Devlin, Abnormal Investigations: Case File: The Hell Hermit

Last Updated on Friday, 27 January 2012 18:05 Written by Administrator Friday, 25 April 2008 00:00

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“Whaddayamean my liquor delivery’s caught in traffic? I’m tryin’ ta run an investigation business here. The security of the entire nation rests on me getting that truckload a liquor.”

The man talking on the phone was Devlin; half vampire, half Irish warrior, half alcoholic and half portent of the apocalypse. At least that’s how he described himself on his business card, which he never gave out. The card read: Devlin, Abnormal Investigations—Will Work For Liquor. What he lacked in math skills, he made up for in verbosity. His office was his mother’s bar in Tampa, he never investigated anything... except late liquor shipments.

He was drumming his fingers on the bar, producing a noxious cloud of smoke from an illegal Cuban cigar.

“I can have Homeland Security call you,” Devlin said, tipping up a bottle of rum and gurgling. “Them boys are too stupid to be scared of anything; but they’re scared of me. Har!”

Dressed in shorts, and a garishly colored shirt from his just released internet clothing line called: Seventh Sense: I See Drunk People. The shirt featured colorful renditions of intoxicated human beings holding glasses and bottles.

“I know the traffic ain’t yer fault,” Devlin continued into the phone. “But this is exactly why my secretary sent you that letter politely suggesting you open a distribution center in the vacant lot across the street from my place.” A fly buzzed in fast and landed on Devlin’s shoulder. He twitched slightly, and bunches of muscle knotted up, causing the fly to flee.

His skin was a deep golden bronze, and the muscles, cables and tendons along his exposed forearm, did a chaotic dance every bit as interesting to observe as that of a sultry belly dancers' rolling abs. His body was harder than trigonometry, and if there was any fat on him it was hiding, fearing for its existence.

“How tough is it to build a big still anyway?” Devlin listened. His face was a rugged terrain of furrows and gulleys, irrigated by a large mouth with generous lips and smile lines so deep, no light escaped their depths. He was smiling now, but that smile was less a smile, and more a rictus of potential mayhem.

“Well, if my liquor doesn’t get here soon, I’m buying the lot and making my own.” He listened for a moment. “Zoning. Har! I’ll have it zoned as the Church of the Blessed Fermented Hops. I know the Pope, we’re buddies. Plus, the commissioners are scared of me. Just send an extra truck, I’ll take both shipments.”

Devlin hung up the phone. He puffed angrily on his cigar and did a mental count of the amount of alcohol still on the premises. “Could be an emergency, I got enough for about a week.” Devlin muttered. He pressed an intercom, button, “Hey, overpaid secretary, we need to close the bar until the liquor shipment arrives.”

“There’s enough liquor on the premises to get the city drunk,” the secretary said.

“I ain’t worried about the city,” Devlin replied. “I’m worrying about me.”

“You have a client,” She said. “He’s on his way in...”

“No! No! No!” Devlin screamed. “I’m right in the middle of a looming crisis. Besides, anyone who needs an abnormal investigator; I don't want to any investigating for. That’s why I went into this business, peace and quiet.”

With that, a tall, gaunt man, dressed in a black robe seemingly floated into the bar, stopped before Devlin, and extended a bony hand.

“Sorry sir, but I am havin’ a crisis and can’t take on any more clients.” Devlin said, studying the wraith-like man.

“I am the Hell Hermit, and someone has stolen the Key of Death.” The tall man said.

“Hell hermit!” Devlin exploded. “Har!... and Double Har! I heard of Hell Hounds, my secretary is one, Hell hackers, my secretary is one of those, Herman’s Hermits, their music was sorta Loveboatish I think, but a Hell Hermit. That’s a new one. Anyway, go file a theft report with the coppers, and check the pawn shops.”

“You will find the Key of Death and return it to me.” The tall man said.

Devlin reached out and grabbed the man’s arm, intending to lead him out the door of the bar; but he grasped nothing. Devlin puffed furiously on his cigar, creating a huge cloud of smoke around him. “Dammit! Yer kinda insubstantiated aren’t you. One a those, willow-the-wisps. You some kinda ghost?”

“I am the Hell hermit, entrusted to guard the Key of Death.” The man said, solidifying again.

“Well,” Devlin said, smiling. “Ya found him. I’m generally known to be the key to death; if ya bother me, ya die.”

“You will find the Key of Death and return it to me.” The figure said.

