Link to previous scene: Geoffrey Beauregard: Private Detective & Antique Dealer | The Boogeyman Conspiracy | Part 2
All content is my own. Critiques are welcome.
Chapter 1: Build a Better Monster Trap
Scene 3: Prepping at the Shop
The Antique Shop sign on my front display window was flickering when we pulled the van around back to park. The N wasn't even flickering. It was just out. The neon sign had always been busted and I had resorted to filling the glass tubes with fairy glitter. It was definitely time to reapply.
My shop, which is also my residence, is a two story brick building that was formerly a small apartment complex overlooking a pizza parlor. Over the years, I've made several renovations. The dining area that had taken up a majority of the floor is now an assortment of shelves and wracks holding antiques for sale. The apartments upstairs have all been retrofitted as containment wards except for one that J-Bo and I share. And several of the bricks both inside and out shimmer black from their protection charms. The protection charms act more as a security alarm than an actual defense but it's better than nothing.
Patrick carried half the grocery bags inside while I grabbed the others. I noticed it was still dark when I caught up to Patrick in the shop and sighed. I pulled a picket knife out, poked the tip of my finger with it's point, and dropped two drops of blood into the bowl by the front door. Instantly, the room was flooded with light that seemed to come from nowhere.
"Why does blood magic make you so squeamish?" I asked as Patrick and I took the Moonbeam Gold paint upstairs to containment ward. Jingle Bones, meanwhile, walked over to his doggy bed in the Inventory Room and laid down. I could still feel his hangover through our SoulSpeak.
"It's not the magic," he answered, "I just don't like blood."
The containment ward was bare, an empty room aside from various gashes and burn marks left from previous occupants. I set Patrick to work painting the floor and checked each glyph closely. His artistic abilities dwarf my own, I'm not ashamed to admit.
“Well done, Patrick,” I congratulated him when finished. He even managed to keep the glyphs symmetrical and still have half a can of paint left over.
“Thanks, Geoffrey. I’ve been practicing around town with spray paint.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t tell anyone else that. Come on. Let’s load the sarcophagus into the van.”
Patric grimaced and I understood. The sarcophagus, which was a genuine Pharaoh’s former final resting place, weighed about 600 pounds. Unfortunately for him, rising from the dead as a mummy after a few millennia made him cranky and I’d had to dispose of him a fear years prior. Fortunately for me, this left my shop with a proper sarcophagus if ever needed. That time had come. Once back downstairs, we cleared a straight path from the sarcophagus to the van before bracing to lift the behemoth of a box.
“Ready?” I asked. He nodded. “One. Two. Three!”
It was immediately clear why there are generally six pallbearers. My knees buckled after about fifteen feet and I had to drop my end, startling Patrick into dropping his in turn.
“Sorry.”
He waved my apology aside and got ready to lift again. Two slips and a close call for my pinkie toe later, the sarcophagus was standing upright, strapped into the center of the back of the van with the lid held open. Panting and covered in sweat, we made our way back inside for a beer.
I grabbed a six-pack from the fridge, a remnant of the pizza parlor, and walked to the inventory room at the back. I sat down in an old armchair opposite a matching couch that Patrick was sprawled out on. J-Bo was asleep in the corner dreaming about a farm. A large coffee table sat between Patrick and I. He reached out for one of the beers I was holding and took it. After a few drinks, he asked, "So what now, boss? Weapons check?"
"Weapons check," I nodded and set my beer down. It was routine. There was a trunk locked in a closet that I dragged next to the coffee table. Inside was an empty duffel bag and an assortment of weapon components, some mundane and others more specialized. I pulled out the duffel bag and sat it on the coffee table, then handed Patrick the clipboard with the master list. Part of his job is to keep track of inventory.
"Ok….." he glanced down the the top sheet. "Holy water?"
"Not this time," I answered. "Turns out it has almost no effect on mummies or werewolves."
"Well we're down to three vials, just so you know."
"I'll see the Padre later this week," I said. Patrick made a note and moved on.
"Silver knives?"
"Definitely," I said. "At least the hunting knife and…. do we have any throwing knives left after the Fairy attack last month?"
Patrick checked the manifest and rooted through the trunk for a minute before placing a folded pouch on the coffee table. "We have three."
I grimaced. "Definitely need to make more later." I saw Patrick make another note and asked, "What about the Screeching Beetles? We should have at least 10 of those left, right?"
Patrick checked the clipboard and rummaged around once more in the trunk before presenting a small cage of skittering stone beetles.
"Seven," he corrected, pulling his finger free from a beetle's rocky mandibles. "Where did you find these things anyway?"
"Here and there," I told him, then gestured at the trunk. "A lot of the things here are just found and repurposed items. For instance, I was hunting a Medusa when a colony of scarabs got caught in the cross-fire. These little guys are all that's left."
"What do they even do?"
"Mostly just cause a distraction. They're stone bugs. No one ever expects stone bugs."
"And they pinch," Patrick added, still nursing his bruised finger.
"And they pinch." I thought for a moment about what else I'd take. "There should be dog spray and a dog whistle in there somewhere. But I'm not sure they're on the manifest. They were a gift from Jan."
