The Dogs of Hell

TW: Contains themes of death, violence, and suicide.

Garrison Ermine Ford stepped out of the mirror. He ran his hands down the lapels of his silver sharkskin suit and slicked back his vampiric dark hair as he turned around to check himself out.

Black crocodile boots with pointed silver tips, razor-sharp creases in his slacks, navy blue cuffs peeked from the suit sleeves, dagger pointed collar, top two buttons undone beneath the vest.

“Nineteen-seventy-five. A very good year,” he said aloud. Then he turned and surveyed the living room of his suite. Orange floral couch, olive green shag carpeting. Pale pink carnations in a vase. He plucked a stem from the vase, snipped its stem, and fit it into his lapel.

He'd met the Bodines on a mission in 1984. They owned the mom’n’pop motel located 20 miles east of Vegas. He had been sent by the man himself---the boss, the prince of darkness, the big kahuna---to bring back a little fellow who’d discovered he was allergic to sulfur. Escaping Hell was not impossible, but it was ill advised. If allergic to sulfur or suffer of pyrophobia, well … take your chances, and by all means, escape. If it wasn’t for these desperate fools Garrison would be out of a job. The weasley fellow with the coat of mega hives was found, predictably, in Vegas.

After dragging the poor sop back to Hell, Garrison went back to offer the Bodines a deal they couldn’t refuse. Their son was a letch. At 39 he was a waste of oxygen and a burden of an anchor dragging them down. He was a junkie and a gambler who never broke even. The poor old couple’s desert haven was stuck in the seventies, they had no money left for renovations and updating. Garrison’s presence at their establishment incited dreams in both their heads. It didn’t take much of a push, he’d honed his brain-tap skills after all, learning from the best in the biz.

Their son mysteriously died in his sleep while occupying the presidential suite. Just stopped breathing … the memory foam pillow by his head, true to its moniker, bore the impression of bugging eyes and a wide screaming mouth. Garrison disposed of the body. Heck, the Mojave was quite the graveyard. He told the relieved couple they could renovate, prosper, and best yet, never grow old. In exchange, they maintained a suite for him, the only updating he required was a fresh vase of carnations.

So, after stepping through the mirror into his 1975 suite. He zapped the thousand-pound tv with the Zenith zapper and gave two thumbs up to Baretta. “Hey man. Keepin’ it real.” Robert Blake thumbs-upped him back then went off to solve the mystery of the poodle thief of Central Park. Blake actually resided in a bungalow a few doors down from Garrison’s. He may have been Garrison’s closest friend, if not for the fact that Garrison was a loner, a hermit, a hermit crab.

He changed the channel ... Welcome Back Kotter, Charlie’s Angel’s … ah … Saturday Night Fever. Killer soundtrack. He left it on while freshen-upping in the bathroom.

He was currently on the prowl for a miscreant come Topside with one of Lucifer’s beloved dogs, a jackal named Spuds. The escapee was a woman put to death in 1877. She’d escaped Hell through a doggie door of sorts, riding the enormous dog’s back. The hounds of Hell were drawn to each Topside’s full moon. Garrison hoped that when he found them, the dog would not become French Fried.

The only thing he loved was dogs.

The only dogs in hell were his boss’s jackals. Tote, Hades, and Spuds. They were magnificent creatures: pure muscle, long and sleek like shimmering shadows with tall, pointed ears. When they snarled, their teeth grew in frightening size, long, white, and dripping with acid-saliva. When not on a mission, Garrison cared for the three enormous dogs. He was extra intent on this mission because Spuds was maybe too sweet for his own good, and Garrison would rather be drawn and quartered than see harm come to the good-natured pup.

In life, he’d been an assassin. The best in his field. That he was paid handsomely for killing was the ice cream on the apple pie.

He exited his Topside abode and stalked to the office Travolta-like, humming Stayin Alive, his head swiveling left and right in time to the tune inside it.

The motel was a modern-day resort and spa these days, described in travel brochures as ‘boutique.’. The Bodines, however, who hadn’t aged since 1975, were resplendent samples of that era. Maeve wore a pink jumpsuit with wide lapels, her ash blond hair was feathered. Bob wore a tan leisure suit with a chocolate shirt open to reveal a fat gold chain nestled in a thick pelt of silvery hair.

“Hey Maeve, lookin’ fine. Hey Bobby Brown, hittin’ the 54 my man?”

Maeve tsked at the praise and offered up a tray of martinis. Bob said, “Alas, that golden era lives only in here.” He tapped his half bald noggin.

Garrison accepted a martini and sipped. “Perfect as always. I love ‘em dirty.”

Bob sipped his own then said, “Who you lookin’ for son?”

Garrison felt a teeny jolt. Only Bob called him son. He said, “A woman who came down in 1877. Name of Prudence Mayweather.”

