Fatal Crossover From Hell

Chapter Two: Meet Vicious

A tall, light haired man pulled his collar up closer to his neck, forcing the large, dark bird on his shoulder to adjust. It made a low warking sound that was ignored by its master. He couldn't believe this. He, Vicious himself, was running some accounts errand. For the past thirty minutes, the crime fellow had been trying to locate a gas station.

"Warrr." The bird hissed, stretching its wings to the rolling thunder.

"Shut up already, I will feed you when I find this Helms idiot and beat my check into his hide." He lifted a hand to scratch the bird's chest. Vicious was doing something he usually did not, a favor. It made him agitated. He was also in the middle of basically no where, out of gas about three miles ago, and still no where near humanity.

At this point he would have settled for a bicycle, just to stop walking. "Going to slaughter the first person I see... that will make me feel better."

The bird on his shoulder warbled its agreement.

At last, he could see a small town, melting out of the fog and into the swamp of the Beubauxton woods. Looking to his left, Vicious saw a sign post. On the ground next to it was a broken wood plank. Barely legible, in shoddy handwriting, were the words "Ville Villa". Rolling his eyes, Vicious started into the town.

Thunder broke, luckily enough for him, just when he walked into a questionable looking building that proclaimed itself a "Bar". The man behind the counter was shirtless, it wasn't a good thing. Two stained rags adorned either shoulder. The place stank of stale booze.

"We don' allow an'mals in 'ere." The man hissed.

Vicious didn't say a word; he navigated around a pool of something and slid to sit at a barstool.

"Ya thick er somethin boy? I sai-"

Vicious' arm reached across the bar, pulling the man by the throat. "I am going to speak slowly, in short words, to assure that we will never have to speak again. The. Bird. Stays." He pushed back on the man, pulling a disgusted face before speaking again. "Where is Mission House?"

Wide eyed, the man backed up, rubbing his neck. "The wha?"

"You are making me angry." Vicious snarled.

"We dun got no mission house here." The bartender ground out, reaching under the table.

Before he reached up with the shot gun, the large bird alighted on his shoulder, burying its dangerous, curved claws into the joint and delivering enough force to pull the man to the floor. It returned to its owner in the next second.

"Where do visitors stay here?" Vicious asked as if his pet hadn't just mauled someone.

From the floor the man took a breath. "Alburn Motel, but no one's there."

The silver haired man left the bar without another word.

"What, exactly do you mean by 'There is no such person?'" Vicious snapped from the business end of the Alburn Motel's front desk. "I spoke to him-" leaning forward, he accentuated his tone to show he was NOT the usual person for such jobs-"PERSONALLY less then a month ago."

Vicious was rewarded with a shrug from the badly dressed woman at the counter. "I dunna whatcha can do then. Get a room 'er getout. An take yer vulture wit ya."

Raking a hand though his hair, Vicious took a deep breath. "Where is Mission House then?"

The woman halted. "Son, if yer look'n fer Missing House, yer betta off goin back where ya came from."

Vicious blinked at her. "Miss-ING House?"

"Aye, It's only there one night outta a year, if ya get lost in it, you disappear with it. Best just get back where ya came from."

His eyes narrowed. "You think a haunted house is going to scare me? Do I look stupid woman? Do NOT try to play tourist games with me, understood? WHERE is it?"

"I dunno!" The woman was getting frightened of him, and frantically frightened people were worthless. "I swear I dunno, I'd tell ya just ta be ridda ya!" She snapped.

"Well you won't be rid of me." Vicious growled, throwing money on the table. "I need a room."