Patrick was already rifling back through the trunk when he looked back and said, "The mail lady?"
"Yep."
He leaned back and put a small dog whistle and can of dog spray on the coffee table which was starting to get a little crowded. "What the hell is dog spray?"
"Not sure," I said and started filling the duffel bag to make more room. "She just said it's some special kind of made the post office has for dogs. Said to keep it in case if emergency. I haven't really had a use for it yet."
"What about these?" Patrick pulled out a handful of pink powdery balls about the size of golf balls.
"Oh, yeah. Himalayan Itching Powderbombs." I'd completely forgotten about them. They were the result of a white elephant gift exchange involving a group of traveling monks and a coven of witches. "Toss them in the bag."
"Do they even work?"
"Like you wouldn't believe," I told him. "Imagine the worst week of poison ivy you ever had all at once."
"I don't want to imagine that." He shuddered, then added them to the bag which was about two thirds full.
"Ok. What else? What else?" I thought for a moment. "Ah, Blessed Flashbangs."
Patrick looked once again at his clipboard and then pulled out a small wooden box from within the trunk. Setting it upon the coffee table, he lifted its lid to reveal five homemade flashbangs. The ionic salt in each had been blessed along with the holy water. The Padre and I have an arrangement.
"Two flashbangs, a couple Molotov cocktails, and a bear trap ought to do it." Patrick pulled a bear trap out of the trunk and rooted around for another minute before looking up.
“No Molotov cocktails,” he said.
“Not a problem,” I said and got up to walk to the kitchen. "We can just make some. Now where's that gas can?"
And this is how Dave, my neighbor, happened upon me that afternoon; sitting at a coffee table topped with three Molotov Cocktails, a half-filled gas can, a bear trap, and a duffel bag filled with even more deadly instruments.
“What holy hell is this, Beauregard?” Dave shouted at me as I was filling a fourth bottle with gasoline. Technically, only employees were allowed past the counter separating the store floor from the stairs, kitchen and Inventory Room, but Dave marched back anyway.
“Hi, Dave,” I said without looking up. I took one of the rags I had gathered and shoved an end into the bottle. “What holy hell is what?”
Dave was spitting mad. If life were a cartoon, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam coming out of his ears. Instead, he just paced back and forth before me, hurtling insults and vague threats.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about, you two-faced snake witch magician! I don’t know if you’re some sort of terrorist or psychopath or what, but you’re ruining our city! For Jesus’ sake, I walk in here on account of YOUR hijinks and what do I find? Bear traps and frag grenades!"
"Flashbangs," I quietly corrected him, but he didn't hear me. He just continued to yell.
"I have half a mind to call the sheriff! You can't just have bear traps and frag grenades lying about the place! And I'm gonna tell him how you've been damaging my property." He stuck his chest out in a show of righteousness.
"And how have I damaged your property?" I asked and then after a moment added, "This time." Walking next door to scream a barrage of baseless accusations has been something of a past time for Dave. My use of magic has convinced him that any weird happenings on his land must always be connected to me somehow. Gnomes invading his garden, pixies ransacking his trash; it's all because of me.
"You cursed my oven with your lawbreaking sorcery!" Dave yelled and then added, "And now my cabbages are ruined!"
"I cursed your oven and now the cabbages are ruined?" I asked, my attention fully on Dave for the first time since he walked in. This was a strange accusation, even for him.
"Yes! Because of the gingerbread men."
I looked at Patrick. He looked back, scratching his head and then shrugged. J-Bo gave two quick barks. The yelling had woken him up. After a yawn and a quick stretch, he jumped up on the couch and sat next to Patrick to get his ears scratched. Patrick obliged.
"Dave, I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm willing to help if you'd like to explain--"
"Oh no no no!" Dave interrupted. "And give you the chance to do more black magic on me? Not on your life, Beauregard!"
Patrick, who was now rubbing Jingles' belly, decided to chime in. "There's not really such a thing as black or white magic, man. It's all magic."
Dave scoffed but ignored Patrick's comment and instead continued scolding me. "And now you're corrupting the youth of this town!? How low can you sink?"
J-Bo growled. The yelling was compounding his headache and I could feel it as though it were my own hangover. This conversation needed to end sooner rather than later.
"Shut up, dog! I don't trust you either," Dave spat. "You don't act like a dog. I bet you're his familiar, ain't ya?"
In response, Jingles walked up to Dave, opened his mouth wide, and slowly yawned again before sitting at his feet. He glared at Dave, unblinking. In my head, I could hear him saying calmly but with malice, "It's time to go, Dave." Dave, of course, was completely unaware that he was close to becoming a chew toy, so I repeated J-Bo's thought out loud.
"It's time to go, Dave," I told him.
"Says who?" he scoffed as he folded his arms. "I have as much right as anyone to come into your shop and ask you questions."
"My shop is currently closed. And this is an 'Employees Only' area," I said standing up from my chair. "You're trespassing, Dave." I walked to the front of the store and opened the door. "Kindly leave."
Dave didn't move.
"Or what?" he taunted. "What are you gonna do if I don't leave, Mr. Magician? Hex me, again. That's the problem with Pointsville. This town would be fine if your sort stopped all the hexing and conjuring and kissing the devil's ass."
