My name is Trevor Morris. That’s not a name I’d expect most of you to know. Hopefully, for both our sakes, it’s one you’ll never come across.
In the strictest of terms, I’m what you’d call a bail bondsman. Or, in layman’s terms, a bounty hunter. It’s not the romantic life you see in the movies and on TV, though. It’s dangerous. I’ve been shot and stabbed more times than I care to remember, but I always pull through. I’ve got Somebody Important in my corner, it seems.
Bounty hunters aren’t exactly people you’d call “normal”. Anybody who’d willingly risk their lives for something as fleeting as money and glory probably isn’t playing with a full deck. And as far away from average as normal hunters are, I suppose I’m worlds beyond even that. See, I have a friend in New Orleans who just got half a million dollars helping bring in a Cuban drug lord. Somebody else I know in Thailand just busted up a Triad gathering. He got a hundred thousand yen per head. Says he’s got enough for his grandkids to retire on at 35.
Me? Nothing major. I was in Barcelona a few weeks ago. Stopped the Cult of the Bloody Moon from resurrecting their demon master, Bartleby, from his 1,500,000-year sleep. Got blessed by the Pope and everything. Saved all of humanity from demon enslavement. Again.
I’ve never known anything else. My father, Simon, was in the same business. He says the Morris family has always been a tribe of demon-slayers and holy warriors, as far back 900 A.D. My recent ancestor, John, made himself known in occult circles by sealing up the demon warlord Azazel, along with a group of angels. It was pretty impressive, but for my family, it was just another day in the field.
Of course, I’m never alone. Whenever I go out, dad’s right there with me from his home in Miami as my eye-in-the-sky, giving me support and information whenever I need it. Then there’s Kris, my closest friend. Almost like a sister to me. I’ve known her since she was in diapers. Even when she was little, she had a thing for pictures. I guess photography runs in Kristof family as much as slaying does in mine. Funny, how the Morris and Riktophens have managed to stay in touch, even after 150 years. It must be…whaddya call it…destiny or something.
For better or for worse, business remains steady. I hardly have a night to myself anymore, what with all the goths and wanna-be witches running around. People confuse angsty teenagers wearing black and pretending to be vampires for the real thing, and it’s making my life miserable. If those kids saw what the real underworld looked like, they’d straighten out in a heartbeat. Of course, it’s my job to make sure that they never do witness the horrors of Hell. Kinda ironic, how that all works out.
But that’s just the way things go sometimes. You can’t choose your enemies in my line of work. Everybody is a potential vessel for possession, or cult leader in disguise. All you can do is close your eyes, and pray your bullet finds its unholy mark.
Love, hate, and revenge, in the shadows beneath the Brooding Darkness.
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