"Anti"

If ye like yer horror a lil bit silly...

Oct 31, 2025

Happy, happy, Halloween, Silver Shamrock!

I bring you, for the first time on any stage, “Anti,” a tale about a lovable supernatural bounty hunter who doesn’t believe in any of it.

Please, enjoy.

(And if you haven’t yet, check out Craig Sechler reading “Creepy Paperback!”)

ANTI

by John Patrick Nelson

In the ads, he called himself a “Supernatural Bounty Hunter,” but that was for the rubes.

What Axel really thought of himself as was a huckster who sometimes got to shoot things, and since they was werewolves or skinamarinks or whatever other horseshit the client thought they were seeing, it was perfectly legal. Can’t be incarcerated for killing a ghost, so suck it.

Axel laid on the floor of his trailer, flicking beer bottle caps at the ceiling, one of his favorite pastimes, second only to shooting things and maybe tugging himself.

His phone brayed its Kid Rock ringtone. He aimed a bottle cap, pinged it off a cockroach in the corner, and answered.

“Uh,” he grunted.

A pause while his caller considered that.

“Is... this AAA Paranormal Bail Bonds Service?” a female voice asked. Sounds sexy, Axel thought, picturing a skinny young bleach blonde with big tits and her mouth open.

“Uh-yuh,” he burped.

“Okay, I’m... I have an... issue... ”

Always the way. No one could ever just spit out, “Hey, gots me one’a them black lagoon thingees in my septic tank, y’know the kind, always gettin’ a boner for yer ladyfolk, y’mind comin’ by, rootin’ that shit out?”

“What kinda issue, miss?” He hoped she was a miss, rather than a ma’am. So he could try to bang her, see.

“Well, it’s my Uncle Ferd.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thing is, he’s been comin’ around an awful lot lately.”

“Take it that’s not typical?”

“Well, no, on account’a he’s been dead a few months.”

“Okay. You sure now? He didn’t just maybe go off on a drunk and everyone thought he was dead?”

“No, he was for sure dead. I shot him myself, double barrel right to the nutsack, ‘cause he’d been tryin’a poke on me too much. Buried him out in the woods.”

“Tried shootin’ ‘im again?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t work as good. Now he’s coming around every night, banging on the door, trying to get his hands down my pants. It’s upsetting my customers.”

“Customers?” Axel said, a little note of hope in his voice. If she was a sex worker, that could improve his odds of getting banged some.

“Yeah, I sell meth out the back kitchen.”

Axel’s flag drooped. He was always up for a good meth high, but he didn’t believe in trading jobs for dope. Much.

“A’right, well, I c’n send ye a list of our prices, but sounds like what ye got is maybe zombie, maybe ghoul. Doubt it’s vampire, they don’t usually turn t’drinking blood after y’shoot ‘im down scrote.”

He spun his bundle of horseshit with relaxed ease. He’d found that if he talked about this stuff like it was everyday and boring, the customer swallowed it better, making it easier to gouge ‘em.

‘Cause, truth was, far as Axel was concerned, the whole supernatural thing was a total load. He didn’t believe in spooks, specters, swamp gas or any of that. He did sorta believe in UFO’s, but only because aliens were basically just funny-lookin’ people, not monsters ‘r supernatural shit. And even then, he only believed in ‘em ‘cause he was pretty sure the government was trying to cover something up, he just wasn’t sure what.

Now, ‘tween us, he’s not exactly correct. There are such things as ghosts, werewolves and vampires. More common than you’d think. My grandpa once killed hisself a Bigfoot, and used the bones to make a piano.

But Axel, he was thoroughly unconvinced. Didn’t believe a word of it. And his non-belief was so strong, that without knowing it, he’d tapped into a sorta anti-magic. And this anti-magic, what it did was protect him from unnatural things. It strengthened him in his battles against demons. It formed protective barriers against the forces of evil and damnation. Magic spells broke against it. He was impervious to hypnosis. And it sealed him off from visions or conjurations. Ghosts couldn’t talk to him. They could yell all they wanted, he wouldn’t hear or see ‘em.

Which was handy, as his trailer was actually haunted, but that’s neither here ner there.

But when you got right down to it, it basically meant he was too dumb to be scared.

