The Bleeding Tower

Chapter One: Return to Sender

 Carrie didn't need this horse shit, especially during Shark Week. Coming all the way out to this dying town in the fucking dirt just to give a guy a box? Give the job to Ross, or Howard, perfectly acceptable. Pounding his fist on the door, he held the package in his free hand. The thing was as big as his forearm, but couldn't be more than eight pounds. "Once again, I apologize for dragging you with me."

"Naw, don't be like that. We're partners, aren't we?"

Tee was his seventeenth partner, and the longest lasting. Next Thursday would mark four years of their cooperation, and for once Carrie was glad for it. Some of his previous arrangements he killed, others just died from shit like HIV and a flu bug or getting hit by a semi. Six of them quit, but that's just because they were milquetoast. Carrie pounded on the door some more. "Doesn't mean I shouldn't show you some gratitude every so often."

"Who is it?" 

A woman's voice, sounding eerily similar to Meryl Streep. "You've got a package from Mr. Crawford," Carrie announced. Where he should be cordial and how-do-you-do, it was dry and cutthroat. 

The door opened, a small lady in a plaid shirt and jeans smiled over at the two men at her doorstep. "Wow, you guys really come quick."

"That we do, ma'am," Tee smiled and tipped his hat, always more charismatic. "Feel free to call upon our services anytime."

Carrie was a hair's width from rolling his eyes, only refraining because like any working man, the dollar was a thing to earn at any means. This included any annoying bullshit thrust upon him by the higher ups. The shorter blonde woman, four foot eight by his estimation, giggled and took the box happily enough from the messengers. "I'll do just that, mister..."

"Tee, please," still with that winning smile.

"Tee." she repeated. She was definitely a woman of simple living, possibly working at the diner further up into Skull Valley.

How many times had Carrie seen his workmate smile in such a fashion? Too many to count, for the number meant little. What came after the expression was consistent. "Would you like a receipt?" Carrie asked, not curtly this time.

"Already printed it," the woman said, still a bit charmed. "Thank you."

"You have a wonderful evening, ma'am."

"Theresa," the customer corrected. "Please."

"Yo, Theresa! You know if we ran out of salt yet?!"

Another woman's voice as the person emerged, this one radically different. Red skin, any not any natural tan or melanin sort. The red of pigment, or perhaps blood if you'd be so crass. Little horns beneath her hairline, white lipstick--or perhaps a light pink that bordered on beige--and eyes that weren't a shade past merlot. Upon her entry, Theresa paled and just looked at the two visitors with wide eyes. Now it appeared she didn't like the look of Tee in particular, for the smile was gone. "Oh my," he regarded with a faint note of dismay. 

"Oh shit!" the demoness cried out, pulling a pistol out from her impressive cleavage. 

She pulled the trigger, but the gun in her hand blasted away anything past the wrist. Theresa dropped the box and held her hands out, scuttling backwards with a visage of horror and ultimate realization. "Wait, please, it's not what you--"

But it was too little too late, the titanium white ceiling was sprayed with blood when Carrie cut off her head. Theresa's friend made a break for it, unfurling a cry of such high pitch that instead of glass it could perhaps shatter diamonds. "Tee!" Carrie called.

"I got her." the gunslinger replied, taking a shot.

Tee was always crafty, covering the corners that his partner couldn't. The woman ran down the hall clutching her wrist and screaming, and before she could make the sharp turn to the left the bullet hit the wall. The result of what looked to most folk like a misfire was that the impacting projectile spit back shrapnel in similar fashion to a grenade, which sliced through demonic flesh and killed the wailing thing. Blood began soaking into what used to be a white carpet now turned sandy brown--years of dirt without a proper cleaning can do that to the color, sorry to say-- and then came a response of squalling from beneath them. "Oh my Jesus," Tee whispered. "What've we stumbled into?"