“Jeez, ya drone. Talk about yer one-track minds. Fine, tell me your tale of misery, woe, sadness and stupidity, while I have a drink.” Devlin walked around behind the bar, and grabbed a new bottle. “I’d offer you one, but I’m running low on liquor.” Devlin came around the bar, muttering. “I should have started a newspaper that printed only true stuff out of Washington DC, I’d never have to do shit.”

“It was stolen from my cave.” The Hell Hermit said.

“Hey, how long does it take you to go from solid to wispy?” Devlin asked.

“The change is instant,” The thing replied.

Suddenly, Devlin's hand shot out and slapped the Hell Hermit in the cheek, causing him to fly from the bar stool, hit the floor and turn smoky. He sat there, one elbow on the floor, one hand on his cheek, staring wide-eyed at Devlin.

“Sorry there, Herman,” Devlin said, laughing. “I had to see if I was faster than ‘instant’.”

“What are you?” The Hell Hermit asked.

“Well, I am a really nice guy for a vampire, if you ask me. I am an alcoholic, if you ask my secretary, or my ma, or any of my friends. But, you have to be drunk to be an alcoholic.” Devlin tipped up the fresh bottle of rum and drank the entire contents. He slammed the bottle down, and turned to the Hermit. “Now ya see, I am feeling a little tipsy right at this very moment, but in five minutes... I’ll be sober as a church lady. That’s my life and welcome to it.”

“No one has touched me in a thousand years,” The Hell Hermit said. “Do it again.”

“Let’s not get kinky there, ya hermaphroditey. I ain’t wired that way. No offense.” Devlin walked back to get another bottle. “There’s places down the street where ya can pay girls to beat the buffalo shit out of ya. Quite reasonable too. They put ya in this big bird cage, and take whips...”

“No one can touch me,” The Hell Hermit said. “It’s part of my punishment.”

“What, did you piss off the soap God? Wouldn’t take a shower, so they made you untouchable. Speakin’ o’ matters of the heart,” Devlin said, puffing a great cloud of smoke. “My secretary, Jennifer... Hold on.” Devlin went behind the counter and brought out a huge, cumbersome helmet. It looked like those old stovetop popcorn tins, that rose up into a ball after the popcorn was popped. Only turned upside down, and having several handles located along its perimeter. Devlin placed the contraption on his head, then leaned into the Hell hermit. “My secretary, Jennifer, is infatuated with me, she wants to domesticate me like some beast a burden. She can read my mind, and talk right in my head. Good looking gal, but a real pest, if you get my drift.”

‘Hey nincompoop,' the voice rebounded loudly in Devlin’s head. ‘The stupid 'Jiffy Pop' helmet does not work. I can still read your thoughts.’

“SEE!” Devlin screamed, removing the helmet and crushing it to the size of a walnut. “See what I gotta put up with. I got this off’n conspiracy.com. Guaranteed to block all mental waves, or your money back.” Devlin went around the bar, and pressed the intercom switch. “Hey, pain-in-the-ass secretary!”

“Yes Devlin.”

“File a Paypal claim against them conspiracy people I bought this hat from.” Devlin said, blowing a stream of smoke that shot across the room, then opened into a billowing cloud ten feet away.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Jennifer, Devlin’s secretary asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Devlin said. “It said ‘guaranteed to work’.”

“How are you going to prove it doesn’t block out the evil government mind rays, and outerspace communications?” Jennifer said, breaking out into laughter.

“Keep Laughing, Carrie,” Devlin said. “Just do it. And remember our deal, I let you and your friends work here, and you stay out of my head.”

Devlin came back around to the drinking side of the bar. “Ya see, my life is a train wreck. I’ve tried everything, tinfoil, titanium, even yak butter. That was my pal Ash’s idea, but it turned out ta be another prank the idiot was playing on me to have a cheap laugh.”

“You need to retrieve the Key of Death,” The Hell Hermit said again, rising from the floor and walking to the bar.

“Look, Hamster, ya came ta me for help, so you have to listen to my tale a woe first.” Devlin said. “I got problems I tell ya. My dear Ma...”

“Pour me a drink,” The Hell Hermit said.

“Now ya see,” Devlin said, pouring two fingers into a glass and handing it to the wispy creature. “That’s the proper attitude. As I was sayin...”

The Hell Hermit tipped the glass, and the liquid slid down through his body to the floor. Devlin looked down at the small puddle.

“Okay pal,” Devlin said. “I can see your problem’s bigger than mine. Who took this Key-a-death?”