In a world were reality is as malleable as wax and boggart repellant is sold next to the bear spray, there is a high demand for people with the knowledge and skills necessary to maintain humanity’s place at the top of the food chain. Head of this noble pursuit is the aptly-named Prometheus, a global agency working to discover, contain, and harness the world’s tumors for the good of all mankind. When it soon became apparent that they couldn’t be bothered with every small town’s bogeyman infestation, those with an entrepreneurial, desperate, or slightly mad mindset were quick to find the nearest stake and set out for wealth and glory.
Sally Palm has been hunting for the past thirty years, and although she once encountered Bigfoot, she is starting to wonder if the elusive beast known as “Wealth and Glory” might just be a myth after all. Still, a bounty is a bounty she reasons as she puts her cigarette out on the dashboard and parks her motorhome at a seemingly random spot on the thin dirt logging road. She reaches over to a window and strains to slide it up. As cold air filters in from the frozen forest beyond, Sally sits perfectly still and listens to the wind whistling between barren branches. After almost a minuet, she hears it. Although this is her first time hearing that howling roar, it is familiar to us. This time however, it is much closer, and is accompanied by a second, weaker wail.
“Hm,” grunts Sally as she pulls a small recording device from a coat pocket. Her voice is like gravel. “Sounds like we’re dealin’ wit’ a bestial entity. Judgin’ by te’ way its voice gurgles I’m goin’ te’ assume its current state is a unnat’ral mutation. Too early te say if it’s te’ result of occult forces or-”
“Ah-HA!” bellows a gigantic, bald, bearded man as he appears behind Sally, causing the entire motorhome to shift slightly beneath his weight. Everything about him, from his baritone voice and thunderous brow to his chiselled-from-granite nose and blazing eyes, it all gives the impression that a cheerful mountain has learned to speak. “The beast yearns for battle!”
“Quiet, Oz,” hisses Sally, eyes still trained on the treeline as she exhales of puff of smoke. As the silence stretches onwards, she sighs, pocketing her recorder and lighting a cigarette. “Dis ting is skittish, bye[1]. Dis job is goin’ te require a del’cate touch,” she glances back at her first-ever employee as she tries not for the first time to resemble a competent boss, “now away and get- Jaisus Christ what are you wearin’?” Oz has stuffed himself into a plus-sized wool sweater. The crimson garment stretches and strains as muscles the size of small watermelons bulge beneath.
“You instructed ‘cold climate’ attire, Misses Palm! I knit this during my morning meditations!”
“I meant a jacket, bye!” Sally herself is wearing a military-green hunter jacket and a brown Ushanka hat. “Y’won’t last five minuets out dere in dat.” Oz’s eyes light up as Sally says this.
“On the contrary, Misses Palm…” He begins, thumping a fist against his broad chest, causing the taut fibres of his sweater to twang. He gazes stoically at the horizon through the windshield as Sally groans internally. “Heartland Order trains its warriors to endure any environment using only their own Inner Flame! FOR IT IS HUMANITY’S CRIPPLING RELIANCE ON TOOLS AND-”
“Aye, sure.” Sally interrupts quickly as she watches a conspiracy of ravens fly from a nearby tree in surprise, their rasping cries mingling with the last echoes of Oz’s booming voice. “‘ow about you tell me more after we’ve collected our bounty, bye? Now go get my winter bag from te back closet.”
“At once, Misses Palm!” Oz disappears through the curtain dividing the motorhome’s cab from its body, Sally wincing as she feels the entire vehicle shake with his every footfall. She remembers that she locked the back closet as the sound of splintering wood reaches her ears. She sighs as Oz returns, carrying a backpack bag in one huge hand.
“De closet was locked, Oz.”
“It was? I didn’t notice!”
“I could tell. Now hand me that bag and pipe down.”
“Of course, Misses Palm!” Oz thumps the bag down on Sally’s lap and proceeds to stand as stiff and silent as a mannequin advertising the latest trends in amateur knitting. Sally unzips the bag and reviews its contents, doing her best to remind herself why she recruited Oz. Sure, he was clueless, God was he clueless…but she had also never encountered someone so…strong. Not just physically, although that was certainly impressive, but personality-wise as well. Whether it was because of his so-called ‘Inner Flame’ or not, Sally had never met anyone so impossible to discourage. The man cheerfully bounded through every obstacle life threw at him as easily as he tore open closet doors.
Sally, on the other hand, is nothing like Oz. She hasn’t bounded a day in her life. In her experience, a monster-hunter doesn’t approach her fifty-fifth birthday by trusting everything to work itself out. No, Sally thinks as she takes inventory of her backpack, de only way you get anywhere in tis business is if you make sure everyting works out.
“Oz, this job will probably be a mite more dangerous den what we’ve done up t’ now. I’ll admit I was impressed when you pulled dat big spider’s legs off back in Idaho, but I’m ordering you t’ take de gun and at least wear snow shoes.” Sally pulls her trusty revolver from its holster and presents it to her employee.
“B-but Misses Palm…!” Oz stares at the gun as though it is a live tarantula he has been told to swallow, “I need only my Inner Flame! The human body is the greatest weap-“
“It’s an order, bye.”
Oz looks wretched as he takes the revolver and holds it gingerly with two thick fingers, like it were about to explode. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by a distant blood-curdling duet. He brightens up as he recalls the abominable murder-machine he would soon face. Sally grunts. “Dat’s our cue,” she flicks her cigarette out the open window and retrieves a battered rifle form under the dashboard, “let’s go make te world a little less ugly.”
[1] “Boy”
Ramblings 