Together we said, “A coffin.”

I nodded. “What’d you say my . . . our rate was?”

Mo’Lock grinned. “A grand a day plus expenses.”

“Sounds good. Now help me out of this fucking bed.” I tipped the headless bunny into my mouth and emptied it, then got shakily to my feet. There was no time to waste. We had a new case.

Guns, Drugs, and Monsters

Something was going on that last day of March, but I was too fucking out of it to realize. The city was getting on my ass. Everything about it—the people, the weather, even the monsters—was working over my nerves. I didn’t know it, but I was itching for change. I was about to get a big dose of it, but I didn’t know that either.

Twice, I noticed a black sedan outside my apartment. I figured it was the Feds looking in on me, as they would on occasion. But, this was post 9-11 and the Feds had better things to do with their time than put a tail on their favorite crackpot spook hunter.

In hindsight, I knew I was being followed. But that’s what hindsight’s all about, right? Trying not to look as retarded as you actually were by saying you knew something weird was going on?

The day started with my newspaper being stolen. In fact, all of the newspapers in my building had been taken. Then, while I was on the can spinning a three-coil monster of my own, the power went out. I had to finish my masterpiece, shower, and dress without light.

My head pounded. I was still more drunk than hung over. I’d lost a bundle to a bunch of ghouls down at the Black Cat Club. They always cleaned me out because I drank and they didn’t. They’d bide their time until I was sloshed and then start hammering at me with outrageous bets they knew I couldn’t turn down. Fuckers.

I decided to retrace my steps and head back to the Black Cat for a little breakfast drink. It was a crappy D.C. day. Rainy, soggy, and warm. Nothing kills a buzz as fast as a faceful of humidity. Outside was the black sedan, but I didn’t pay any attention—even when it pulled away.

I got distracted by Brent, the postman/ghoul, on his daily rounds. He was a nice guy, well over a century old and as creepy as they come. He never crammed my mail into its narrow slot either. He’d always go the extra mile and climb the stairs to place it on my step.

“How’s it going?”

Brent stopped and nodded as he shuffled bundles of mail. “Good, good,” he said. “Looks like I don’t have anything for you today.”

“Probably just be bills anyway, right?” I gave him a little punch in the arm. In typical undead style he looked at his arm, then at me, before he smiled. “Yes, sure. I suppose so.”

Most ghouls have the sense of humor of a dead slug. They aren’t big on jokes, kidding, irony, puns, or teasing. They did like riddles, but who likes riddles over the age of fucking five?