“What’s the difference between a ghoul and a zombie?” she asked, sounding confused.

Axel had no idea. Everything he knew about monsters he learned from movies and ghost hunter reality shows. He didn’t let that hold him back. “Zombies is kind of a bodily fluids thing. Disease ‘n’ such. Ghouls’r more magic-based. Voodoo and that sorta deal.”

“Oh. Okay.” She still seemed unconvinced. “Um, how does it work?”

“Just like a plumber, I come out and check out the problem, put together an estimate, including labor, necessary equipment, pain ‘n sufferin’. You agree, I remove the problem. Satisfaction guaranteed ‘n what-not.”

“Okay. Can you come tonight?” she asked hopefully.

He burped. “Have t’check m’records, but I c’n prolly squeeze y’in. Lemme get that address.”

She recited it. He didn’t bother to write it down.

“Mm-hm. And yer name?”

“Annette.”

“That yer married name?”

“It’s... my first name.”

“Mm. All right, then.”

“Do I need anything special? Like, I dunno, holy water or something?”

His lizard brain growled happily, tallying up extra bullshit expenses he could tack on. “I provide all essentials. Wouldn’t do t’combat evil with inferior equipment.”

After she hung up, he hauled up to his feet, folded back the vinyl closet door to reveal his armory. Guns, rifles, shotguns, AR-15s, brass knuckles, throwing stars, nunchucks, dynamite, grenades, a little C-4, some piano wire, an old rubber hose, a corroded car battery from 1979, a book of matches he got from a sex store, a couple guitar picks from when he was a roadie, and a sword his daddy gave him from his tour in Vietnam. Sometimes he was embarrassed to have such an anemic collection, but hey, he wasn’t made’a money.

He started selecting his tools for the night, stuffing ‘em in an old backpack. He paused long enough to have another beer. Had to get a little liquid before he performed for the suckers.

He pulled up to her house forty minutes late. He’d gotten lost twice because he hadn’t written down the address, but it wouldn’t’ve mattered if he had. He didn’t have a GPS, so he just sorta wandered til he found where he was going.

He took his backpack and an AR-15 to the door and knocked.

Annette answered. She wasn’t how he imagined her. Though, he’d pretty much imagined a real-life version of a blow-up doll, and she looked more like a human lady in her twenties, dishwater blonde, and dirty bare feet, just how he liked ‘em.

“Miss,” he said, tipping his trucker cap with “AAA Towing” on it, except “Towing” had been crossed out and “Paranormal” had been scratched on with a Sharpie, the letters getting smaller as they went on.

“You’re late. Do I get a discount?”

“Nope,” he said as he pushed past her into the house.

It was small, but cleaner than he figured. Most of his meth-head friends lived in what you might call shithole chic, so he was impressed she’d been able to resist the temptation of getting sloppy on her own supply.

“Where does he, uh, materialize?” he asked.

She nodded toward the back door. “Usually about midnight or so.”

“A’right,” he said, “So, usually fer zombie, I charge a straight up two grand, ghoul c’n set ye back a fair bit more, on account of they don’t always die when ye shoot ‘em in the brains. We’ll assume zombie ‘til he shows up. Add to that, I got a number of requisite tools fer the combattin’ of the dead, that’ll set ye back another thou.”

He pulled a ballpoint pen he’d stolen from an emergency room and a wadded up McDonald’s receipt from his jeans pocket, flattened it out and scrawled, “ZOMBIE - 3 GS” on the back, and handed her the pen for her signature.

“When he shows, you stay in here, I’ll go out ‘n deal with him. I’ll add some protection to try ‘n keep ye safe.” He took a plastic cylinder, shook something out on the floor by the front and back doors.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Salt taken from the Dead Sea,” he said, “Useful for wardin’ off evil spirits.”

More like plain old Morton Salt from the 7-11, which as it turns out is exactly as useful for warding off evil spirits, ‘cause ghosts don’t think to ask where you bought your salt from.

After he’d muttered a few bullshit magic words he’d heard on “Game of Thrones,” he took a beer from her fridge, chugged it down, and stretched out on her couch, unbuckling his belt.

“Gotta rest up,” he said, “Prepare to do battle with the forces’a darkness. Make sure y’wake me when he shows.”

