We needed a couple big trucks and some help. I called Lon, the driving fiend, for the trucks, and a couple ghouls I knew who lurked in the Hills. We had all of the canisters loaded by three in the morning. By three-thirty we arrived at the La Brea Tar Pits located in the middle of downtown Los Angeles, along Wilshire Boulevard.

The tar pits had devoured countless dinosaurs over the centuries. I figured a few hundred Nazi monster capsules wouldn’t hurt.

One by one we unloaded the barrels and threw them into the pits. They bobbled on top of the steaming, bubbling tar for a second and then slowly sunk into oblivion beneath the city.

Grimshaw was officially the sole survivor of this particular Nazi atrocity.

Lon drove Grimshaw home first. We said our good-bye and I told him to stop by whenever he got the chance. A guy like Grimshaw was good to know. He showed me that a man can be a monster but not act like one, and that was a good thing to know.

All My Bloody Things

All My Bloody Things

By the time I came to, fuck-head El Beardo De Psycho was already trying to take a chunk out of my leg with a rusty scalpel. He had my pant leg ripped and my juicy thigh exposed.

The scalpel was pressed right into my flesh when he paused and saw my eyes were open.

He was SO fucking dead.

Stupid cannibals.

It all began a couple days ago when I got a call from a guy who talked to a guy who knew this lady who mentioned her brother’s family went missing on a lonely stretch of California highway.

I heard about it because the guy, the first guy, got attacked by some weird vampire freak-thing. I saved his ass, and he was calling me to thank me for shooting the beast before it shredded him.

“I still can’t believe it happened.” He had a high whiny voice that made me want to pop his skull with a hammer.

“Well, believe it,” I said trying to get off the phone. I wasn’t much for follow-up friendships. I save you. Thank you and fuck you. We’re done.

“Well, Mr. McDonald, I can’t thank you enough for saving me.”

“Glad I could help,” I went silent. If this conversation was continuing I wasn’t going to be the one keeping it alive. I had shit do to. I had a bag of painkillers just waiting to enter my bloodstream.

“There’s something else . . .”

Fuck. Here it comes.

“I have a friend who’s dating this lady and she mentioned that her brother’s family never showed up driving from Vegas to Los Angeles.”

I put my head face-down on the desk blotter. “Call the police. That’s missing persons. I only do weird shit.”

“The way the lady tells it, it might be . . . weird shit.”