Javier de los Campos
You met Javier at a trade conference in Chicago about eleven years ago. He's around ten years your senior, maybe more; it's hard to tell, but he's graying significantly at his temples. Otherwise, he has a healthy Castilian mane. You'd run into him a couple of times during the conference and he was always very friendly and warm. You really hoped you'd run into him at the bar down the street after the evening sessions.
Well, fortunately you did. Just, not before your new found drinking companion convinced you come out back to the ally. The stranger was upon your neck in seconds after the exit to the ally closed. It was bliss, and then you were suddenly wet. Someone had just splashed the two of you with water, and it smelled faintly of burnt palm leaves. But, rather than being simply annoyed by it, the stranger was smoldering where the water had fallen upon skin. Then there was a flash. Was it a gunshot? To quiet. The stranger now had a deep cut across the torso, but there's no blood as the stranger runs away! You turned to find Javier leaning on his cane to help you up. He hands you a handkerchief from his pocket and gestures to your neck saying, "You're bleeding, just a bit." Taking the handkerchief to wipe at the warmth running down your neck, you reply, "Did they have fangs?" Javier nods with the faintest grin. "Come with me. We must talk." He walks you to his apartment a few blocks away. There he tells you about hidden societies of monsters, demons, and warlocks. It's hard to believe, but Javier intensely insists that these things are true.
After the conference you return home.
Javier keeps in touch through postcards, and you get one every three or four months. Sometimes they're from pretty obscure locations from around the world. You've written back to him a few times too -- sending letters to a Chicago address from one of his postcards. The topics have usually been pretty mundane, and pedestrian. But every once in a while you sense some subtext in his writing as though he is trying to alert you to something about the place he's writing from, but you've always struggled to understand the message fully. Each message seems to be painting a bigger picture.
Burgess "B.A." Agris
Late for work again and you needed to get some gas. These slow flow anti-drive off pumps piss you off so much! Like, forever later you finally got back in your car and just as you start 'er up the whole car rocks back so hard you're lifted out of the seat and hit your head on the roof. You leapt out of the car and look at what remains of the rear half of your car. Some kind of gigantic man-bear-dog thing has fallen through the gas station pavilion cover and decimated your car! Your fuckin' car man! And this this fucker in a suit jumps through the hole above you and lands on the damn monster! This dude levels a sawed off shotgun at the thing's head and pumps a round into it then cocks the gun and blasts it in the chest! Next thing you know there's tires squealing as a jet black F350 comes rumbling into the lot. This crazy fuck looks at you and shouts, "Jump in the back!" while he's running over to leap into the cab of the F350 as it swings around, barely slowing down. You heard some howling. Like, real close man. Never knew you could run that fast and jump into the back of the pickup! You have no idea how those beasts managed to keep up with the pickup even a few miles after hitting the highway! After driving around for another fifteen minutes they pull off into a Denny's and get out. You climb out of the pickup's bed, and the man in the suite introduces himself while unwrapping a lollipop, "I'm Burgess, but you can call me 'B.A.,' come on, I'll buy you a coffee and we'll talk."
None of what B.A. said about hidden societies of monsters, demons, and warlocks really made sense, but, damn, the dude believed it! You figured there had to be something to it, but you just weren't sure what! Anyway, that was five years ago. B.A. tracks you down every few months, usually just before you realize you don't have the rent money, and gives you a job being his wheelman or tailing some fucker. It's good money, and the adrenaline rush is better than drinking away the paycheck from whatever shithole job you managed to fall into, but it never lasts.
Keaton Mahal
Picking up your boss's VIP guests is not in your job description, but there you were -- driving out to the airport to schlep some executive consultant around for your boss. You finally found him talking up some bartender in the airport lounge. "Ah, you've arrived my friend. Good, let's go. We have so many people to see." He says in a thick, but articulate Persian accent. Charming, and confident too. Too bad you've already made up your mind to despise him. "Listen," he says, "take me to this address." He hands you a roll of money, and a business card on top. The cash is easily two months' pay, and the business card is blank side up with an address scrawled across it in felt tip pen. It's smeared with dried catsup too. You glance back up at him after examining his offer. He's smiling; damn charming. "Alright Mr. Mahal, follow me." You say leading him to your car.
As you approach your car you notice a couple of well dressed goons leaning on your car! Just as you're about to start cussing them out one of them looks at your feet and flicks his Zippo lighter oddly. You trip, hard, and fall. The other goon rights himself from your car and says, "Keaton, you didn't think you could come to our city and we wouldn't take notice!" Mr. Mahal responds by producing something from his suit jacket. You can't see what it is as you're getting back up. By they time you're on your feet Mr. Mahal has slipped whatever it was back in his coat and says, "I'm sure the chantry understands that I don't want to use it, but I will. You know I will." At that the goons look scared, and start to walk away. Just as they turn heel the first goon does that odd flick with his Zippo again, and all four tires on your car pop. Simply explode. And he says, "Have a safe trip Mahal." without even looking back.
You turn to Mr. Mahal, "What the . . . Was that . . . ?" He interrupts you, "Magic?" He nods. He calls for a tow truck, and while you wait he tells you about hidden societies of monsters, demons, and warlocks. By the time the tow truck arrives you're not sure if he's crazy, but he's certainly convinced of what he's saying.
It's been seven or eight years since you met Mr. Mahal. He's put in a good word for you with the boss a couple times and you're now head of antiquities at the museum. He also calls on you personally now and then to help with a bit of esoteric research.