On The Road Again

Some days a reputation can be more trouble than it's worth.

I bet you're wondering where I've been.

I got a visit from a government boy back near the end of May. It seems someone had just been in their office causing quite a stir about some fishy business in a seaside town not far from here, and demanded they investigate.

Well, I don't need to tell you that the government boys don't much like these little poverty stricken hovels, and if they can get someone else to check it out, they will. (Side note: Matthews once told me about how back in the mid-90s the Clinton administration contracted him to single-handedly get rid of a Likho that had somehow wandered out of the forests of Eastern Europe and set up camp in the Oval Office. For two whole weeks not a single government agent would go near the White House, he says, and they were keeping Clinton in a bunker somewhere. Though how far you're going to trust Matthews on that should be proportional to how far you can throw him.)

It just so happened this field agent of theirs had heard about my little golem stunt, and a bit about all the boneys I put in the hurt locker, and decided to pay ole Jonesy a visit.

Now you all know me as a calc hunter first and foremost, but business has been a little dry, (heh), rent was coming due, and I am also a licensed Adventurer.

I took the job.

Catch was, I had to keep it real hush-hush, not tell anyone about it. That's big government for you.

A day's journey by dirtbike saw me in the old dilapidated town, and I was none too impressed from the start. The buildings were falling down, many abandoned, the streets were shockingly empty and the few people I did see were downright ugly, and thanks to the local fishing trade, the whole town STANK.

These folk never blinked neither. Creepy.

So I found my way to The Gilman, the only hotel running in this dump, and unpacked my stuff. Let me tell you, this place was a wreck. No pool, no cable, no internet (looks like keeping quiet for Uncle Sam wouldn't be a problem), one dingy old electric light in the room, no running water, and a lot of scuffling around and muffled noise at night.

All I got out of the locals were stares and general avoidance, and I didn't even dare go near that god awful factory of theirs. Who knew smoke from a GOLD REFINERY would smell so damn disagreeable?

Anyhow, all these people were downright rude. Nearly two months there and the only words that pass between me and the hotel owner, for Pete's sake, is a "Good morning" on my part and and some kind of bubbly grunt on his part. An old drunk was the only company I found when he accosted me one day as I came out of the grocery with a newly purchased fifth of whiskey.

Now, recall that I'd been hanging around this forsaken place without so much as a lead for about a month. I mean, they have a GOLD REFINERY, remember, so if anything's going to attract the stick-body no-meats it's probably THAT. But so far there'd been nothing, no hint of calc or golem or what-have-you, just a quiet little fishing village with a population that didn't take too kindly to outsiders.

I was understandably starting to feel like a fish out of water, so you'll understand how I reluctantly gave the old drunk a belt of my whiskey with his promise of information. Not a sparkling gem of a plan, as it turns out. He spilled out a long and boring story in a terrible accent about only God knows what. I couldn't understand a word he was saying. At one point I thought I actually caught him talking about having sex with fishes. Wonderful.

Anyway, time went on, things stayed pretty boring, and the whole town stank of fish.

I never saw the bum again, but it's just as well, because after a while, even booze stopped being a distraction from the mind-numbing boredom.

Once my investigatory period was up, I gathered my belongings, went home with the paltry sum I got for my services rendered, and told the Feds in my written report the only problem with the town was the uppity people and the smell.

Their man on the inside didn't keep quiet, though. From what I understand, they went in and bombed some reef off the coast of the town just to shut the guy up. I guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but what do I care.

It's not all high adventure.

Some Q & A

Seeing as it's a Sunday, and I'm already awake, I figure I will take some time to answer some questions I have been getting from readers.

Q: Have you ever got any worthwhile loot from calc hunting?

A: Well, this depends on your definition of worthwhile. Have I found any caches of gold? No. Have I found anything worth keeping for myself? Once.

You see, when I first started hunting calcs, I carried a sledgehammer with me. In my youth I saw only how awesome it would look smashing through a Calc's skull, and reducing it to powder. And boy, did it! I hadn't, however, considered how heavy and inconvenient it would be.

Luckily for me, not far into my career, I happened upon a Calc dungeon.

After an hour or so of cleaning it out, I saw an old wooden treasure chest.

"Finally," I thought, "I have found one of these caches of gold the Calcs are said to horde."

I eagerly opened the chest and my excitement quickly turned to anger.

"What kind of asshole puts a baseball bat in a treasure chest?"

Well, I resolved that I would use this "treasure" of theirs to kill as many of them as I possibly could.

Needless to say, it quickly proved itself a worthy weapon, and replaced my hammer.

Looking back, it was the best treasure I have ever found.

And to those who wonder why I continue despite the fact that Calc hunting barely produces enough loot to pay the rent, I will just say killing Calcs is its own reward.

I may answer some more questions soon. For now, I am going to have some breakfast and give the ol' dirtbike a well-deserved oil change and tune-up.

Calc Hunting

I can't even begin to describe my day today, but I'll start nonetheless. The mansion, of course, was the perfect breeding ground for Calcs. I say "breeding ground" but we don't really know where they breed, or even IF (hoping on not), so let's just say that I see these assholes in places like this all the time. Clumsy and slow, (like always) and they seemed to be standing still staring at a wall when we entered the room, (again, as always). These guys were of the "fur boots and horned helmet" types, carrying what looked to be about-a-billion-year-old maces. It's like they're making fun of us when they try to wear human things; doubtless these artifacts were taken from the last poor souls these bloodless Calcs encountered.

Matthews prides himself on his proficiency with the rifle but the repeated ricochets off of the helmets just knocked these guys off balance. This gave them something to look at and soon enough, it was time to earn our money. We've found that simple blunt force works best against these guys, so most of us carried a favorite item from the tool shed; others, the sports department. I myself work with a treasured wooden baseball bat. Matthews claims that there is a certain spot on Calcs that, when hit with a bullet, will bring them down in one shot. We have yet to see that actually happen.

Afterwards, we hauled the maces and helmets back to the store, and I mean HAULED. Lord knows how those things could even move their heads anywhere except straight down, staring at their stupid boots. We left the boots. Tony is a good man and he generally gives us a good deal, but for some reason we never have been able to make a profit off of Calc loot. Ever. He actually laughed when he saw the helmets as we grunted them in. Appraising them, he hefted the mace to clang against the helmet, either because he could or because he wanted to prove a point.

"A buck a piece."

I was shocked. They were rusty, sure. They were heavy, DAMN sure. But they were also OLD. That had to be worth something. Tony countered with the argument that, on top of the extremely poor quality of the merchandise, nobody wanted to buy "Calc shit." So it was either argue all day or just take the ten bucks.

One day, a Calc is going to drop something that's actually worth something. And I'll be there.