"Sabotaged again! Somebody's really giving us the shakedown. Boy, do they have a death wish or what!" Sam cried out in anger. "Somebody is going to pay and pay big!"
Tonight's fiasco made three times in the past month that her family business had been undermined by some devious, dastardly deed. The first time had occurred with that mockery at Venckman Manor. The second had happened two weeks later, when a shipment of goblins on their way to Texas had been rerouted to Spielberg and tagged as gremlins. To say that the director was not amused was an understatement; there were more than enough goblins already in Hollywood.
"Quick, grab the cable netting," Sam urged, her voice taut with anger. Cable netting was difficult to wield and hard to throw over the gargoyles, and despite it being made of metal, many of the gargoyles could still slice through. Still, it was the best they had.
Over the next half hour they managed to contain four of the original ten gargoyles, the rest flying off into the night sky. She knew that the wily creatures wouldn't come back to the warehouse now that their sanctuary had been invaded. They were lost to capture for a time, until they settled in some other poor unsuspecting slob's building.
Bogie shook his head regretfully. "I sure hope they don't breed."
"Nuts!" was Sam's angry retort. Gargoyles bred like superenergized werebunnies.
She was in a foul mood by the time they finished, her blue eyes bright with anger. Paranormalbustin' Pest Pursuers Inc., had failed tonight because of one fiendish greed-ridden man: Mr. Nicolas Strakhov. She just knew he was to blame. He was the ominous owner of Monsters-R-Us, a Russian-based company that had relocated recently to the United States. This company of comrades was a brother, brother and brother act.
"Who does he think he is, some Russian Rockefeller? This isn't the Gilded Age. That remorseless rat needs to learn some American history!" She swore, her rage running rampant. "We always win."
Bogie shrugged. "Monsters-R-Us doesn't seem to have problems competing against us," he said.
She ignored him. "How can such a cold-blooded creep of a man own a Bus tin' company with such a cutesy name?" she asked in sheer frustration. It had been three months since the Strakhovs had moved into her hometown of Dodge, Vermont. Slowly but surely Monsters-R-Us had been stealing her family's business, even though she and her brother were once known to be as dependable as the Maytag Man.
But obviously that didn't count for anything with the American public—not with Mr. Serial-Saboteur Strakhov around. Oh, no. And Mr. Slimebag had to mess with her projects as well as steal her clients. Three lousy months of underhanded tricks, and disloyal customers were switching to the other monster removal company in droves. It was just plain unfair, Sam thought heatedly, kicking at the tire on their truck. "Ouch," she yelped. "That hurt."
"Hey! Don't take your bad temper out on the tires," Bogie said. Sam ignored him.
"He thinks he can take us down playing dirty pool and politics? Well, not on my watch!" Her life's blood was in this company… literally. Too many times to count. And no rotten-dealing Russian was going to usurp her territory. A showdown was coming, and she intended to be the winner.
Cursing softly under her breath, Sam climbed into their specialized removal truck. Her brother did, too. "Doesn't Strakhov know that cheaters never win and winners never cheat? I'll teach him a lesson he won't forget. Those dirty Russian rats will regret the day they were born." Sam put the truck in gear and started driving toward their warehouse.
"What?" Her brother leaned wearily back against the seat, his shoulder aching from a particularly vicious whack he had taken. Gargoyle capture was always a tough business, but tonight's sabotage had made it much worse. He called and canceled his date.
Sam continued ranting. "Mr. Damn-Him-to-Hell Nicolas Strakhov—although even hell will probably slam its gates to him. How dare he throw a monkey wrench into our works? Who the heck does he think he is?" Then, ignoring her brother, she quickly answered her own question.
"He thinks he's some caviar-snuffling Mafia don of the supernatural world—I'd bet my bottom dollar. But just because he's from some former communist country doesn't mean he can ignore the American way! Doesn't he realize that capitalism is just that?"
