Let’s go, you ass-whipped sluggard! Boss called a meeting!”
“Fuck you,” M. groaned, rolling over in bed and landing against the soft, warm body of the woman sleeping next to him.
M.’s fine manners were rewarded with a hard smack in the back of his head by the messenger’s club.
“That means you too, pretty boy. Get your fucking ass out of bed… now!”
M. breathed in the scent off the blonde’s body. Perfume. Alcohol. Sex. A whiff of that in the morning was usually enough to widen his eyes. Too bad the scent wafting off the blonde’s naked flesh spoke of too much of all three. Using her fleshy ass for support, M. pushed himself up to a semi-upright position. “Bloody Christ,” he moaned, rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to lessen the throbbing that was making his head feel like the object of a drummer’s wet dream. He glanced in the direction of the gun he kept hidden in the side frame of his bed then over at the vanishing shadow of the morning’s messenger of good will.
“I’d like to splatter his peabrain up against the fucking wall,” he whispered, still rubbing his temples. Without looking, he reached down and grasped a fistful of ass in his strong grip.
“Ouch!” the woman shrieked, awakening from a sleep that even the Terror’s messenger hadn’t disturbed. She swung her head at M., her eyes blazing. When she realized where she was, who she was with, and what had transpired on that bed the night before, her expression softened. “Hey, baby,” she cooed, smiling sleepily.
“Hey, fucking baby nothing,” M. snapped. “Get dressed and get the hell out of here.”
“But, baby…” she sighed, shifting on the mattress so she was on her back and her ample breasts and the cute blonde curls between her legs were facing M..
“I said, Get the hell out of here!” M. growled as he swatted away her hand as it crept up his leg.
Still not willing to take his message at face value, the blonde rocked her knees open and closed. “You weren’t so anxious to get rid of me last night.”
“Fuck off!” he said. He shoved her off the bed. She landed hard against the floor.
“Bastard,” she said.
“Now yer getting the idea,” M. replied, reaching for the bottle on the nightstand next to the bed. He took a swig from the nearly-empty bottle, grimaced and shook his head. The booze cruise of the previous evening had officially docked.
The blonde, whose name he probably didn’t know to begin with, went about getting dressed in sullen silence. She pulled her blouse on, not bothering with the brassiere M. had had such a fun time taking off with his teeth the evening before. She missed the buttons and so the blouse looked askew but she didn’t bother straightening it out. She made a quick, futile search for her panties before remembering how they’d been shredded the previous evening. She pulled her tight skirt on, wiggling her naked butt into the leather and then she zipped it shut.
She carried her high-heeled shoes by their spaghetti straps and then, with an angry, hurt look in M.’s direction, she stormed out of his quarters. “Good bye, lover,” she spat out as she disappeared.
“I sent a group of dog soldiers to deal with the situation,” he went on. “This group was headed by Dr. Q…” he paused. “You are all familiar with Dr. Q, are you not?”
Q. Sure, they were familiar with the son of a bitch. M. made a face behind his mask. Q was the kind of animal who’d eat a newborn baby in front of its hysterical mother. For fun.
“Fuck Q,” M. thought. “That bastard has a track record unequaled…”
“They’re gone,” Terror announced solemnly.
There was a moment of bewildered silence.
“Gone?” Buzzard asked as he bowed toward the holographic image before them. “Do you suspect they defected, my Lord, or… or…” Buzzard paused, finding a voice to express the unimaginable. “Or were they compromised?”
The map behind Terror changed into a video feed displaying a badly disfigured corpse. “We found Dr. Q’s body — or, at least, what was left of it. It appears,” he went on, his holographic eyes landing directly on Buzzard, “that something ate most of him.”
The camera panned around the rest of the compound, showing most of the dog soldiers dead and dying.
“The rest are missing,” Terror said. “Apparently this nuisance which attacks my operation takes some pleasure in taking the enemy dead along with him.” Terror’s image eyed each one of them. “We found the words, Baron Samedi, painted in blood on some of the buildings…”
The video feed moved in for a close-up on the name which had a number of strange symbols similarly painted beside it.
As the video feed faded, Terror faced them again. “Your mission is simple. Find this Baron Samedi. Destroy his base, wipe out his people, and bring him here to me.
“You leave within the hour.”
As quickly as it had arrived, Terror’s image was gone. The four men were left staring at empty space — and at each other.