NaNoWriMo, 11/11/2019 Snippet.

 

It would all be a lot easier if Red Bank was a haunted ruin that vomited forth gore-maddened nightmares to cavort and rend under the pitiless gaze of the moon.  Morgan had expected that, and had fully intended to give the place a wide berth, devils or no.  But the intelligence he had gathered in Middletown provided a more complicated, if still bloody, picture.

“They call themselves civilized bloodsuckers,” one informant told him.  Morgan had decided to go the traditional route and get his intelligence in a bar, via the equally traditional method of free beer.  It worked well, as long as he kept cycling informants in and out. And didn’t over-sample the interrogation methods himself.

This one informant had worked a Middletown-Red Bank caravan a few times, but gave it up.  “I didn’t trust ‘em.  They got this ‘tax’ thing going.  You want to trade in Red Bank, everybody in your caravan’s gotta give up a pint.  You want to live in Red Bank, you get taxed a pint every month unless you’re a kid or about to fall over dead.  They tried to make it all normal and shit when they took their ‘tax,’ sure.  You sat at a table, it goes into the bag, and here’s your receipt, sir.  Civilized,” the informant repeated, sourly.

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