[DFM]

I step out of the drizzling rain and into the musk of a tattoo parlor that's been too long abandoned.



Grime and mold seep through the faded wallpaper and the ceiling plaster must have collapsed to the floor decades ago. A messy trail leads through the lingering dust and into the basement. Despite appearances, I guess it's had a recent tenant.



Carson had said McGee wasn't here when he'd come calling, but that didn't mean he hadn't moved back in when the cat was away. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll find Carson stuffed in a trunk in the basement and I could take my money and call it a day.



No, got to stop thinking like that. Don't worry about the money, worry about finding Carson, making sure he didn't get jumped by this murderous McGee character. That's what's important. That's what I care about.



That and the money.



The basement is dirty, sparse. There's an old mattress on the floor in the corner and a TV on top of a pile of boxes. I notice a collage on the wall, and not the artsy type.



McGee isn't here, and neither is Carson, but this is a pretty big neon sign saying where one or both of them might have run off too. Must have been hoping to get some modeling money from the prosthetics shop. McGee probably needed the cash to flee the country from whatever crimes were hounding him. He'd probably be long gone by now, but if Gimble hadn't paid him in cash, I could... well, I couldn't, anymore, but Arthur might be able to trace the money and find out where it's getting dumped.

If he had gotten paid in cash, well-



The phone rings.

It rings a second time and I make my towards the utilitarian hanging. On the third ring, I slip it off its stand. I talked my way into some Astrolite, I can talk my way into some McGee.



"McGee's Residence."

"Hello there!" The voice on the other end was chipper, vaguely business-like.

"Is Mr. McGee available?"

"Not at the moment, I'm afraid. Can I take a message?"

He sounds a little disappointed.

"Oh. Well, this is Mr. Gimble. McGee agreed to do some modeling work for me. We had a photo shoot scheduled a few days ago, but he never showed up. I haven't been able to get a hold of him since, do you know when he'll be back? I normally wouldn't bother like this but it's awfully hard to find a good prosthetics model in this city. Well, for a reasonable price, anyway."

"No, I don't know. I'm looking for him myself."

"Really? What a coincidence! Why are you looking for him?"

"Just an old friend from out of down. Thought I'd check up on him while I was here, but... well, you know how that's going."

"Quite right, quite right. Hmm... you know, maybe if we pool our efforts we can find this mysterious McGee fellow? What do you say?"

"Sounds like a good idea, I'm in."

"Splendid! Why don't you come on down to my offices and we'll see what we can dig up. I'm at the end of main street, a smaller studio for now until we get established downtown. Always got to be building the brand, you know."

"I know."

"Just ring the buzzer and I'll let you in. See you soon!"



I hang up the phone. He didn't sound like he was a wonder child detective, but I don't suppose I'm in any kind of position to refuse help at this point. At the very least he might have some permanent records on McGee. I head up the basement stairs and out of the tattoo parlor, hitting the rainy street. It isn't long before I find the studio.



I head down a small flight of stairs until I reach a security door and an intercom.



I press the buzzer.

"Yes?" Still sounds chipper.

"I talked to you on the phone."

"Ah, yes. I'll buzz you in!"

There's a clicking as en electronic lock falls out of place. I open the door and listen to it latch shut again behind me as I enter the room.



"Hello, there! Welcome to Gimble's Medical Supplies and Prosthetics. You're here about the missing Mr. McGee, am I right?"

"That's right. You said we might be able to track him down if we worked together?"

"Yes, yes I rather believe so, anyway. I'm not much of bloodhound myself, but since you seem like the go-getter type, I believe that if I can get you on his trail, a whiff of his scent so to speak, you can locate him!"



"And then maybe I can finally have a decent model, for once."

"You're saying you have something I can use?"

"I do. It's not a forwarding address proper, but I think it's a clue as to where he might be hiding. I'm afraid I can't make much sense of it, though."

"What is it?"

"I think it might be a genuine riddle. I believe McGee himself left it, but I've no real way of knowing. Wait here just a moment, I'll run to my office and grab it."

"Alright, sure."

"Right then! Back in a jiffy!"



Gimble disappears into his office to dig up whatever it was he'd found. I take a look around the waiting room.



I think for the first time since I've arrived in Santa Monica, I've found somewhere clean. I might have to see about living down here instead of the mutant spider motel.



I take a seat on the sofa and glance through month old magazines. Hookers, dogs, second world war... nothing to really grab my interest. Gimble's certainly taking a long time. I pick up a copy of the LA Sun. Today's date, talk about a lucky break.



Every time I think I've got a lead on him, my informant disappears before I can rendezvous..



There's a scream from behind the door.



I jump to my feet and pull the gun from my purse.



I lean against the door frame, shouting through the solid block of aluminum.

"Gimble?!"

There's no answer. Check your corners. I kick open the door and wheel to the left.



Dead end. I spin to the right.



Shit. Lots of cover. Lots of places to hide.

"McGee! McGee you piece of shit come out with your hands where I can see them!"

I don't think he'll really do it, but if he knows there's someone coming it might make him get the hell out of dodge and give me time to help Gimble if he's still alive. If nothing else, it makes me feel a little less like someone who's about to get smashed in the head by a serial killer lurking in the shadows.



Jesus Christ, Gimble, could you make your workshop any more creepy?



There's a flight of stairs off the far wall. I take them one at a time, weapon raised. Water's dripping from the overhead pipes. The air feels musty. Still. Like a tomb.

I take my left hand off the revolver grip and push the door at the bottom of the stairs slowly open.



I'm not sure what I'm looking at, but I know it's wrong. I jerk a quick glance behind me, half expecting to see a machete falling towards my head.



Nothing.

I take a step into the room and look to the right.



