“The Prodigal Son” ~ A Monster Alley story

By: Walter G. Esselman

FBI Internal Memo:  Welcome to the city of New Amsterdam.  As part of your duties with the FBI, you will probably encounter citizens that come from a small enclave, which is quite hidden.  This enclave is called Happenstance, though you might hear it referred to as ‘Monster Alley’.  That is because the citizens are supernatural in origin.  That is not a typo.  This community has its own police force, but does interact with the local police, and our agency.  In fact, there is one human detective that recently transferred there.  Her name is...        

***

“Frost!  The Chief needs us!” barked Detective Rafe Howler to his partner, and then he disappeared back out the door.

His partner—Sophie Frost—jumped up to follow.  She ran from the break room and towards the Chief’s office, finishing her egg sandwich on the way.  She had just caught up to Howler when the Chief opened his door.

There was—as always—just a profound darkness inside the Chief’s office, except for four bright blue eyes, stacked two and two, right on top of one another.

“Asylum Alert!  Go straight to the garage,” commanded the Chief in a far-away voice.  “Stuart’ll lead you.  I already called the New Amsterdam P.D., but—budget cutbacks—so they might not be able to help.”

Howler did not even respond—which was not unusual—and kept running through the station.

“What’s an Asylum Alert?” asked Detective Frost, and she was cheered that she was not out of breath.

“From someone outside,” said Howler.

“Someone from Happenstance?” asked Frost.

“Not everyone wanted to live in Happenstance,” came a voice to her left.  A crow flew next to her, carrying something plastic.

“Stuart, right?” asked Frost.

“The One, the Only!” preened Stuart.

“I thought that all the people who could live in Happenstance, just...you know…” And her voice trailed off. 

“Happenstance is a place of refuge,” explained Stuart.  “A ghetto—in the original sense of the word—but not everyone wanted to live here.  Like the Prodigal Son.”

They had just run into the garage when Howler screeched to a halt and glowered at the crow.  Frost had to dance around him so as not to crash into her partner.  But the crow kept flying ahead until he swooped over a Jeep.  

“Here’s your ride,” said Stuart, and then he came back over to them.

Howler made curious noise.

Defensively, Stuart sniffed.  “Hey!  That’s what the Chief told me.  The Prodigal Son’.”

“Who’s the Prodigal Son?” asked Frost.

“You might want to brief her on the way,” said Stuart.  “Tick Tock.  Here’s the key...”

The crow dropped the plastic he held so that it arced straight towards Howler.  The detective snatched it out of the air, and then looked at the key fob in his hand.

Howler froze.

Frost—seeing his hesitation—gently plucked the key fob from his hand.  

“Maybe you can ride shotgun,” she suggested.

“You know I don’t use guns,” said Howler. 

“She means, ‘Can you sit in the passenger seat, and look for trouble’,” explained Stuart. 

“Oh.  Okay,” he replied.

“But only if you tell me who this ‘Prodigal Son’ is,” insisted Frost.  To the crow, she asked.  “Does the car have the GPS coordinates?” 

“Better than that, you got Crow.P.S.,” said Stuart, but then he made an unhappy noise.  “Wait, that sounds stupid.  Anyhoo, just follow me.”

Frost slid into the Jeep and started it.  She waited a moment until Howler had settled in before speaking up.

“Seatbelt,” she said softly.

Howler just glared at her.

“I don’t care if you’re practically immortal, or whatnot,” sniffed Frost.  “You wear a seat belt when I’m driving.”

Howler made a disgruntled noise, but then he reached for his seatbelt.  In the end, she had to help him, because he was not used to them.

“Time’s a-wasting!” called out Stuart from the hood, and he shook his feathers.

“We’re coming, we’re coming!” replied Frost testily.

The crow took off and she began to drive.  It was almost full dark out.

“How am I supposed to follow a dark crow, in the dark,” she muttered.

Almost as if he had heard, Frost saw bright colors erupt from the crow’s tail feathers, which left a trail to follow.

“Well...that works,” said Frost, but then she gave some serious side-eye to her partner.  “Okay!  The Chief said that the ‘Prodigal Son’ has requested asylum.  Who’s that?”

After a terse introduction on the matter, Frost just said.  “Okay.  Thanks.”

Howler squinted at her, and she realized—much to her amusement—that she was able to read his reaction.

