The Hobbyist

Part 1 Here

He spoke with the gargling, mucosal sounds typical of Egypt.

"Watch where you point that thing," Ayaz said.

I put the rifle back in the duffle and thanked Ayaz. I would have asked him to have whiskey with me, but I knew he was a Musulman and would refuse as a matter of principle. Instead, I shook his hand firmly. His hand was massive and hairy. He squeezed tightly. I could feel the tiny bones in my hand giving way under the incredible strength of his grip. Ayaz was the kind of guy that got off on that, I could tell.

"Until we meet again, Jackal."

I walked out to my car and drove home. I drove carefully because it was snowing heavily. I parked in my driveway and went inside. There was a bottle of Jack Daniel's still sitting on my oaken dining table. I poured what was left into a lowball glass that had been left out. The pour was just over a shot, maybe closer to two. The exact amount didn't matter anyway.

I unpacked the Jackal's bag and set the rifle on the tabletop. The rifle was clearly battleworn, but was in excellent condition and freshly oiled. At least I thought it was oil. Knowing Ayaz it might have been Astroglide. I shook out the bag to make sure there was nothing else inside.

An extra magazine rattled out and fell on the floor. I picked it up, and realizing it was unloaded, set it on the table. Something caught my eye -- there was a note taped to one side.

The note was written on white notebook paper, ruled with blue lines. It read:

The time is right. Something is going on.

de Jackal

It must have been about the meteor, or the lizardmen. Worse, it could have been about both. I took the note downstairs and stuck it on the meteor. The meteor was black, and grew slimier by the day. The slime was thick, and the meteor vibrated when I got near it.

I took out a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's and sat with the meteor, sipping from the bottle. The meteor rattled and shook.

I thought about Jackie and his girlfriend. The sips were coming faster and faster now. The meteor's shaking became more violent and the lights flickered in the already dim basement. The empty liquor bottles on the floor clanked together.

In a way, I liked the meteor. There was something calming about being in its presence, like sitting around a roaring campfire with friends. I took a long look at the meteor, and its viscous slime coating reflected my face and the room around me.

I carried the meteor out to the backyard. It was heavy and hard to hold because of the slime. I beamed a wide smile at the meteor. I dropped it into the metal trashcan I keep in the yard. The can was filled with dry copies of the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, and all the mail I receive from the government.

The meteor landed in the pile of rubbish with a satisfying thunk. I doused the meteor with lighter fluid and struck a match. My eyes glassed over as the match hit the pile of periodicals.

The fire blasted out of the trash can. An incredible amount of smoke came billowing out of the trash can with the meteor in it. The smoke was acrid and choked my lungs. It burned in my mouth and nose.

The can rocked and shook. The sound of a cascading waterfall filled the cold night air. It was deafening, and the smoke became thicker and more horrible. I saw dancing vision. I took a deep breath, inhaling through my mouth.

The smoke tasted like pussy.