literature

It's Always Sonny in Inglemouth

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Literature Text

Yves raced down the street, trenchcoat flapping in the wind. One generally associated the undead with the word shambling, but Yves found that undeath had actually improved his athletic performance – for one thing he wasn't limited by his several-packs-a-day habit anymore. His quarry darted into an alley ahead of him, and he almost lost his footing as he rounded the corner. Lashings of cold rain had rendered the mossy cobbles an archipelago, and his flat-soled oxfords could barely cope with a light stroll at the best of times.

Up ahead, a bolt of tan fur and blue silk scampered up a plywood board inclined against a skip, and hopped effortlessly through an open window. Goddamn, thought Yves. I don't have enough time for this shit. Running up the loading bay ramp, he picked the window with the most rotten-looking frame and leapt through it. It caved inwards as if it were held together by wet cake.

Warehouse workers scattered. “Occult Regulation Bureau,” shouted Yves, flashing them his railcard. That ought to do it. God knows they jump through enough windows. To their credit, the warehouse workers got the hell out of his way. Yves figured that if you unload enough cargo crates in an Inglemouth warehouse, sooner or later one of them contains something unsavoury. You learn two things in orientation: to keep your distance from things you don't immediately understand, and to keep your fingers well away from the airholes.

Bursting from the dockside entrance, Yves was thrilled to discover that against all odds the rain had actually got worse, to the point where the sea was no longer meaningfully distinct from the sky. He caught sight of the fleeing pug weaving through the foot traffic, and hurried after it.

Sonny Pawleone. How much blood have you spilt in this town? It ends tonight.

With the aid of a lamppost Yves made it around another corner and stopped dead in his tracks. A moustachioed man had Sonny cradled in his arms like some sort of harmless puppy.

Yves approached carefully, raising a hand in the universal signal for 'stay calm and make no sudden movements, the tyrannosaurus is looking right at us'. His free hand reached slowly for his gun.

“Monsieur!” he addressed the man. “Release the creature, and back aw-”

Four bullets zipped past his head, and a fifth grazed his jaw, making him reel. The man, pug in one hand and comically small pistol in the other, hopped backwards through a rip in spacetime. Yves briefly caught a glimpse of a city, charmlessly sprawling and inhumanly clean, before the tear sealed itself in a puff of smoke.

He rubbed his jaw. The wound was already cauterised, starting to glow as it began to knit back together. At least Sonny was out of Inglemouth – if Poirot McGogglehat wanted the hellhound so much he could have him. He couldn't help but wonder though what they'd make of him come the next full moon.

Another detective-themed collaboration, because I don't know when I've bit off more than I can chew. The counterpart to this story is by DamonWakes, and it can be found here: fav.me/dbgggh9

© 2017 - 2024 joe-wright
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WindySilver's avatar
Poirot McGogglehat ROFL That was priceless!