“What did you expect?” chuckled Frost.  “‘I can’t believe that?’  Every night, you get dinner from a humanoid bird.”

Howler shrugged.  “Wen makes the best Moo goo gai pan.  Ever!”

“True. So, Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’ is based on real life,” began Frost thoughtfully.  “But, I take it that he is one of the people who didn’t want to live in Happenstance.”

“His work is out here,” said Howler.

“Trading on the New Amsterdam Stock Exchange?” scoffed Frost.

Howler just shrugged.  “He apparently needed serious money for his work, and he can do most of it by phone, and now computer.”

Stuart directed them to a parking lot behind an upscale apartment building.  They parked and got out.

The crow called out.  “He’s in the penthouse.”

“Scout around,” ordered Howler.

“Gotcha!” replied Stuart, and he flew up.

At the back door, they pressed the button for the penthouse.  Once they were buzzed through, the detectives took the elevator up.

In the polished steel doors of the elevator, Sophie saw the reflections of an Irish girl—whose brown hair was being stubborn and frizzy today—and a solid Greek man with a suit the color of Gentleman's Grey.  

At the top floor, they approached the penthouse door, which opened cautiously.  Howler and Frost already had their badges out. 

“Detectives Rafe Howler and Sophie Frost of Happenstance PD,” announced Frost, and the door opened all the way.

Inside was a gigantic man with dark lips who nearly towered over the door.  Without realizing it, Frost immediately dropped into her expressionless ‘cop-face’, because the poor man’s face was ugly and off-putting.  

“Sir,” said Frost professionally.  “We are here to escort you to Happenstance.”

The giant reached out—his hand lashed with old scars—to shake hands.  “My name is Porter Stein.  Or, at least that’s what I’ll be for a few more hours.”

“You’re going to change it?” asked Frost, despite herself.

“When you live as long as I have...,” shrugged the giant, Porter.

“We need to go,” said Howler.

Porter turned to take a suitcase and Frost noted that he was wearing high-end charcoal colored pants with a white button-up shirt, whose sleeves were partially rolled up.

“I must admit,” said Porter as they left the penthouse.  “I wasn’t really sure you’d come.”

“Anyone can ask for asylum from Happenstance,” said Howler, almost as if he were offended.

“And you come running?” asked Porter curiously as they headed down the stairs. 

“Everyone in Happenstance has been on the run,” replied Howler. 

“Even you?” asked Porter.

But Howler did not reply. 

“You know,” said Porter.  “I remember you, Detective Howler.  You came with that fellow who wanted to be mayor.  What was his name?”

“Mayor Carl Thulu?” asked Frost.

“That’s him,” said Porter, and he glanced at Frost.   “Our detective here was playing honor guard, and he didn’t seem happy about it.”

Frost very carefully did not say anything, but Porter cracked a smile across his odd face.

“Or, maybe that’s just the detective’s default state,” said Porter.  “No matter, I appreciate you two coming tonight.”

“Did someone threaten you?” asked Frost.

“Not per se,” replied Porter.  “And it may all be all a big misunderstanding.  But Elsa—who works at one of the soup kitchens, which I quietly fund—also helps at her local church. There, she overheard some men talking about me.”  And he chuckled merrily.  “She relayed it with such venom saying, ‘As if you were some kind of monster’.” 

“Are they Helsings?” asked Frost.

“She didn’t get close enough to ask,” replied Porter.

“Thank God,” said Frost.  “People have gotten killed that way.”

“I didn’t actually think that Helsings were real,” said Porter tentatively as they got off the elevator.  “I mean, ‘Monster Hunters’ in the 21st Century.  Sounded like ‘Monster Alley’ propaganda to me.”

“They are very real, and very well funded,” assured Frost.  

“But…,” started Porter.

“Inquisition,” said Howler.

“True,” admitted Porter.  “Do you think...the Vatican?”

“Not this time,” replied Howler as they reached the main floor.

They turned towards the back door when a crow suddenly beat their wings against the little window in the metal.  The crow did that for a moment, and then flew off.

Howler froze and put a hand out to halt Frost and Porter.

“Was that…?” started Frost.

Howler looked back at Frost, and—questioningly—nodded his chin towards the stairwell. She nodded in agreement and turned to their charge. 

“Mr. Stein, if you’d come this way,” said Frost.  She motioned to the stairs going up.

