The Suck

Book 1: Hunters for Hire

by Jonathan Yanez

Genres: Humorous Fantasy; Paranormal; Urban Fantasy; Occult & Supernatural

Synopsis

Supernatural meets The Boys.

Hemorrhoid cream commercials or monster hunting?

He’s your average, struggling LA model just trying to book his next gig. When John finds out the supernatural live among us, it's game on.

Sign twirling and rideshare driving while waiting for his next casting call soon take a backseat to hunting the supernatural for a pretty penny.

But not all is as straight forward as it may seem. There are those close to John who are more than they're letting on and that spells trouble for our reluctant hero–big trouble.

For fans of Larry Correia's Monster Hunters International, Jim Butcher's Dresden Files, and M.D. Massey's Junkyard Druid comes your next romp in the graveyard.

Grab your copy and start reading now!

Release date: November 19, 2020

Publisher: Archimedes Books

Print pages: 368

Content advisory: Readers have reported spitting out drinks, peeing pants and overall wild laughter.

Sample

Chapter 1

Life sucks in more ways than one. Two years ago, if you told me I’d be in the prime of my life twirling “Tacos Culo Loco” signs dressed as a cheap imitation of Big Bird in downtown LA, I would have called you a dirty liar.

But here I am in a suit that smells like cigarette smoke and broken dreams, yelling at the top of my lungs. “Tacos Locos, Pollos Locos, Culo Locos!”

Every kind of car whizzes by, from Bentleys and Ferraris, to those that look like they’ve seen better decades. There was some kind of truck that passed and I swore there were bullet holes in the fender.

Downtown LA is the craziest mix of the rich and poor I’ve ever seen. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. I needed whatever job I could take in order to fill the time between casting calls. At least at Tacos Culo Locos, no one could see my face behind the chicken mask.

My phone went off in my chicken pocket. At least I think it was a pocket. Its previous owner had slashed a hole on the inside of the costume. He might have cut himself in the process because there was dried blood everywhere along the interior. 

Oh well, it served my purpose. I grabbed my phone, ringing with the familiar jingle of the original Doctor Who theme music. It was Tracy, the love of my life and woman who was sticking with me through thick and thin, or I guess in my case, castings and chicken costumes.

“Hey, Trace,” I said into the phone. “Can’t talk too long right now. Mrs. Gomez said she’d cut me if she caught me on the phone again. I think that’s a joke, but she did take off her sandal and wave it super threatening at me while she said it. Come to think of it, there is a slash in this chicken costume.”

“They made you wear the chicken costume again?” Tracy asked with a heavy sigh. “Please tell me you at least dry-cleaned it before you put it on today? Last time you came over after wearing that, you smelled like rotten spaghetti.”

“Rotten spaghetti is highly unlikely,” I told her. “They sell chicken here.”

“Whatever. I was just calling to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. I’m on this new low carb diet for the show I got casted to and I want to watch my macros,” Tracy said into the phone. There was noise in the background like someone else talking. I thought I heard a man’s voice. “Sorry, that’s just Brad. He says hi.”

“What? Brad Connolly? That’s so cool,” I nearly shouted. “Tell him I said hi. Ask him if I can get his autograph.”

Tracy had just been cast for a supporting role in a new streaming drama. Brad Connolly was the lead. How the streaming service had gotten such a big name to play the main character was still a mystery to most.

“Shhhh,” Tracy silenced me. “Take it easy. You don’t want to embarrass me. It’s my first day on set.”

“Right, right,” I whispered. “So cool. Tell him I said hi.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tracy answered. “So we’re still on for dinner tonight?”

“Hey, chicken butt, do a dance! Pollo loco hermano man, shake it!”

I looked over to where a line of vehicles stopped at a red light. A balding man with dark sunglasses and yellow teeth leaned out of his vehicle window to address me. More grinning faces inside the vehicle told me his buddies were egging him on.

“John, John, are you still there?” Tracy asked on the other end of the phone. “I thought I heard someone yelling about a chicken butt.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” I lied to try and save face. “Yes, we’re on for tonight’s dinner. Seven o’clock at The Original Organic. I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay, see you then,” Tracy said before ending the call.

“Hey, twirl your sign or do a dance or something, chicken boy!” the man yelled from out of his window.

“You leave my chicken boy alone!” Mrs. Gomez stormed out of Taco Culo Locos with that sandal in her hand. “My chicken boy dances for Taco Culo Locos and no one else!”

“Oh snap, that Mexican mom is going to come beat us with her sandal or something,” the driver shouted amidst the roars of laughter of those inside the vehicle. “Light’s green; let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

The driver gunned the engine as the light changed and the car screeched off down the road.

“You okay, Jonny?” Mrs. Gomez asked in her thick Mexican accent. “They didn’t bully you, did they?”

“Ahhh, nothing I’m not used to,” I waved away her concern. “I’ll be okay. I got a text earlier from my agent. I have another casting call to get to before dinner. This one’s for a hemorrhoids campaign. It sounds super promising. My agent says I’m a perfect fit for the role.”

“Oh, look at you.” Mrs. Gomez placed her sandal back on her bare foot. “I know you’re going places, Jonny. Now come on; pick up that sign and twirl it while we talk. You weren’t on the phone when I came out, were you?”

