Time: Wednesday, 18 August
Place: The Faer Hibernean Foundation airstrip, The Fiendish Glow
Follows: Experience is a Terrible Thing to Waste
Sukh, Heather, Pen, Chris, and Brenda are real and are used by permission.
Miguel, Consuela, and all the other Fiendish Glow staff and irregulars belong to The Fiendish Glow.
Father Andrew belongs to the Faer Hibernean Foundation and doesn't hang out at the Glow nearly as often as his regular seat would have one believe.
Liam O'Neal ("Bad Blood") used because he's antagonized the staff one too many times in War 9 and appears with the permission of FKWarlock.
[The Fiendish Glow, Wednesday, 18 1500 Eastern Daylight Time]
After a few false starts (such as Heather's goopy oatcakes and Pen's exploding cornbread) and several distress calls to Brenda's dad, the Glow Worms had managed to get through Monday's dinner without scaring off offending too many customers or causing the kitchen support staff to run off in a huff and quit (free dinners being very useful apologies to regular customers and all). Tuesday -- despite their being dead tired -- was an improvement. By Wednesday, Sukh and MacHeather had decided that they would be most helpful *in* the kitchen by staying *out of* the kitchen, and took off for NA headquarters shortly after brunch. Pen, Brenda, and Chris began preparations for the dinner crowd, anxiously awaiting the return of the two regular cooks and as normal a life as can be expected the week before a wedding, during War time.
This was not to be, however.
*Ring* *ring* *ring*
*Ring* *ring* *ring*
"Fiendish Glow. Ye stake 'em, we'll bake 'em," Chris answered, despite the women's frowns.
"Wha'?" he asked into the receiver. "Excuse me?" He held the phone away from his ear and motioned to Pen, who took the receiver from him. Seconds later, a stream of invective in Irish and Spanish flew from the willowy woman's lips while she motioned for a stiff drink with the other. By the time Chris and Brenda returned with the Cuervo Gold and a glass, Pen had hung up the receiver and sat down at one of the prep tables.
"They've been delayed at the airfield," she said. "Something about our 'friend' from the 'Irish Culinary Heritage Preservation Bureau' and Immigration."
"I thought that was a pretty private air strip. How the hell did O'Neal wind up there?" Brenda asked.
"Delivering goods, following someone coming in or out, checking filed flight plans..."
Brenda nodded. It was possible -- but things seemed quite... controlled... during her flights in and out of there. "So what do we do now?"
"Give it time, babe, give it time. And continue with tonight's cooking. I've got a phone call to make..."
[Meanwhile, just above the fallow field of a farm far enough from the city to fall into free airspace... ]
"Flaps down, landing gear deployed. Starting final descent glide path. Altitude is ten hundred... "
Miguel and Consuela searched for the buckles for their seat belts.
"...nine hundred... eight hundred... "
Two clicks were heard as the belts adjusted into place.
"...seven hundred... six hundred... "
A barn-like building came into view off the right of the plane. Unbeknownst to most of the world, the "barn" in question was outfitted for aircraft maintenance and storage.
"...five hundred... "
An old, beat-up, graffiti'd once-white van chugged down the private road to the ersatz airfield.
"...four hundred... three hundred... "
A row of flattened plants, leading into a circle of similarly flattened plants, became a potential runway.
The Beechcraft approached the ray end of the crop circle.
"...two hundred... "
The pilot's hand extended towards the controls and started pushing, pulling, and clicking various dials, knobs, and switches.
"...one hundred... prepare for landing... "
The plane landed unexpectedly smoothly for the apparent roughness of the terrain. Within seconds, the van drove up to its side.
"Thank ye, Donal," O'Malley waved to the pilot as he unbelted from the co-pilot's seat, exited the craft, and extended a hand to assist the woman in the passenger area.
"No problem, Padraig. Ennatuyme uy get the chence to fluy the Buyeechcraeaft..." he said, crossing aft and moving assorted pieces of "personal luggage" forward. At the same time, both driver and passenger stepped out of the cargo van, guns drawn.
"Uy got you did to rights, noa, O'Malley," the older, balding man said, as the two men moved towards the cooks.
"You again! What the divvil piece o' tomfoolery d'you think you've got me on, noa?" O'Malley asked.
"Same as always, O'Malley. Gun running, evading arrest, acts of international terrorism..."
O'Malley shook his head, chuckling. "Y'been drinkin' *wood* alcohol from that flask o' yers, Inspector Vampuyre? E'en if we *were* with th'Aermy, as you *insist* on believin', didna you hair thuyre's a truce? Didna you understand there's been eno' killin'?"
"You think you're canny, O'Malley?" the Dubliner taunted. "Well, Uy have news for you - you're goaing doan, an' Uym throwin' uwuy the key."
"Then you're goain' to have to fuynd a locksmith to get you oat o' there..."
While the men on the ground were parrying jibes, the plane-bound pilot retrieved a cellular telephone and made a pair of calls. In seconds, a small man in a white suit appeared before the tableau, apparently having magically sprung forth from the ground.