“What’s going on?” asked Porter in concern.

“We’re not sure,” admitted Frost.  “But there might be trouble.”

Howler was partially turned towards the door when he swept back his coat.  He revealed a leather rig around his waist with four knives, two on each side.

“You do have those knives,” whispered Porter in surprise, and he looked up at Howler.  “Did you really find those in a Medusa’s lair.”

“Sir,” said Frost more urgently, indicating the stairs up.

“But those knives...,” said Porter.  “Red, black, blue, and green.  I’ve heard the blue gets so cold it’ll give you frostbite, the red burns of course, green is for illness, but what does the black one do.”

“Quiet,” hissed Howler.

“A knife can’t make people quiet,” muttered Porter thoughtfully.  “Or, at least, any ordinary knife can do that.”

“He means ‘Us’,” said Frost kindly, and she touched his arm.  Porter’s skin looked like a mummy, but the muscles underneath were like cables.

“Oh.  Right!” said Porter, and he let himself be led into the stairwell.  

“I’m not used to this,” admitted Porter, once inside.

“Used to what?” asked Frost.

“Being taken care of,” said Porter with bemusement.  “I’m usually the one helping others.”

“We all need help sometimes,” said Frost.

Howler reached the back door and peered out the little window.  Then he looked back.

“Two SUVs and a car just pulled up,” he reported and turned back to the door.  

“What did he say?” asked Porter.

“That if we weren’t warned,” said Frost.  “We’d have walked right into the middle of them with our tits hanging out.  Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

Howler opened the door part way to look at the new arrivals.  In the parking lot, they had all stopped in a line.  Out of the Vehicles came men, and a few women.  But Howler focused on the man with the priest’s collar.  He was the one giving orders.

“Okay,” said the priest.  “You know the drill.  I don’t want any mistakes.  We need to be out of here in under eight minutes.”

“Yes sir,” said several of the men, and one woman, who sounded like they were ex-military.  One of the men opened the back of an SUV and handed out AR-15s and white bulletproof vests.  Emblazoned on the front was a cross in a triangle that was colored bright red.

Howler lifted up his badge in his left hand.  “Happenstance Police assisting local law enforcement.”

But the priest kept giving orders.

“You will not get him,” said Howler as he put away his badge.

“Your toy badge doesn’t scare me,” sneered the priest.

“I assure you, it’s solid silver,” said Howler.

“The law does not cover abominations,” said the priest. 

“What about the White House?” asked Howler in a dry voice.

“Joke all you want,” spat the priest.  “You alone can’t stop us.”

There was the whoop of a police siren.  Lights flashed as a police car stopped right behind the last vehicle.  Out of the car came an officer in a New Amsterdam Uniform.  The cop walked onto the lawn and stopped between Howler in the backdoor, and the Helsings by their vehicles.

“What’s going on?” asked the officer.

Howler identified himself.  He was about to take his badge out again, when he was suddenly grateful that it was a hot summer night.  He turned on a dime and slammed the back door shut.  He was down the corridor in a flash and stopped at the front door. But out front, he saw more SUVs, and more Helsings with assault rifles.  

Returning to the stairwell door, Howler turned to Porter.

“Sir, are there a lot of tenants in this building?” asked Howler.

“Every apartment is taken,” replied Porter in confusion.  “Why?” 

Without looking, Howler jabbed his elbow into the fire alarm.  A klaxon went off and Howler ushered them up the stairs.

“Was that the NAPD outside?” asked Frost.

“Yes, but he had a tattoo on his arm,” said Howler.

Frost’s breath hitched.  “Cross in a triangle?”

Howler just nodded.  

“Christ,” said Frost.  “They’re inside the NAPD.”

People were starting to stream past them in confusion.  Some stared at Porter’s face before remembering their manners and looking away.  For his part, Porter just politely greeted people as they went past.

By the time they were near the top floor, the stream of people had petered out.

“Why did you kick everyone out of my building?” asked Porter with peevish concern.

“The Helsings have AR-15s, which can punch a hole right through an apartment wall,” said Howler.

“The police in Monster Alley are versed in modern armaments?” asked Porter, switching with amused curiosity.

“We have schools, just like everyone else,” replied Howler darkly, and Porter nodded sadly.

They got to the top floor and heard the elevator moving.  Howler went over, grabbed the elevator doors, and easily pulled them open.

