Short Story: LOPEZ RISING

franks (64)in #fiction • 6 years ago

The 777 started its approach to Heathrow.

Lopez was in in a window seat, watching the lights of London brighten the darkened sky.

It was turbulent, and he could feel the plastic plane twist and sing, as it cut through the air.
He closed his eyes and waited for the final touch down.

As soon as the plane had finished taxiing Lopez was moving.
His small bag was out of the overhead rack and he started pushing through and past the slow moving tourists.

He got abused. But that was the nature of getting off a landed plane.

Like some sort of 21st Century hard contact sport.

He moved on and in through the First Class.
Pushing past the Bizness Boss men that ruled the world.

The blond had her bag down and was talking and laughing with a small fat bald man, still sitting.

Lopez kept coming.
Driving people out of his way.

He pushed the blond then grabbed her before she fell and whispered in her ear.
Then motored on past, heading hurriedly towards the exit.

He glanced back to see the shadows rising from around the bald hombre.
But to slow to intervene. Much to slow.

He was at the opening door and was first of the plane.

The bald man grabbed the blond, “What the fuck did that greaser say?”
The blond went pale in the face, “He said nothin Tony, he said nothin.”

He pulled her down by her hair as she started to whimper.

“What the fuck did he say?”

He was leaning menacingly into her face.

“He said, your boyfriend looks like a limp dick loser.”

Tony Mad Hatter O’Hare, exploded at this, “The fuck he did, the fucker I’m going to…”

“Boss, calm down, people are staring.”

Tony’s minder Charlie Smiles nodded towards the other passengers.

Tony gave a grimace and his version of a hysterical laugh.

“Nothing to see here folks, move along,” he said smiling.

The flight attendant had come back down to see what the bother was.

But now she was back helping getting the flow of bodies out the door.

Tony leaned into Charlie Smiles, “Smiley I want that bastard.
Find out who he is and take him.”

“Capiche, Boss.”

“Philip Parris Lopez, now what kind of fucking name is that?” said Smiley.

Lopez was bound with leather straps to an old Dentist chair.

His left eye was a mess. His fingers had been broken with a large hammer.
Blood dribbled down from his smashed teeth.

They had kidnapped him from his hotel room and taken him to this deserted warehouse, south of London.
“My Papa gave me that name,” said Lopez.

“You know, Mr O’Hare’s nickname. Well do ya?”

Lopez smiled through the pain.

“Si, Atter, Mr Mad Atter.”

He was rewarded with a hard smack in the bad left eye.

“No you greaser mothafucker. It's Thoth. The Moon God.
He likes to do his drilling under a magical mystery Moon.
And tonight you’re the poor mothafucker that's won the prize.
You insulted him greaser. Did ya think you’d get away with that?”

The back door opened and O'Hare came in with a blond moll stuck to his arm.

“Watch me boys. I'm gonna teach this greaser some manners,” he said to his entourage.

He stood in front of Lopez and powered up a drill.

“I believe in the power of Luna."

And he pointed at the massive warehouse windows.

Some broken, all covered in a badly stained economic downturn slimy Britexit rustic brown.

He had his shadows switch the lighting off.

The only illumination now was the streaming brown moonlight.

Bathing them in an ethereal otherworldly glow.

“Do you believe in the supernatural Mr Lopez?”
How about the Egyptian Kingdom of the Dead?
Think, to be embalmed to rise, to live forever.
But not tonight my friend. Because tonight you will not rise. Tonight you are going to die.
People fear me because I have a connection with the eternal.
Can you feel it Mr Lopez. That power from beyond the grave.
But first you are going to feel pain. And when I finally let you die.
Remember me to the Boatman.

He raised his hands. The drill cord trailing in his left hand.
He turned on the drill. The noise echoed in the vast warehouse space.

Then he started humming Blue Moon.

Lopez felt the blood surge of the Nagual Shapeshifter.

As the moonshine flowed over and into him and started to feed his Nagual DNA chemical altering soup.

The change came rapidly.

The leather straps snapped as he reached out with both claws and grabbed the Mad Hatters face and bit it off with one ravenous bite.

Howling at the fat moon, the Nagual threw the still screaming Mad Hatter to one side.

The blond collapsed with sheer terror.

Smiley pulled his gun and started shooting at this dark twisted beast from hell, arisen and among them.

But he was torn apart. Limb from limb.
At a speed his City slicker brain could never comprehend.

The two remaining heavies tried to run for the door.

But the Nagual was upon them, holding them, biting through their necks until they stopped their screaming.
Then the Nagual stood and sniffed the air.
And smelt the fresh blood on the warehouse squalid air.
O’Hare was still breathing, just.

Barley alive. His lifeblood pumping out on to the hard concrete floor.

The Nagual could feel the beating hearts of the hungry rats starting to get closer.
As they contemplated a flesh feed in the night.

The warp-shapeshifting-spasm over, the Nagual resumed the shape of a rejuvenated Lopez.

He stood over O’Hare.

“The Cartel said they could not get to you. That you had no weaknesses. That you had a sixth sense.
Someone with supernatural devil powers. But your weakness is that you are vain.
You are dying Thoth. And when you pass over.
Remember to tell your Underworld boatman, it was a Nagual that sent you there.

As he left, he decided to take that trip to Ireland and visit the grave of his Papa,
The Rock God, Phil Lynott.
What else would an Irish Nagual do, on holiday to the homeland?

Image Courtesy of Pixabay