"Well, well, well. If't isn't muy auld friend Liam O'Neal," the man said, sneaking up on the inspector.
The Dubliner hid a shiver as he turned, gun still drawn on O'Malley, to meet this new threat. The familiar face was one he'd never expected to see again, its familiar voice one expected never to hear again.
"What're ye trayin' this tayme, sohn?"
"Thuy've escaped th' law for fair too long -- aen Uy'm goan t'see thae justice is sairved."
"Justice?" White Suit chuckled. "You, who'd kill a man of G-d and call it 'justice'? You, Liam Daniel Padraig Connor O'Neal, who was baptized at St. Brendan's, graduated from St. Padraig's, and resided with th' brothers o' the Sacrament o' St. Brigid... I expected better from you."
"F-f-father Andrew?" Liam asked, not believing his senses.
"The verry seyme priest that you tried t' kill foarty years ago."
The inspector looked at the former clergyman up and down, twice, as he soaked in the afternoon sun. "But you're -- you were, a... a... "
"Say it, my son," Father Andrew taunted.
"A vampuyre," he blurted out. An vampuyres-- "
"--aere evil creatures o' the devil," the priest completed. "I know what happened t' yoar mother, lad -- an' wha' happened t'you. Have you ehvur bothered t'ask why I became a vampyre, Liam Daniel Padraig Connor O'Neal?" he paused for effect.
"'Twas the night o' the century storm at St. Padraig's, an' I was boand t' see Mrs. McNulty, who was tayken with th' grippe. As I approached hur house, I haird an infernal noise -- like the bean sidhe's wail. Right in the doorway she stood, screaming, as one of those creatures of the night set teeth to her neck. I knew him then for a demon-creature...
"When I became a priest, I took vows to protect the souls o' my parishoners. Rather than let the demon take Mrs. McNulty's soul, I offered him my oan in return, if only he'd leave her alone.
"The demon, as you can guess, was a vampyre -- and rather than just take my layfe, he gave me his oan life -- forced me back acroass the divide, and then parted. An' there was no Father Hurley there for me, lad," Father Andrew related. "An poor Mrs. McNulty..." he crossed himself. Liam and the boyos followed suit. "She was my first -- and my last. When I realized what I'd done, I wished to go straight to Bishop Ahearn for confession and advice -- but the sun had already risen, and I was trapped inside her cot. The next evening, you met me at her door an' tried to kill me... when you left me for dead, I knew I had to leave Ireland. Bishop Ahearn put me in touch with the Faer Hibernian Foundation. They gave me passage and refuge, and a life of seclusion where the Mrs. McNultys of the world are free from my... gluttony.
"The boyos you would want to arrest also came here seeking refuge. The Foundation has been helping the Irish make new, peaceful, productive lives for themselves for over one hundred an' fifty years. If you interfere with that noa, that would be a much bigger sin than tryin' to kill a parish priest... or a vampire."
O'Neal's head spun with his former priest's story. Was there, could there be, a vampire who was not evil, who believed in G-d, and who was strong enough to lead a righteous... Unlife? Or was he, like all vampires, a perfect, perpetual liar, just telling another story to be able to survive and hunt another day? And what was the vampire Father Andrew doing out in the late afternoon sun? Slowly, O'Neal brought the gun down from its target, clicked on the safety, and holstered it -- using his other hand to massage his forehead the whole time. What was going on??? Gently, Liam's driver and O'Malley supported the inspector as he all but collapsed.
"Come, let me get you something to drink while the boyos load up the van. Still Lager and lime, right?" Father Andrew asked, gently guiding the confused Hunter to the entrance to his subterranean abode.
[Back at The Fiendish Glow]
Standing right next to the giant cans of crushed tomatoes and not far from the bottled juices, a two-gallon jar stood, filled with an evil-looking condensing gray-brown suspension. Brenda looked suspiciously at it. "What is this?" she asked, removing its cover and taking a whiff of the contents. "PHE-EWW!" She closed it back up again. "Pen? Chris? Does either of you know what this jar is doing here?"
"Looks like Heather's tryin' to make 'oatmeal water' agin," Chris said. "Atholl Brose," he explained to the confused others.
"It smells like rubbing alcohol and spoiled milk," Brenda said.
"She's nae much of a cook," Chris admitted. "Let me check."
Brenda held Pen well back of the jar while Chris opened the lid again, sniffing the contents. He covered the jar again and removed it from the shelf.
"I doan know wha' the lass put *in* there, bu' tha's nae Atholl Brose. I'll dispose o' it far ye lassies," he said, carrying the heavy jar out to the dumpster and throwing it in. It landed with a satisfying *ding* and *crack*, the contents of the overpowerful alcoholic beverage seeping into the scraps and scrapings normally associated with a commercial eating establishment. Chris returned to the kitchen, never seeing the rash of four-legged creatures running towards the dumpster, entranced by the strong smell of ethanol-laced food.