I stopped in my tracks halfway to Dave from the open front door, utterly confused by his words. To be clear, I'm not a witch. I may perform some magic in my day-to-day, but that's a bit different than religious practice, the same way a chef doesn't worship knives. Standing there for a moment, trying to decide how to respond, I realized I no longer had the time or patience for Dave today.
"My sort?" I said. "Dave you've got ten seconds to leave or I WILL hex you."
I looked at the shelves around me for any antiques that looked even remotely witchy. My eyes finally settled on an old walking stick that was covered in an ornate pattern of trees and birds. Perfect, I thought to myself and grabbed it. Dave's eyes widened as I swung it above my head. He flinched as I brought it down a foot in front of him to hit the ground.
"Om nom shum grum," I started chanting nonsense whilst whipping the staff through the air in random directions as if casting a spell. Dave's face turned white and he tripped over himself in his hurry to run out the door. A vase fell from a table he bumped into and shattered.
"You won't get away with this, Beauregard!" he shouted as he made his way outside. "I'm calling the sheriff! The FBI! The ar--" I shut the door in his face.
"You do that, Dave," I muttered and laughed to myself before returning to my chair and opening up another beer.
"He really doesn't like you, does he?" Patrick asked as he began putting weapons in the duffel bag, starting with the bear trap. The Molotov cocktails were placed in an empty six-pack carton and set aside. Always keep glass weapons separate.
"No, he does not," I answered and sipped my beer. Jingle barked his agreement.
"Why does he blame you for everything?" Patrick asked. "And why does he keep calling you a witch? I thought you were a Druid."
"Dave and I got off on the wrong foot as soon as I moved in," I said. "I told him I was a libertarian. He thought I said Luciferian. And I've never been able to convince him otherwise."
Patrick finished up and zipped the bag closed before sitting it on the coffee table. I sat my beer down next to it and dragged the weapons trunk back to its closet. Patrick, meanwhile, took a trip to the kitchen.
"And it's not just me," I said once we sat back down. Patrick was scarfing down some leftover pizza from the fridge. "Dave is adamant that any magic is devil worship and has become paranoid that this town is actually home to a devil-worshipping cult."
Patrick stopped eating for a moment to look at me quizzically. I understood his befuddlement. Even for Pointsville, a devil-worshipping cult is a bit much.
"So yeah, Dave blames me as a satanic witch partly responsible for conjuring all the spooky things that go bump in the night."
"Do you think he'll really call the sheriff?" Patrick asked nervously. Cops make him nervous.
"I'd be surprised if he didn't," I said but then reassured him. "Don't worry. Sheriff Malone and I have an understanding. He knows what to do when Dave reports my 'lawbreaking sorcery'".
Patrick took a bite and chewed while he asked, "And what's that about? He acts like magic is illegal," he laughed.
"That's a whole big thing with Dave," I answered as I pulled my pipe out if my pocket along with my pouch of Dragon's Breath. I packed the pipe bowl, brought out a match and lit it. The green and red contents turned purple in the flame. "He found an old piece of town legislature that passed in the 1800s outlawing witchcraft. It wasn't that uncommon at the time actually."
"And it's still a law?" Patrick asked in surprise.
"Hanging is still technically a legal form of execution," I said. I exhaled, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. "When's the last time you heard of someone being hanged by the state." He thought for a moment and shook his head. I drew from the pipe and went on. "No. These kind of laws fade away over time but until they are officially repealed, there will always be a Dave."
Patrick finished his slice of pizza and got up to leave. It was time for his cousin's party. Before leaving, he made himself a sandwich for the walk.
"Won't there be food there, buddy?" I laughed.
"Well, yeah," he answered honestly. "But I need a snack for on the way. Later, Geoffrey." And he scratched J-Bo's ears before walking out the door.
Alone in the shop, I laughed as I thought about Patrick's never empty stomach. I have personally seen the kid down an entire sixteen inch pizza and two liter of soda. Then he had dessert. He never exercises, unless you count running from monsters, and yet has a the physique of a natural athlete.
The Dragon's Breath in my pipe was ash and I emptied it. My pouch was empty as well, so I walked over to a set of drawers against the back wall of the inventory room. In the bottom drawer was a mason jar full of uncut Dragon's Breath. I grabbed it and a mortar and pestle and sat them down on the coffee table.
Dragon's Breath is a special kind of herb that is local to Pointsville. It grows along vines in dark dry places. When dried, ground up, and smoked, it produces a stimulating effect not unlike coffee, but with more potency and refinement. I find that it clears my head and slows time down. It helps me meditate and prepare for important events.
With my pouch full once again, I repacked my pipe and sat on the floor next to Jingles. I drew in from the pipe, sat it down and began to breathe deeply and evenly. While sitting, breathing, I visualized the bowling alley I would be visiting and the actions I would be taking. I repeated a mantra in my head; Preparation without expectations. Every few minutes, I would take a drag from my pipe and continue. After about an hour, I felt clear and prepped.
"You ready?" I asked my dog.
He barked. And together, we walked towards the van.