High Caliber Consecrator

“He's an oversexed alcoholic cowboy on a mission from God. She's an
elegant goth opera singer with someone else's memories. They fight

The Bog Hags who had circled us kept pressing in, their long soaked hair indistinguishable from the clumps of soggy Spanish moss that clung to their squamous bodies… “Taste Puritan justice!”   I shrieked, raising the muzzle of my m40a1 Flame Unit.  The pilot light hissed.  One of the Bog Hags returned the favor, rotting teeth bared, yellow in black gums.

“THESE are the burning times!” I cut loose with a blast of jellied napalm, turning the nearest groping monstrosity into a screaming, flailing torch.  Stamped along the barrel of my hand-held weapon are the words: “Puritan” in a really kickass font.  I think it might be Lucida Blackletter.   

The Bog Hag collapsed in the ankle deep filth of the tarn.  Something made a grotesque rattling noise to my left: I spun in the chocolate pudding colored filth capped with pestilent streaks of shining toxic rainbow, like an oil slick from hell.  One of the Bog Hags was poised next to me, filth-streaked forearms lifted high, the long curled finger-talons flexing as she prepared to tear my throat out!


“Hojotoho! Hojotoho! Heiaha! Heiaha!Helmwige! Hier! Hieher mit dem Ross!”

Sang the sharp contralto voice of the gorgeous creature that fought by my side.  The twin death-dealing sub-guns in her hands spat a tri-burst each, the heavy caliber slugs tearing through the vicious Bog Hag’s head and chest, bursts of briny blood spackling against my leather butcher’s apron and splashing somewhat on my face.  I licked the corner of my mouth reflexively as the Bog Hag collapsed, wheezing, into the mucky muck.  It’s blood tasted faintly of the sea, a sea filtered through a rotting pile of green and gooey crab guts on an Innsmouth pier. 

“Zu Ortlindes Stute stell deinen Hengst; mit meiner Grauen grast gern dein Brauner!” my companion sang, her voice blending with the staccato roar of her TDI Kriss Super V submachine guns.  Brand new tech, tri-burst or fully-automatic .45 caliber weapons with virtually no muzzle climb or recoil: the entire action or firing mechanism, instead over the hand of the firer, takes place forward of the grip, with built in stabilizers and gas releases.  They are vicious, perfect close-quarter weapons, meant to be fired while gripped in a stabilizing two-handed grip: these machine-pistols look like pneumatic staple-guns.  But my companion, the sultry creature who calls herself The GunWytch, uses them in tandem, ambidextrously: John Woo style.  She pauses in mid-cartwheel, goes into a crouch with one shapely leg stuck out at a supportive angle, and adjusts the level of the weapons so that they are aimed sideways: style points!  

John Woo never got Chow Young Fat to squeeze into a skin-tight deep blue body suit made out of some sort of flame-retardant, bullet-proof spandex-type, curve-hugging material.  Or if he did, he never released the photos.  And IF he did, Chow never looked so lithesome.  With the physique of a gymnastic contortionist, and the body of a fem-bot, The GunWytch, she of the jet-black hair with purple streaks, ultra-porcelain pale skin and black lipstick & eyeliner, is the hottest goth opera singer I’ve ever wanted to… er; kill monsters with.

Her dulcet tones soar over the muted roar of combat.  I unleashed a burst of liquid flaming death on one of the creatures as it attempts to flank her.

“Arbeit gab’s!  Sind die andren schon da!” she sang, her pierced tongue waggling in her mouth.  The twin weapons spat steel-jacketed death at the last of the creatures which expired, noisily, in the manner of all semi-mortal monsters smashed with big fat bullets: messily.

“What are these things we’re killing, cowboy?” she asked me as she reloaded her death-dealing devices and sheathed them in customized holsters festooned with a Sisters Of Mercy sticker (left holster) and a Rasputina decal (right holster). 

I slung the Puritan on my back and stuck a finger under my starched white clerical collar, loosening it a bit.  “Boy Howdy!  These are Bog Hags, darlin’,” I said.  I reached into my hip pocket for the whiskey flask and tilted a tipple down my parched throat, keeping the shakes at bay. 

“Bog Hags?  Man, thats a mouthful.  Hey, why do I look at you and think of… fumbling sex that smells like bourbon?”

I glance at the GunWytch nervously… my bloodshot eyes roved up and down her skintight fighting togs.  My beloved wife of ten years, The Mrs. Reverend Doctor Syn, also known as Nora, has disappeared into The Crawl, the strangely eldritch and eerie-spooky space that exists between worlds, space, time, and thought.  Possibly also smell, though we’re still trying to figure that one out.  Nora’s memories, or parts of them, have somehow turned up blended into the mind of Urbania Cordwainer Spurlock, a 24 year old pacifistic goth girl who trained for the Met and now sings Wagner whenever she goes into battle against the Unnatural.  

Together, we were trying to rescue my Son, The Boy, from a diabolical evil so heinous and diabolically evil that I cannot speak it’s name…


Oh, hello, faithful members of the congregation!  A lot has happened since I last sat down to talk with you… for one thing, all the experimenting with the World Snake Eggs?  Didn’t go so well.  Shit has happened.  Floyd is still one step ahead of us, The War Wolves have been released from their kennels, and the man with the bandaged hand has accepted a contract to blow a hole the size of a manhole in my skull…

But what of all that?  I have so much to tell you, about rescuing my wife from the Underverse… my long-standing feud with my slightly younger twin brother…  about the adventures I shared in the Chthonic Realms, and the plains of Leng, and the bedrooms of Dunwich with Urbania Cordwainer Spurlock…. About my Son, The Boy, and his time in the terrible tombs of the Convergence Generals…. And about the sad and lonely death of one of Team Ourobourus’ best and brightest members…

But that is another story, shit: that is a lot of another stories.  And the hour is late.  And I don’t really feel like telling you right now anyway.  Just remember: John Wayne knows that he whose name is not writ in the book of life shall be cast into the lake of fire, buckaroos!  I like gin!