He was out almost immediately, choking and honking them loud-ass apnea snores.

It was dark when she poked his shoulder to wake him. He started up with a “Fuggit!” and saw Annette kneeling by the couch, a shaft of moonlight across her face.

Wide-eyed, she nodded to the window overlooking the back yard. “He’s out there!” she whispered.

He cracked his neck, buckled his belt, grabbed his backpack and his AR-15, peeked out into the yard.

Ferd stood in the grass, highlighted by the full moon. Axel figured he clocked in at three-fifty easy, his whitish skin rubbery where it wasn’t rotted, and a couple holes in his gut where he’d been blasted by Annette’s double barreled shotgun. Scraps stuck to different parts of him, a tear of flannel, a loop from overalls, but his clothes had mostly disintegrated, so even with his droopy gut, you could see his little mushroom-tipped ding-dong poking out from under. As advertised, his nutsack was ripped open, nothing but bloody strings of meat.

Axel hated fighting nekkid people. It threw him off.

“Annette!” Ferd called out all gravelly, like his throat was filled with sin and evil and probably dirt.

Now, if you were to ask Axel what he saw, he’d tell you a fat nekkid man with shot-off nuts. If you asked about the gunshot wounds that a human obviously couldn’t survive, he’d say the fact of him standing there was proof a human could survive two shotgun wounds to the chest and one to the balls. You might then point out the circular logic of his argument, and by then he’d’ve probably lost attention, and maybe started scratching some part’a him that most people have the god damn courtesy to be embarrassed to touch in public.

“Annette!” the thing yelled again, “Git yer ass out here! It’s fuck time, baby!”

“Ew,” Annette said.

Ferd began fiddling with his junk, scratching his torn up nutsack and tugging his bellrope absently. “Y’git out here, now! Don’t make me gotta come in after ya!”

Axel took a vial of water from his backpack and slapped it in her hand. “Y’keep back now. He comes near, splash him with that.”

“What is it?”

“Holy water, from the Jordan River in Israel.”

It was actually water from his own trailer, fresh from the tap. But because he’d been holding the vial as it filled, and humming the tune to “The Dukes of Hazard,” he’d unknowingly infused the waters with a bit of his anti-magic aura, a poor man’s version of a Spell of Purification, giving it much the same properties as holy water, except it also tasted of lilac or feces, depending on what you’d had for dinner.

Axel slowly opened the door, AR-15 pointed at Ferd.

“Hell’re you?” Ferd said, flicking his bell end.

“Supernatural fugitive recovery bail agent.”

“That don’t make no kinda sense.”

Axel took a pack of chaw out of his jeans vest pocket. “Says you. Now, I don’t know what you think you’re doin’, but the lady don’t want you here, means you’re trespassin’. So I’m askin’ you kindly to step off the property.”

Ferd scoffed. “By who’s fuckin’ authority? You ain’t no cop, and you definitely ain’t no preacher, and ain’t neither one’a them can make me do shit no how.”

Axel stuffed his wad of chaw in his lower lip. “Yeah? ‘n why’s that?”

Ferd squinted at him. “Because I’m the livin’ fuckin’ dead, asshole.”

“Oh yeah? You a zombie or a ghoul?”

Ferd got aggravated. “How the fuck should I know? One minute I’m gettin’ blasted in the balls, next thing I know, I’m diggin’ my way out the ground.” He yelled over Axel’s shoulder to Annette in the window. “Ancient fuckin’ burial ground, by the way! Y’dumb cooze!”

“Ghoul,” Axel yelled over his shoulder to Annette.

He turned back to Ferd, winked with a grin, spoke low. “You ‘n me, we don’t gotta play, ‘m I right stud? We can save all that goo-goo talk ‘bout ghosts ‘n goblins fer the yokels,” he nodded his head toward Annette.

Ferd indicated his rotting skin. “This look normal, shitbird?”

“Looks like a good makeup job. ‘cept yer man-root there, should’a done that one up better.”

“Boy, before I fuck her in all seven holes, figure I’m gonna rip you open and suck on yer intestines.”

“Mm. Good idea, that’s the best way fer you to slurp my shit.”

They eye-fucked each other. Ferd wheezed dirt, while Axel thought about what Annette might look like in a bikini.