"I need a drink," Chris said, heading towards the bar and pouring himself three fingers of single-malt scotch. It was the first of many he'd drink while his Heather was dining with "Nunkumpoopies".
[Somewhere underneath the FHF airstrip]
"Sshoo you sshee, m'lad, there'ssh no' vampayrezzh in, enny, ennywheressh nearssh Toronto..." Father Andrew said. The bottle of rye in front of them was almost as empty as the half-dozen bottles of lager strewn around the simple inner chamber of the former priest's hermitage. "Firssht time in [hic] yearssh I'm enjoying this ssstuff," he smiled goofily. "But coam, let'ssh get you hoam..." He picked up the remnants of the bottle and led the Inspector back out to the van. "We'll pile in back wi' the cargo... Hoam, boyos!" he toasted as Miguel stepped on the gas.
[Outside The Fiendish Glow, Wednesday 18 August, about 1900 Eastern Daylight Time]
A nondescript, once-white van pulled up to the employee's entrance of The Fiendish Glow. The cooks hopped out the front and went inside in search of some hands and handtrucks. Unknown to them, the two sloshed Irishmen made their way out the cargo bay and into the main entrance of The Fiendish Glow.
[The Fiendish Glow pub, same time]
Each weaving more unsteadily than the other, Father Andrew led Inspector O'Neal down to the subterranean pub and to his usual seat by the Metro entrance.
"Pen! Siobhan! Deirdre!" he drunkenly yelled. "I'd like ye all t' meet an ol' friend o' mine!"
The waitresses came over as soon as they'd taken their current customers' orders. Pen and Brenda exited the kitchen shortly after, wiping their hands on their aprons.
Siobhan took out her order pad. "An Ulsterman's for you, Faether -- oh, that's right, you're on a different diet this week. You'll have?"
"I brought me own," he said, raising the bottle, "but itssh almosht empty. Gimmeanothah rye."
"You've had more'n enough to drink, Father Andrew," Siobhan said gently.
"Never have enough to drink," he replied. "Then you'll have coffee," she told him. "And what'll you have to *eat*?" she asked.
"I'll have the Sshepherd's Pie," he said, after some short deliberation. "And Liam'll have the colcannon."
"I'll have the Irish sshtew," Liam contradicted.
"One Shepherd's Pie and..." Siobhan looked at Liam, did a double-take, and froze. "You!" she said, looking squarely at O'Neal. "What are you doing here?"
"Ye've already met Liam, I see," said Father Andrew. "An' ye're lucky you didn't meet up with him any other week o' the year, Faether."
"Hush, child -- is that any way for a good Christian to behave?"
"It is, if that person's been stalking you and your kin -- all honest, law-abiding citizens -- without a warrant, or if that person's been plotting genocide against a sizeable segment of your clientele," Brenda retaliated. "And Inspector O'Neal here has done both," she said, stomping off.
"Brenda's 'NOT-Christian'," Pen explained.
Father Andrew chuckled. "Well, then, thank the L-rd that we met up again thissh week," he said, toasting O'Neal with the remants of the rye. "Givessh ussh both a chance t' turn the other cheek." He turned to Pen and added, "Liam usshed t' be one o' my parisshiionerrs, before... I told him tryin' t' arressht the boyos wud be a bigger sin then tryin' t' kill vampiressh."
"Was this before or after you started toasting your renewed acquaintence?" Pen asked, skeptically.
"Before, lass, before... an' I esshplained that there are no vampirezzzh in Toronto noa, ssho he izzhn't goin' t' go huntin' ussh, either..."
Pen rolled her eyes at the two drunkards just as Deirdre brought up two cups and a pot of black coffee.
"Ye'll drink this, and you'll eat your dinner, and not make a scene about it," the head waitress told the two men.
"And don't you ever pull a stunt like this again," Pen warned the priest.
Many of "the boys" around the Fiendish Glow have grown up around "the Troubles" in Ireland and Northern Ireland. A few have caused some of those Troubles; many have had Trouble-some family members -- in short, if they're not experienced in some of this underground stuff, they grew up around it and learned it from their da's.
In addition to his vampire-hunting hobby, Liam O'Neal has been hunting "the boys" for the past twenty-five years or so. As far as we know, none of them are actually terrorists or are guilty of any crime -- most of them were barely out of diapers at the time some of these alleged events occurred. The children just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time -- but O'Neal thinks they're just as guilty as the adults were. One of his guises for doing this has been posing as a Life Member of the Toronto Enclave of the "Irish Culinary Heritage Preservation Bureau".
War 9 stories involving Liam O'Neal: A Touch of Irish Politics, A Little Blood Never Hurt Anyone..., and Uno, Dos, Tres, Quatro, Cinco
*******************************
NEXT STORY: THE ATHOLL BROSE
PARALLEL
STORY: YOU WON'T SHINE IF YOU DON'T
GLOW
*******************************