“Oh no, of course not, who me? On the phone? Pshhhhh, please. I know the rules. I was not on the phone,” I said, grateful to have the chicken mask covering my face. I’ve been told I’m a horrible liar. For some reason, when I lie I just can’t shut up. “I know the rules. I play by the rules. You best believe dat. Phone, huh no, silly goose.”

“Uh huh.” Mrs. Gomez lifted an eyebrow that could have turned me to stone. “You still asking Tracy tonight? Tonight’s the night, right?”

“Yep, I have the ring right here in this bloody pocket. Hey, is this blood in here or like ketchup or something?” I asked, patting the area over my chest. “It’s kind of smelly. No offense.”

“Official word is it was a nose bleed from Juanito, who used to wear it. Unofficially, someone got stabbed in it during a fight between two crack addicts here on 4^th Street. Juanito wasn’t too bright and tried to break them up,” Mrs. Gomez rattled off as if it were nothing more than the latest gossip on the street. “But enough about crack addicts and their struggle for the last chicken wing. Let’s see the ring, let’s see the ring, Jonny!”

“Oh, right,” I said, reaching into the costume through the neck with my right hand. The box the ring came in was right where I left it, next to my phone. “Are you ready to gaze on this beauty?”

“Oh yes.” Mrs. Gomez clapped with delight.

I opened the box. The ring had eaten up nearly all of my savings. I had to add a few extra trips driving Lyfter at night to make it work plus all the money I made at my last job as an extra for a Life Alert commercial. I had played the son of an elderly woman, who came home to find her on the floor.

The woman who played my mother was a real sweetheart, except she cursed like a sailor and kept calling me “sweet cheeks” and inviting me back to the trailer for some one-on-one time to “practice” her lines. Fell for that one once and only once.

I presented the ring in my chicken-gloved hands.

Mrs. Gomez leaned in, squinting.

“Where’s the—oh, oh, I think I see the diamond,” Mrs. Gomez said with a long pause. “Jonny, are you sure they gave you a diamond in your ring?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course they did. It’s riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight,” I said, prolonging the word as I flipped the ring around to take a look, “there, uh huh, right in the middle; see?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Gomez patted me on the shoulder. “Sorry, my eyes just aren’t what they used to be.”

“No problem,” I answered. “Hey, do you mind if I get off a bit early? I have a big casting call to go to and I don’t want to be late.”

“Of course, of course.” Mrs. Gomez waved away the request. “You’re one of the good ones, Jonny. You come and go as you need. I’ll always have work for you. What did you say the casting was for again? Was it irritable bowel syndrome?”

“No, that one was last week,” I said, heading inside the store with Mrs. Gomez. “This one’s for a new hemorrhoid cream coming out. I think I have a real shot.”

Turned out I would have had a real shot, but the casting got pushed back to a later date. Instead of heading there, I went back to the apartment I shared with my best friend, Evan Woods.

Evan was everything I wanted to be. At least career-wise. He was a working model, always getting booked on some of the biggest shoots there were. This year alone, he did work for GQ, Apple, and Sony. To top it off, he was one of the nicest guys I knew.

I met him on a shoot we did together a few years ago. Turned out we were both looking for roommates. The last one I had got married and moved out. Evan didn’t talk about his last roommate much, just that the guy up and left one day. I guess he had had enough. Not a lot of people could take living with someone as successful as Evan while still struggling to make it on their own.

I was fine with it. I knew my time would come. I just had to pay some dues.

Home was an apartment complex called Haven in downtown Los Angeles. It was small but not in the worst part of town. We heard police sirens only once to twice a night, maybe the occasional helicopter providing support for a raid.

I pulled my old 1966 Ford Mustang into the rear of the square-shaped building. I bought it off its previous owner at a steal. It broke down on the way home from the purchase and still gave me problems now and again, but it just felt right.

Cracked paint and just as cracked asphalt surrounded the four-story apartment complex. There were three dozen units in all with the manager living on the ground floor. He was a crazy old man, always going on about creatures in the shadows and unnatural beings in our world, but I just figured he binged too many of those fantasy shows like Supernatural and True Blood.

I locked my car door and headed inside the back entrance.

“Hey, can you hold the gate?” a woman’s voice I didn’t recognize called out.

“Yeah, sure,” I said on instinct, opening the gate wider and standing to the side so she could get through.

“Thanks, I’m just coming back from the grocery store and I freaking refuse to make two trips carrying in the bags. I—ewwww, what’s—what’s that smell?” the woman asked. “It’s like stale onions and—and chicken blood.”

The woman was about my age, with brown hair and hard muscles that were easy to see past her tank top.

“What? I don’t smell anything,” I said, sniffing both underarms.

“I think it might be you.”

“Oh, right.”

“Sorry, that’s really rude but, but, oh gosh, I can taste it in the back of my throat,” she gagged, spitting to the side. “I’m your new neighbor, Shannon. I’d shake your hand, but…”

Shannon shrugged with both arms full of grocery bags.

“No worries,” I answered, closing the gate behind us. “I’m John.”

“John, great to meet you. I’m just going to stand over here to the side and get upwind of you,” Shannon said with a polite smile. “I think I’ve seen you around. You live on the top floor, right? You have a roommate?”

It was record time, actually. All the female tenants in the building usually worked Evan into the conversation one way or another. Most just came out and asked if he was single.

“Yep, yep, Evan and I live on the fourth floor,” I answered politely. “He’s super nice if you want me to intro—”

A howl so primal it rattled my sternum ripped through the afternoon air.