Short Story: Bright Lights

I hate the new breed of sorcerors that have moved into the club district. It used to be you could spot them a mile off with their dodgy suits, excess of incense and decorations inspired by old dungeons and dragons rulebooks.

We’d hear of a kidnapping and it would scream of magic in the big details, let alone the smaller ones. There would be scorch marks and strange streaks of ichor, the sound of chanting in the night, and a suspicious number of scantily clad assistants with criminal records.

And that wasn’t even including the ones with Black Lace albums.

Our beat as the long arm of the law was a lot simpler then, but it did tend to be purely reactive. It wasn’t quite a case of listen for the screams and start running, but there was a certain simplicity to our cases.

These days it seems to be more complicated. The old ways relied on a mentor relationship between practitioners. These days it seems that any jerk with an internet connection and the drive to drill into the right sub-Reddit can get their hands on enough information to do some very stupid things.

Case in point, this evening’s idiocy, where someone’s repurposed the pub’s leftover Christmas decorations on the ceiling in a classic pentagram and then run a Dherril-Khain transform set to power it from a nearby Dungeon Dimension.

I’ll admit it looks pretty, but I’m pretty sure they were intending to be the life of the party rather than to drain all the life out of it. We’d had a tip from the unit in London who normally deal with this sort of thing, but we hadn’t been able to get here in time to have a quiet word in the appropriate shell-like. By the time we’d arrived, the party was not only over but was busy evolving a new nervous system.

What had been the original sorceror was busy writhing in the air underneath the pentagram, with a mix of dessicated former pub customers and n-dimensional ectoplasm forming a new body around him – an ectoskeleton, if you will.

We looked at each other and decided to break out the holy water. In this case, delivered by means of a pressurised fire hose wielded by trained fire officers on attachment to our operations. The holy water was provided by the militant wing of the Church of England, who frankly gave up giving a crap about cucumber sandwiches twenty years ago but nobody’s been paying attention.

I don’t care what anyone says, a firehose of salt-laden holy water is going to put a damper on any quasi-demonic incursion, no matter how pretty your fairy lights are. Spell disrupted, possession quelled, small fires put out as a bonus. That’s how we deal with sorcerors with no respect for a good party in Brighton.

About Tim Maidment

Writer, House Husband, Raconteur and Bon Vivant
This entry was posted in Fiction, short story, writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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