“Who?” asked Frost.

But Howler did not respond.  He braced the door open with his feet and waited.

“Are the bad guys really stupid enough to take the elevator?” whispered Porter.

Howler drew the red knife, and it sizzled as it hit the air.  Lashing out, he easily cut through the hoist ropes.

“I’d go with a ‘Yes’,” muttered Porter.  

They heard the elevator drop before the safety brakes kicked in and it stopped.

Howler turned to his partner.

Frost took a step forward and warned.  “You better not make me babysit.”

Without a word, Howler stepped into the open elevator shaft.  A second later, there was the sound of a person dropping through the elevator trap door.  Then there were the screams.

Frost made an ugly noise.  She turned and ushered Porter into his penthouse.

“Sorry about the babysitting comment,” said Frost sincerely to him.

But the giant smiled kindly.  “As I said, I’m not used to being taken care of.  So, I understand your frustration.”

Which made Frost smile wanly.  “But he is going to pay for that one.”  

The detective looked around the penthouse.

 “I guess it would be too much to hope that you prepared this place for a siege?” asked Frost.

“Sorry—just parties—like a Tiki, or New Years kind of party,” replied Porter, but then he shrugged.  “Not that I ever had any parties.”

“No worries,” said Frost.  She went over to the corridor by the kitchen and took it.

The Giant called after her.  “Can I help you?”

“Bathroom?” asked Frost.

“Second on your left,” called out Porter.

Frost was back in a moment.

“That was fast,” he smirked.

Realizing what he was implying, she gave an embarrassed smile.  

“Actually, I was looking for something chemical that we could use against the intruders,” she said, holding up a jug of bleach.

“Will that do?” asked Porter.

“It‘s a start,” shrugged Frost.  She went back out and to the stairwell down.  She took a deep breath and then poured it onto the stairs.

Going back into the penthouse, she looked for a way to defend the penthouse.  Recognizing that the Giant was—understandably—nervous, Frost decided to distract him.

“How do you choose a new name?” asked Frost.  “Or, do you go back to your given name, every once in a while?” 

Porter laughed at that, but it was not a happy laugh.

“I was not given a name,” he said.

“Wait?  That part’s real?” asked Frost with indignation.  “He created you, and then he didn’t give you a freaking name?” 

“He just cast me out,” said Porter.

“That asshole,” growled Frost, but then she blinked.   “Sorry for cursing.”

Porter just waved away the need for an apology.

“I was in such a blind rage,” he said.  “That I followed my father to the ends of the Earth.  Harried him.  Ran him into the ground.   And when he was dead, I was just going to end myself.”

“Why didn’t you?” asked Frost, but then she remembered what she was doing there.  “Nope.  I’m sorry.  I’m prying.  Dangers of being a detective.  Always asking questions.”

“It’s okay,” replied Porter kindly.  “I spent the 80’s in therapy, and came out better.  So, I had already built a pyre when I decided that my whole existence was…some type of birth, people dying at my hands, and then me killing myself.”

He stopped, and Frost let him be for a moment.  She had just come up with a plan when he began to speak again.

“In the end, I did not want an accumulation of anguish, and then murder, to be my only existence,” said Porter.  “So, I went out, and—to answer your original question—I named myself.”

“That could be fun to name yourself,” suggested Frost.  

“Better as an adult,” chuckled Porter wryly.  “When you’re basically a child, you tend to go too big, too flashy.”

“So, how did you get to soup kitchens?” asked Frost.

Porter put his finger to his lips with a smile.  “I am a silent partner in scores of them, because I know what it’s like to be out in the cold, with an empty belly.”  He took a deep breath.  “So, what do we do now?”

“That’s next,” she said as she pointed at the couch.  She ran to one side.

Porter followed her lead and they carried it over to the stairwell.

“I was thinking of upgrading anyhow,” said Porter jovially.  And they chucked it down the stairwell.  He looked at her with a smile.  “Do we need more?” 

“I guess we should,” she admitted.

Then it became a mad dash to run into the penthouse and grab items to clog up the stairs.  

Porter was running back to the stairs with a gaudy chair from the 1950’s.

“Ugh. What’s that smell,” asked a voice from below.

Porter glanced around the chair.  

On the second set of stairs going down—through the metal rail—a Helsing was already aiming his AR-15.  