Bogie looked at her, a confused expression covering his face. He loved his big hairdress-hankering sis, but when she went off on a tirade like this, which was rare, there was no turning back. His sibling was hard-driven and sometimes hard-bitten, tough as nails, full of sass. Of course, she was also sweet as molasses, with a heart of gold. A person or monster had to really back her into a corner before she came out swinging. But once she did… DUCK!
Slapping the steering wheel, Sam winced. Her hands and arms were already a little stiff and sore from their gargoyle misadventure. Focusing back on her anger, she added scathingly, "You stand up for what you believe in. This is America, for God's sake! You give the other fellow a square deal, don't knock him on his ass when he's on his knees! There's enough room for more than one Bustin' company in the northeastern U.S.! That's what makes America great—all these companies working against each other. What would we do without competition?" Sam peeked at Bogie, taking her eyes off the road long enough to give him a knowing glance.
He smiled and shrugged, knowing to remain quiet when his older sister was on one of her tirades.
She liked old-time America better, preferably with fast-talking guys and glamorous dolls.
She went on: "Why, we'd all be wearing the same style jeans and going to one fast food restaurant. Can you imagine? No, of course you can't. That fast food restaurant might not be Mexican food or pizza. That stupid, smug Strakhov is ruining our country's capitalistic tendencies with strongarm commie tactics. And communism is so yesterday's news. If Mr. Strakhov is an example of Russian fair play, then no wonder people called it the Red Scare."
Bogie grimaced. Fast food was a staple at their house, which they shared with their uncle. Even though Bogie was quite a cook, he still idolized the drive-thru. And when his sister was right, she was right. Without capitalism, you might have communism and only one fast food restaurant. Forget that! He wouldn't live in a country with only Big Macs.
"Doesn't that scavenging shark Strakhov realize that this is a free country?" Sam rattled on, gaining speed. "Well, maybe not free," she corrected, thinking of the rent on their warehouse where their new offices were located, and of the price of asparagus and popcorn at the movies. Still, she had a point to make, even if only to herself. She noticed Bogie's eyes seemed glazed over like freshly made donuts.
"Are you listening, Bogart? I'm not talking just to hear myself talk."
The glazed look vanished and her brother tuned back in.
"Just think how proud the Founding Fathers would be of us. I mean, they were into trade and all. And Jefferson! Why, we would probably get a congressional medal of honor if he were alive. Too bad none of them came back as ghosts. I always wanted to ask Adams about the Alien and Sedition Acts."
"How do you figure that, about medals?" Bogie asked, glad he was paying attention now. He'd always wanted a medal.
"Why, our great-grandfather made a business out of zip, nothing, nada. He saw an unexplored market in the supernatural world and tapped into it. That's what America is about: seeing a need, filling it and getting paid damn well for it!"
"We do get paid the big bucks," Bogie agreed. Bustin' work was dangerous and ofttimes deadly. Poorly trained Paranormalbustin' companies had very high mortality rates.
"Besides, we Americans are a driven bunch. All of us are going for the American dream—a four-car garage and six-television household. Now some rat-faced Russian decides he can come stomp all over our hopes with his chiseling comrade boots?" Sam finished grandly, proud of her thesis on American capitalism.
Bogie shrugged again, wondering what chiseling comrade boots were.
"We'll dump these cages with the gargoyles at the warehouse and then go home. Uncle Myles should still be up. I have a job for him," Sam decided.
Bogie glanced askance at her, wondering what devious plan his scheming sister had in mind that would involve their nutty relative. "Uncle Myles?" he asked.
"Uncle Myles." she said, smiling evilly. "I've got a scheme for that sleezebag Strakhov! I'll teach him to mess with me, that vodka-loving, sabotaging stooge of a Slav! I bet he doesn't even know the Star-Spangled Banner or who Willie Nelson is! I bet he hates maple syrup. And in Vermont, that's hard to swallow!"
Bogie shuddered. He knew that evil smile of his sister's and, Mafia don of the supernatural world or not, it didn't bode well for one Mr. Nicolas Strakhov.