There was a sudden knock at the door, as one of Annette’s customers poked his head in. “Hey sweetheart, I was hoping for some’a that good crystal...”

But the sudden noise had set off Ferd, he yelled and lumbered toward Axel.

Axel fired the AR-15, knocked Ferd right off his feet.

The customer saw the gunfire, and excused himself.

Now, most times, on its own, an AR-15 might do a decent amount of damage to a ghoul (which Axel had accidentally correctly identified), but since Axel had his un-magic working for him, the bullets struck with the power of his non-belief, punching holes the size of fists through him. Wounds opened up all over Ferd’s body, meat chunks flying.

Annette uttered a gasp as she watched through the window.

Ferd lay still, unmoving.

Axel reloaded, spit his chaw.

Ferd’s head popped up. “You rat fuck! I weren’t already fucked up enough?!”

He tried to push himself to his feet, had to shift to his side to get purchase. One of his arms had two big gaps in it, so he couldn’t lean on it properly. “Fuckin’ asshole,” he spat, heaving.

Annette slapped her hand to her mouth, clutching the holy water vial in the other. Axel wasn’t the least bothered. “Bullet proof vest,” he muttered.

“Hey,” he said to Ferd, “I ain’t kiddin’ now, y’gotta git.” Then louder, for Annette to hear, “By the name of God ‘n all the angels and the power of Grayskull, demon begone!”

“The hell you say!” Ferd sputtered, finally rolling onto his feet, springing upright. “I’m gonna rip out yer asshole!”

Ferd launched himself at Axel, but his legs being weaker and having more holes in them now than when he went in the ground, he fell quite a few feet short, plopping in front of Axel, face in the mud.

“Buhh,” was all Ferd could manage.

“Oh shit,” Axel said, bored, “I feel threatened, and gots t’stand my ground.”

He took aim at Ferd’s head, fired again.

Chunks of skull and brain flew across the yard, the top of Ferd’s head atomized.

Axel nodded, satisfied. He turned toward the house, took a couple steps toward Annette.

“’s all right, he can’t threaten you n’more.”

What he didn’t see behind him was Ferd pushing himself up once again, staggering toward him, beefy arms raised to grab him...

Annette shrieked, ran out the back door, unscrewing the vial. Axel rolled his eyes. Just like a woman, he thought, come to the rescue when the shit’s over.

She splashed the holy water on Ferd, just as his fingers were centimeters away from Axel’s throat.

The creature that had once been Ferd made an inhuman sound, which Annette heard as a screaming baby, and Axel heard as a giant fart. “Don’t worry,” he said, putting his hand on Annette’s shoulder, “When a man dies, he often vacates his bowels. Unpleasant, but scientific-like.”

Annette put her hands to her mouth to stifle a scream. Behind Axel, Ferd’s body was dissolving, the skin, meat and coagulated blood liquifying into the dirt, leaving only the little scraps of cloth.

“Everything’s fine,” Axel said, turned to look. “Oh, see, he’s already run off. Guess I didn’t hit him hard ‘s I thought.”

“I saw him disintegrate!” Annette insisted.

Axel then remembered his schtick. “Oh yeah,” he said, “That does often happen to ghouls, when y’hit ‘em with the purified tears of sweet baby Jesus.” He had to stifle a laugh, on account of he thought his bullshit was funny.

She stared at the dirt, horrified.

Axel took a deep breath of the cool night air. Anytime he got to shoot someone legally, it was a good day.

“Just so’s you know,” he said, “’cause he was a ghoul and not just a regular ol’ zombie, I gotta charge an extry fifteen hunny. Also gots to throw in another five hundo cuz’a him bein’ nekkid. Cash only, though, I don’t gots no Venmo.”

Now, you may be asking y’self, just what have we learned here? That humans are so strong-willed that even pure butt-stupid ignorance can make them more powerful than evil? That when compared together, the mysteries of the unknown are less terrifying than one dumb asshole? That one should write down an address when given audibly?

I have no answer, for I am the watcher in the dark ‘r some shit, and it’s my given charge to observe the something-something of mere mortals, not to interfere ‘r give two shits.

But, if you gimme ten bucks, I’ll tell you another story. It’s a good one my uncle told me about a lady and a donkey.