“M...Monster!” cried out the Helsing—who looked like a panicky kid—and he squeezed the trigger.

Dropping the chair, Porter dove back as the kid opened fire, a little wildly.  Bullets went all over the stairwell, hitting everything but the giant.  As Porter scrambled out the door, Frost was suddenly there.  She grabbed his shirt and pulled him away.    

They ran into the penthouse and she pushed the Giant towards the other side of the room. 

“Hate getting shot at,” grumbled Porter.  He walked over and stopped by the sliding glass door to the balcony.  

Frost was crouching by the front door.  One of the Helsings climbed on top of their blockade, so she shot him, right in the bullet proof vest. 

Inside, Porter spotted a crow on the balcony, waving its wings wildly.  Stuart the crow pointed to the metal piece hooked onto the rail, and a rope leading down.  

Just as the giant unlocked the sliding glass door, the Helsing priest scrambled up and over the rail, moving with a speed that belied his age.  

“Monster,” growled the priest as he raised a sawed off shotgun.

But Porter was also moving, with a speed that belied his size.

Near the stairwell, Frost put a bullet into another Helsing’s arm, and then heard a momentary retreat.

“Get‘em!” cried Stuart behind her. She turned as the crow flapped awkwardly across the floor, favoring one leg when he tried to land.  

But it was outside that really drew her attention.  

“Shit,” she hissed.  

Jumping up, Frost ran across the room.

On the balcony, Porter held the Helsing in one hand, dangling the priest over the edge of the balcony.  In the giant’s other hand, he tossed a sawed off shotgun to the pavement below.  It broke when it hit, but the priest looked defiant.

Porter was making a dangerous noise in his throat.

“Um, Porter?” said Frost carefully from behind him.  

“Unclean!  Nameless monster!” spat the priest.

“Monster?  You want to see a Monster?” growled Porter.

“Don’t do this,” said Frost.  “You don’t have to do this!”

Porter chuckled.  “Besides, my name is not ‘Creature’, and it's definitely not ‘Monster’.”

“‘Thing’?” suggested the Helsing with a snide tone.

“Are you kidding me?” demanded Frost, and she glared at the priest.  “I’m trying to SAVE you!”

“My death will be virtuous!  Fighting monsters!” declared the Helsing proudly.

“There you go again with ‘monsters’,” growled Porter as he pulled the Helsing close.  “My name is Prometheus von Frankenstein, and I choose life over death.”

With a quick movement, Porter swung the priest down in some complicated manner and then him let go.

“No!” cried out Frost.  She bolted forwards past the crow.  The giant stood aside as she grabbed the rail to look over the side.  Far below on the pavement, was a broken shotgun.  Her brow furrowed.  

Then she heard a pained noise.  She began to lean out further when someone took the back of her coat, and she started.

“Just making sure you don’t fall over detective,” assured Porter gently.

Her gut confirmed that he did have her, and would not let her fall.

Trusting that, she leaned out further and saw the balcony below.

On it was a priest curled up around a broken arm.

Pulling back, Porter let go of her as soon as she was safe.  He had a smug smile.

Frost reached out and whapped the Giant gently on the arm.  “That’s for scaring me.”

“Sorry Detective,” said Porter with a contrite smile.

Stuart piped up.  “Would’ve be fitting to throw that old Helsing over the edge, especially after he took a potshot at me.  It was lucky that I was able to land on the balcony.”

“We should look at that leg,” said Porter.

Frost was going to say something else, but then she paused.  “Prometheus?”

Porter shrugged.  “Like I said: Too big, too flashy.”

“I don’t know, I kind of like i…,” she began. 

When Frost spotted someone in the penthouse doorway.  The Helsing in the NAPD uniform already had an AR-15 aimed at them.  She began to dive in front of Porter. 

The Helsing suddenly arched his back.  His face twisted as he gave out a cry, as dry as the Sahara.  Tipping forward, the Helsing clattered to the ground as a dessicated corpse.  Some dried, ancient-looking bones shattered on impact.

Then it’s head rose showing fresh eyes and a tongue in its mouth.  

“Monst…,” it began, before finally collapsing. 

Stepping into the doorway, Rafe Howler put away his black knife, and grinned like a smug cat.

“What’d I miss?”

Next Monster Alley story, “The Rat’s Maze”.