I don't like this. Gimble? I think about shouting out another taunt, maybe ward off McGee or Gimble or whoever else is down here at this point, but I can't. I can't bring my mouth to make a sound. At least I'm not breathing. Breathing could give me away.



I move further down the hall. No sound. No breathing, no screams. Just the water dripping and the uneven clicking of my shoes on cement. It's getting damper, almost feels like I'm walking through water. There's a door at the bottom of the stairs.



I can see a television monitor. I push the door open slowly, quietly, trying not to make a sound.



No...



No no no no no...



I move faster down the next set of stairs. Don't be scared. Don't be scared. Whoever you're after, he won't be expecting something like you and that's it, that's all the advantage you need. You'll bear your fangs and roar and he'll piss himself right before you put a bullet in his head.

Whatever he's seen before, whatever he's done, he can't kill you because you're already dead and a lifetime of being Hannibal Lecter won't prepare him for that.



There's no dripping anymore. No air moving. No sound at all. I take a breath I don't need and kick.

The double doors aren't locked. They aren't even fully closed. I bellow as loud as I can.

"GET THE FUCK ON THE FLOOR! GET THE FUCK-



A tiny bit of air rustles past my head. Then a voice. Weak. Frantic.



"Cops! Oh Jesus Thank Christ! You gotta get me outta here! You fuckin' gotta get me out of here!"

There's a cell door to the right. Somebody's inside but I can't see who. The voice sounds like Carson.

"Carson?"

"Yeah! Yeah! You gotta hurry up! I don't know when he'll be back."

"Who? Gimble? McGee?"

"Who? What-" His eyes go wide. He starts to scream something I can't hear.



Something heavy hits me in the back of the head.

I crash sideways onto the cement floor and my purse smashes against the ground, thirty eight caliber ammunition scattering in every direction. I start to get up when the same something hits me in the face. I feel the skin tear off.



I can't see.

There's too much blood. I can't think. I can't see. I can't see.



Feet are pounding on the ground, charging towards me. I can't think. There's skin hanging off my skull. I fire three shots before the gun's knocked out of my hand I'm sent me flying into the wall.


A crash. My spine feels like it's shattered. I fall forward. My body's on fire. I can't move. I can't even think. Jesus. Jesus Christ it hurts. I push myself to my knees.

I see a tie.

I see a tie.


There's a tie coming for me.



Gimble.




Gimble.



Gimble.




"GIMBLE!"



The roar comes from my throat and he stumbles at the sound of it, at the flash of fangs, at the monster woman who doesn't die. I punch him. I throw everything I have into a haymaker and I land it in the center of his face. I hear the bone shatter beneath his skin. He crashes into his operating table, torture implements scattering across the floor alongside blood and thirty-eight rounds.

I scramble across the room towards the overturned table. I want him dead. I want to eat him, I want to tear out his heart, I want to tear off his flesh until there's nothing but bone.

I leap over the table and Gimble rises to meet me with a knife in his hand. There's a screaming pain in my shoulder. Worse than anything. He's too fast. I slam against the ground and bounce until I hit the wall. I can't move my arm.

There's blood everywhere.




I can't hear anything.





I think I'm dying.


Gimble's moving in slow motion. Charging. Knife in the air. His mouth's open. I can't hear what he's screaming.

Gun.


The gun's lying in front of me.


Time's getting slower.


I grope at it, clutch it awkwardly in the hand that still moves. I raise it. It's level. I can see Gimble's head through the iron sights.



It's getting too dark.

I can't see anymore.


I pull back on the trigger.


An explosion. Blood. Gimble crashes on top of me. It makes me drop the gun.



Everything goes black.







When I finally come to, Gimble's rolled off me on his own accord. There isn't much left of his head. My arm still aches and the scar is still there, but I can move it a little now. I feel quickly around my face. Everything seems to be fine. Gimble's operating room is in ruins. I don't feel anything. Not scared, not angry... shell shock, I guess. Something stirs in one of the cells.

"Lady! Hey! Lady are you moving? Oh my god, you're still alive! I... holy shit!"

I climb slowly to my feet and walk carefully over to the door, stepping over bullets and metal.

"Carson, right?"



"Yeah, yeah I'm Carson, holy shit, that... what the fuck?"

"How long was I out?"

"A... a few hours, I thought you were dead! You killed him, I don't believe it! What were you doing here?"

I grab my left shoulder and try to adjust it. I don't think it's dislocated.

"Arthur sent me to find you. Was worried when you went missing."

"Really? Oh Jesus Christ... Jesus Christ do I fucking owe that guy."

"He needs you for a job, I imagine that'll be thanks enough."

"Oh. Oh ho ho ho no. Nuh-Uh. Not anymore. Not after this shit. If he thinks I'm going anywhere but a fucking beach resort after this..."

I glance back at the room.

"What was Gimble doing to you?"

"Aw, shit... He's been taking pieces off of me and McGee here for three days. Cuts em' off and takes them to that room back there, god knows what he was doing. He cut off half my goddamn hand, trigger finger too. Even if I wanted to keep bounty hunting, I couldn't, now."

I rub my temple.

"Alright, I'll tell him this was all for nothing. Good luck on... whatever."

I flip the switch to Carson's cell and he hurries out, spewing thank-you's and I-owe-you's out his ass. I hope McGee's rescue makes all of this a little less completely worthless.



"Hey, McGee. Guardian Angel's here. You live to commit half-assed misdemeanors another day."



Oh.



Fuck.

I don't check out the room where Gimble'd been taking his trophies. I don't care. I take the gun, and the purse, and some of my ammo. With my left arm barely working it's not worth the trouble to gather the rest of it. I stuff everything into the purse and slide it on my shoulder. I don't look back for the rest of the long walk out of the basement, through the studio and out into the rainy night.



Mercurio better be goddamn ecstatic.