Maeve sashayed to a tidy desk by the sliding glass patio doors, set her martini down upon a coaster, her fingers tappity-tapped over the keyboard as she sat down. She was a whiz with electronics and quite an accomplished hacker. Seconds later, she said, “Ah. Born in London 1840. Wealthy family renowned for breeding greyhounds. Murdered both her parents---poisoned them---turned serial. Preyed upon London’s lowest lifeforms. Infamous---”

“---Ah yes! ‘the Crimson Widow!’ Bob slapped his thigh. “Not because she was widowed. She ever married … but for the deadly spider. She favored poisons didn’t she?”

Maeve said, “Yes. Stands out in history; not many female serial killers, particularly from that time and location.”

Garrison smiled wryly. He felt little for human beings and less for ones who slaughtered for no reason. He himself committed his first kill at the tender age of six. For good reason. He had stood out in school because he was a year behind the other children, suffering from a condition called dyslexia that was practically unheard of in 1948. Even his parents believed he was retarded, sending him away to a school that was more of a workhouse, a prison. The kids were cruel. One dough-faced little shitheel had taken to calling him Gary.

“Oh Gaaaarrrrrrry. Widdle piddle’n’poo on the staaaairy.”

“Don’t call me that,” he had said low with a lip curl.

“Gaaarrrrry … wit a monkey’s cock so haaaairy.”

Garrison had smiled. Something in that calm face, in those burning eyes so dark they appeared black, had shut the kid up and left him looking around the classroom for a pal. But the other kids had shifted uncomfortably in their seats, suddenly very intrigued by the math problem on the page before them. It was as if they sensed the alligator that dwelled beneath their beds was now pacing in the cloakroom. That day after recess the children silently filed back into the classroom, giving the weird kid a wide berth, and even scraping their desks a few inches farther away from him. All the children were accounted for … but one. One little porker with a doughy face and too big mouth. The teacher went outside and found little Frankie beneath the merry-go-round---stuffed under it. When pulled out, the boy’s head flopped around his shoulders quite unnaturally and very wrongly. The early dismissal should have elated the tots. But they were sullen and stared only at the floor as they filed past a smiling Garrison.

From then on, he knew what he wanted to be when he grew up. And he had become the best in his field.

Now, at the permanent age of 32, he watched with awe as Maeve’s fingers blurred over the keys. He said, “She won’t be comfortable in a big city in this day and age. Too overwhelming. The hounds prefer topsiding in countrysides. They avoid being seen. They get mistaken for werewolves.

Bob said, “A countryside outside London then? Most likely a tavern with rooms to rent, like from her time was popular. She was wealthy, not one to rough it for long.”

Garrison said, “Yep. That’s what I’m thinking as well. Maeve, any luck?”

“Bingo.” She read excerpts from an article out loud, “Several people wounded in freak accident on Spire Street, Witchbuckle, one dead. Several kegs of ale fell from a lorry when it careened half-ways offa bridge. Article’s from yesterday’s paper.”

Garrison said, “That’s it.”

When escapees surfaced Topside they disrupted continuity condendum within two point four miles of their emergence. The result was always some sort of upheaval in the natural order of human lifeforce within that radius.

Maeve said, “Witchbuckle is home to nine pubs, two of which are taverns with rooms to rent on the upper floors. One is an old folk’s residence. The other offers rooms---studios--- by the week or month. Oh, and here’s a picture of your gal.”

Garrison leaned over Maeve’s right shoulder to look at the large computer screen. Miss Mayweather was quite lovely. Light colored hair, curly, and piled atop her pretty head in a messy updo. Wide pale eyes and a hint of freckles across her cheeks and nose. She wore a Victorian era dress of some dark color. In Garrison’s imagination, the sienna hued photo came alive in technicolor, the dress peacock green.

Maeve said, “Checked in this morning under her real name. Why not? Name’s been outta commission for 143 years.”

“Well, no time like the present,” announced Garrison. “Thanks Maeve. I should be back this evening.”

The bounty hunter from Hell went back to his room and walked through the floor length mirror while humming “Get Down Tonight.”

Across the pond, it was a little after 9 p.m. when Garrison’s face appeared in the bathroom mirror of a small studio flat. He stuck his head out and listened. He had ears like Spuds’ and could detect no breathing within the small apartment. An old Stones song floated up through the oak floorboards like a warm fuzzy welcome. The lady was most likely having supper downstairs. Keeping a low profile, getting a sense of this strange new time and era. As he crawled out the mirror a glass shattered in the tavern below. A couple of men laughed drunkenly. Someone was clapping. He pictured the lady tucked into a dark corner watching all with wide eyes---somewhat curious and somewhat frightened.

His ears were assaulted by the ruckus as he entered the tavern. “Sympathy for the Devil” played from the jukebox. Men and women alike were whistling and clapping, many swaying along while it seemed the entire room was singing along.

The cozy square room was dimly lit, with candles on all the tables in red glass globes and neon beer signs on the walls. He pushed through the oblivious crowd and beheld a woman dancing on the bar. She moved like an exotic eel, in a skintight black turtleneck and capri pants revealing creamy white ankles above dainty feet in pointy toed leather flats. Her petite frame featured a perfect peach-shaped ass. She gyrated around and her face came into view. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was Prudence Mayweather. Bold and certainly not frightened.

