As Garrett scrambled to the roof with a heavily singed backside, Rollins had already jumped off the cottage and was doing his best Usain Bolt impression to his parked up pick-up truck. He flipped Garrett the bird before driving off into the night. Amazing what a little adrenaline and the threat of being eaten alive can do to a man.
Two weeks later, Garrett was back home. He had a lead on Rollins from a source down in New Orleans. Garrett wondered if Philip Marlowe ever had to put up with any of this kind of fucked up shit.
The cottage was surrounded by infernal nasties. Tentacles started to smash through windows and the barricaded door wouldn’t hold much longer.
Garrett had doused the entire place in gasoline and was now pushing Rollins’ fat ass up the chimney. There were enough loose bricks inside the vertical channel to climb up and out onto the roof.
Rollins was just to the top when the creatures crashed through the door and windows. Igniting the room with a blast from his shotgun, Garrett followed Rollins up to the roof while the cottage interior transformed into an inferno that engulfed the nightmarish monsters!
Rollins desperately started barricading the door. The monsters were coming.
“Help me, Garrett! Save me from those ghastly THINGS outside!”
“Help YOU?! You crazy son of a fucking tramp! You SERIOUSLY want me to help YOU?!”
“I’ll pay you! I’ll give you money, gold, gems, ANYTHING you want! Don’t let them EAT me!”
“Christ, I’ve got enough on my plate hauling my own ass out of this fucked up shit mess! I want a million bucks to get you out of this, Rollins you sick fucking pervert!”
“Alrighty then. Here’s how this fucked up shit is going down.”
Garrett wasn’t sure whether the slimy tentacled abominations crawling from the woods were part of the festivities or not. When they started to devour cultists it became quite clear that they were not.
Rollins was running around like a headless chicken. Instead of sacrificing a bounty hunter to some unspeakable cosmic horror, he was shitting his pants and scrambling for cover.
While the monstrosities enjoyed their midnight snacks, Garrett slipped free of his bonds, got back to the cottage, recovered his Mossberg and found his clothes. The screaming outside had started to die down when Rollins burst through the door.
Night couldn’t come soon enough for Garrett. He was sick and tired of Rollins’ idiot goons staring at his Johnson as he hung naked from the wall. Christ, he’d kill for a smoke and a pull from a bottle of White Label.
He’d probably have to.
The cult was getting raucous outside. Through the cottage window Garrett saw Rollins all dolled up in fancy robes. A huge bonfire had been erected and doused generously with gas. It didn’t take a fucking rocket surgeon to work out who was going to be the darling angel on top of the Christmas tree…
“You’ve been a damned thorn in my side for too long now, Mister Garrett. Why can’t you leave me in peace, my good man?”
“You’re worth a trunk full of cold hard cash to me, son. And I’ve just got to have it.”
“So you’re a greedy man, Mister Garrett? A man imprisoned by the illusion of money that controls your society?”
“Not really. I just want to get out of this fucked up shit business and retire.”
“Well, I can help you there my friend. I promise that after this evening’s ritual you will be well and truly RETIRED!”
When Garrett came to, the nightmares were still with him. He’d been back in Iraq, walking the war torn streets of Baghdad on a sweep with his squad, seeing up close again the daily scene of blown off limbs and dead children that he and his patrol were responsible for.
The bounty hunter found himself tied to a cartwheel and hanging naked from a wall inside Rollin’s cottage. Beneath him stood Rollins and his unclean brood of hippy sycophants. Rollins prodded Garrett in the groin with his own shotgun. Garrett vomited on a nearby cultist and asked for a cigarette.
Garrett set up in the woods, a short distance from the cottage that Rollins was calling home sweet home.
Garrett wasn’t known as a patient man but he knew a modicum of reconnaissance was required before stomping down Rollins’ door and introducing the fucker to a Mossberg 590A1 Tactical.
After dark, the cottage came alive. Weird Haight-Ashbury types coming and going. Horrible, droning music. Shrieks and chanting. The cultists were enjoying themselves and no doubt, Garrett thought, getting laid. A couple of them certainly weren’t though as two of Rollins’ faithful located Garrett’s position and bushwhacked the bounty hunter.
Garrett shot him back in Cincy, but Rollins was some sort of fucked up shit modern day A. Crowley, Rasputin occult badass. Or something.
That didn’t discourage Garrett. He needed the greenbacks the bounty promised to set himself up in Honolulu. Garrett didn’t believe in that fucked up shit pentagram crap. He’d seen enough fucked up shit in Kabul, Mogadishu and fucking Baghdad to outdo any Satanic fucked up shit that Rollins could conjure. Garrett believed only in Jim Beam, Roy Orbison, the Marlboro Man and his alimony payments. Plus the fine people at Mossberg & Sons, God bless them.