I Monster - Part four

It was hot. It was always hot. He held the glass of amber liquid up to his forehead and rolled it back and forth. It was useless. In this humidity ice vanished quickly and the sweat on the outside of the glass just made it hard to hold. He wagged a finger at the bartending boy, calling him over with every intent of asking for more ice. The boy approached quickly, nodding all the while with that damnable smile on his face. He knew the boy was only trying to show respect. It didn't help.
“Bottle,” he demanded, mustering up as much snide contempt as he could muster. Fuck the ice. The boy placed the bottle on the small bar and just as quickly as he approached, he backed away, all the while bowing and smiling. He was beginning to hate the smiles the boy and everyone else in this country gave.
Country? Ha. This place was more like a third world rest stop on your way to a country. If it weren't for all the tourists stopping by, slumming it on there way to a real place, this country would be nothing more than rice patties and rusted out war relics. And he was stuck here. One small gaffe and this is where headquarters sticks you until you can prove that you're a good boy. Headquarters was full of tiny little tin-plated tyrants, each and every one a despot of dung or an authoritarian of their own arse. If not for the staff in the field, they would get as much done by wanking each other. And they expected this to be his field. Not like the new recruit. Oh no, according to headquarters, mister beloved apprentice of the doctor has farts that smell of roses. Well, that may all be changing soon.
Bottle in one hand and glass in another, he stepped from the little bar and sat at one of the small tables off to the side. He was by himself, but was not totally alone. A fat Englishman in a tweed suit sat in the corner drinking like an atheist who suddenly agreed with antidisestablishmentarianism. He was probably a new instructor at the university. As the bloated sod solipsistically rambled on about his views of reality, the girls giggled and giggled. Oh the girls. The one highlight of this outpost; there was always girls. This was the type of place where the girls would silkily walk up to a client and bawdily explain exactly what they thought you needed. The way they affably carried themselves helped a great deal to exacerbate the meaty protuberance in ones pants.
An inexperienced sex kitten walked by dressed in the smallest of silk robes. The floral pattern of the robe was a breathtaking contrast to her freshly powdered, china like skin. She was new, but one could tell her virginity had long since been raffled off.
“Indemify yourself my dear,” said the English philosopher, ”for I will presently quaff my enduring cocktail and eructate with immense enthusiasm.” The girls broke out in fresh giggles. The newest girl stood in front of the small table and all the other girls backed away smiling. “Oh my,” said the fat man setting down his glass and belching. The young girl moved forward and sat on what little lap there was. She leaned forward and whispered in the fat mans ear.
This was the time to act and act fast or fatty would soon be suckered in. Setting bottle and glass aside, he reached into his shirt pocket and remove his handkerchief. He quickly unwrapped his homemade sun-star symbol and lunged for the girl. It took him weeks to properly swage the bronzed Sprocket into just the right shape, but the look on the girls face was worth it. She was terrified. He held the star-sun out and drove his free fist into her nose. Blood spewed down her chin and she fell back on the little table. He held the star-sun in front of her face and grabbed her around the throat.
“Where's your temple?” he shouted. The fat philosopher looked on whey-faced. “Where's your temple?” he repeated. The fear left her expression as he felt the life leave her body. It was too quick. He did not apply enough presser to cut off her breath or blood supply. She must have died from something else. He turned and kicked the fat man in the stomach, forcing him back into his seat. Quickly he ripped open the girls robe, exposing her nude body. With a move resembling that of Pete Townshend, he brought the star-sun around in a great arc and plunged it down into her body just under her rib cage. He pulled the symbol down hard and created a huge slash in the young woman's midsection. Blood spewed everywhere and the fat Englishman screamed like a girl as he was splattered in the face. The body popped open like an over ripe pea pod and a large snake with a somewhat human face sprang out. He grabbed it quickly and yanked it from the body. Its skin was already beginning to harden. Its teeth and eyes had already turned to stone. The beast was essentially boneless, but a strong twist of the wrist and you could hear the gristle in its body snap. He dropped it to the floor, dead.
“Bloody hell,” said the philosopher. He kicked the fat man in the stomach one more time and went to retrieve his bottle. He took a long drink and regarded the Englishmen intently.
“Tell anyone,” he said slowly, ”…and do you think they will believe you?” He took another long drink, as the fat man sat there with his mouth open. “They may, they may not. Either way, if you do I will find you and kill you too.” He took another drink, as the fat man seemed to stop breathing. “Now fuck off.” The Englishman was up and out of there with speed that denied his great girth.
He could smell kerosene and knew that the others were setting the building on fire. He took out a cell phone and hit a number on speed dial.
“Hello.”
“B-N-Y requesting secure line.” There was some hissing and popping and then a beep from the phone.
“Line secure, go ahead.”
“This is McShae. One Naga Priestess eliminated. I'm leaving post on secondary mission. Send a clone if you want me to return to this post.”
“But you haven't been giving a secondary…” He hung up the phone and tossed it into the girl's body cavity. The others would notice him missing until the clone showed up. He didn't care. Now, where on earth could his countrymen be?