The song ended and a muscular arm reached up to help her down as the crowd applauded. She sat down on a stool at the bar and politely waved off the crowd of single men vying for her attention. The muscley guy, obviously a bouncer, spoke to the men and they left her alone. Garrison, in numb shock, ordered a martini, took it to a small empty table in a corner in the back, and took a large swig to calm his racing mind. A group of giggling young women staggered to the door, blocking his view of the bar for a few seconds. When he looked up, Prudence was gone. He took another large swallow and looked into his gin, pondering his next move.

When he looked up again, she was sitting in the chair across from him. “Too pretty to be a wallflower,” she purred with a heavy Queen’s English accent. She’d cut her hair into a chin length bob that suited her face to a tee. She daintily sipped her own martini. A large ruby in gold glittered from her forefinger.

“What do you know of wallflowers my dear Exhibitionist?”

“Oh that? Just letting off a little steam. Been cooped up for quite some time. You might say I’ve recently shed my ball and chain.”

“You’re divorced?” he asked innocently.

“Oh, heaven’s no. You’d have to be married for that. I’ve never cared for men all that much.”

Garrison raised an eyebrow.

She giggled musically. “And no, I care for the company of women even less.”

He smiled with genuine warmth. “I am a dog man myself.”

She smiled back, nodding understanding. “You have an American accent. You from there? Perhaps the south?”

“Yes. The deep south you could say.” He cringed at his own predictable pun. Then hastily said, “Speaking of dogs … mine is running amok somewhere around here.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. What’s he look like?”

“Very large, very black.”

A small drop of gin hit the table when her hand twitched. Then she swallowed the rest of her drink in one large gulp. She coughed a fit, calmed, and said, “Oh my. Terribly sorry. Went down the wrong way.” She stood and said, “Off to the loo. Be right back.”

Garrison got up after she departed and went outside. He waited for her by the back door. After a few seconds, she popped out of it.

“Oh! Hello. I … ah … wasn’t feeling well. Went for The Mysterious Getaway.”

“I see.” And he did. “Well. That’s that then. It was nice to meet you.” He turned and walked away so she would not have to lie anymore.

In his own hotel room down the street, he pondered the woman’s dilemma. She was like a female version of himself. Was it possible he’d found his soulmate?

A dog howled then---long and deep and basey---a big dog. He looked into the sky; the moon was huge and white and round. He followed the sound to a meadow on the outskirts of town.

Spuds howled again … but this time the howl was cut short, and Spuds shrieked in pain like a poodle with its tail caught in a door.

When he got to the meadow, it was empty. But he could still hear the big dog’s cries as he was punished for his mistake.

Eventually, the cries faded from his ears … but not his heart. He turned and stalked back to his hotel.

Prudence was gathering the few belongings she’d accumulated in a day, the leather satchel only half full. She rushed into the bathroom and reached for her toothbrush and comb on the counter and shrieked when she saw she was not alone in the small room. The devil was in there with her. Well, not the devil. She knew full well what he looked like. This one was exceedingly handsome in a silver sharkskin suit. Earlier in the night she had almost thought they could be soul mates.

“Please,” she whispered, “don’t send me back. I’ve done my time. I never deserved it---”

“Why did you kill your parents?”

“Wha---? The dogs. I did it for the dogs.”

Garrison led her by the hand to the bed in the other room and beckoned she sit down beside him. “Go on.”

“They were so beautiful you see. I couldn’t stand to see them suffer. They were bred for racing. For making a profit. And that’s it. They were starved and beaten and killed when they lost one too many race. They were sold to people even crueler, people with dollar signs for eyes.”

“And then the others?”

“Wicked scoundrels every one! My parents’ customers at first. Then bear baiters and cock fighters … there was a never-ending cache of cruelty.” Her eyes pleaded with his. “We’re the same you and I. I felt it. I heard it in your voice.”

“No. In the end you proved yourself to be just as selfish.”

“No … I never---”

“Spuds. He’s been badly beaten. By his master. For letting you escape.”

“No. Oh no.” Tears streaked down her face. She turned and reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand. As fast as a cobra striking, she slashed the straight razor deep across her carotid artery.

“Nooo!” He reached for her as she fell to the floor. But there was nothing he could do. She’d escaped. Contrary to popular belief, suicides did not go to Hell. They simply ceased to exist, soul and all. In a way, he was happy for her.

He turned towards the bathroom but stopped in the doorway. He heard something odd. A soft patting sound like a ticking clock. He walked back to the bed and peered down where she lay. There was a tiny dog, a yorkie with a tiny pink bow holding her long brow hairs up from her face, lapping up the blood. In his confusion and anger, he’d not detected the little girl.

His heart swelled with love at first sight.

Hell now had the three giant jackals in residence … and one tiny yorkie named Nummy.