy fitting the picture’s description was
>told the front desk clerk that this guy was wanted for questioning
>suspected of attempting to bomb the Navy Chief of Staff’s office at the Pentagon
>I was so pushy 
>the clerk hadn’t stopped to realize a situation like that is actually in the DIA’s jurisdiction
>he pulls up security camera footage in the parking lot
>guy checked in last month
>his advance payments would dry up tomorrow
>now this explains why I was in a rush to get on that plane
>I walked out
>bobbed and weaved through the cabins, holding my hand out
>pretending I was drunk and searching for my car
>arrived along the side of cabin thirty-one

>peek through the edge of a window
>there’s voodoo paraphernalia all over the room
>the guy’s sitting criss-cross-applesauce in the center of a giant sigil
>he’s naked, wearing one of those Aleister Crowley triangle hats
>the walls and ceiling are covered in soundproof padding
>too bad for him, that shit works both ways
>he’s yelling
>200% mad
>he’s possessing someone who’s locked in a basement
>somewhere in Rainy River, Ontario
>and the mark’s completely distracted
>I slowly opened the window
>he doesn’t feel the draft
>that means his possession is nearly complete
>or he’s sloppy
>and the other guy is resisting too hard
>but I could help the other poor bastard
>so I took a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the windowsill for too long
>spilled its contents onto the sigil
>it “cut the broadcast” so to speak
>with his magic plug pulled, he needed a few seconds to reorient himself, abruptly back in his old body
>and that’s when I shot him point-blank in the back of the head
>one bullet of .38 Special +P seemed to do the trick
>but I fired four more shots to be sure
>his head exploded on the fifth bullet
>and I fired the last one into his heart
>I reloaded, fired another six shots
>the soundproof walls backfired on this son of a bitch
>now it’ll be hours before anyone finds out he’s dead

>walked out
>the ski mask, snowshoes, and my gloves, would prevent any trace of fingerprints
>assuming the cops here would even care to investigate a body-hopper
>walked into a Denny’s diner
>ordered a small coffee and a single buttermilk pancake
>also asked to borrow their landline phone
>waitress lets me
>I ring up the IAPD’s headquarters
>ask to speak to the shortstack
>the call gets transferred
>and I spoke the code given to me in the envelope to acknowledge a mission accomplished
>I state that "her boyfriend’s W-2 tax form got finished, and that it checked out clean"
>she says my money will be wired by the crack of next dawn
>second easiest seventeen thousand I ever made
>after, of course, that time I looted a dead drug mule in Cincinnati
>another day, another dollar