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A Bubba the Monster Hunter Short Story

By John G. Hartness

“I told you I hate Christmas, right?” I grumbled as I stepped through the automatic doors into my own version of hell: a mall in December.

Skeeter’s voice chirped in my ear like a gay Southern Jiminy Cricket. “You’ve told me that at least a thousand times, you overgrown hillbilly grinch. But we’ve got a job to do, so shut up and head to the mall office.

“You realize you ain’t told me what the job is yet, right?” I turned a corner between a Bath & Body Works and a Victoria’s Secret, paused for a minute in front of the lingerie store window to check out the sales girl, and continued on my way with the lead weight in my stomach just an ounce or two lighter for the good visual.

“I know. You’ll see the job in just about six more feet.” Skeeter replied. Skeeter is kinda like the Oracle in the comic books, except he ain’t in a wheelchair, he ain’t a chick and he never was a superhero. Okay, so he’s nothing like Oracle, more like an irritating little shit that sits on his butt back at the office and yips at me like a chihuahua on crystal meth while I do all the dangerous work like killing zombies, fighting vampires, tracking down rakshasas, wrestling yeti or…

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