"You got the sunlamp ready?" she asked her brother as she watched a few of the creatures twitching. The sedative was clearly starting to fade.
"Right here," Bogie answered. He turned to switch the big lamp on.
"Cool. Let's shake and bake." Sam liked this part best, because it reminded her of cooking a big batch of chocolate chip cookies—with the exception that these cookies had sharp teeth and deadly claws that could rip a heart out.
As the sunlamp came on, Sam's sigh changed into a gasp. The lamp's usual bright white glow had been replaced. "What the hell? Not again!" Her eyes flew wide with disgust and horror as deep purple fluorescent light flooded the warehouse. The bright color might be pretty, but it was essentially useless in gargoyle capture.
Two dazed gargoyles stumbled upright and took off in flight, with a third not far behind. Sam and her brother stood stunned and helpless, out of ammo. The three gargoyles fled, their wings flapping loudly as they raced out into the wide black yonder.
"No more Miss Nice Guy," Sam growled, gritting her teeth while her blue eyes flared with rage. "I'll beat those dirty rats at their own game!" Enough was enough!
Bogie looked confused. "Rats? We don't have anything scheduled after this, sis. Certainly no wererats."
Sam rolled her eyes, raised her clenched fist to the night sky and shook it fiercely.
The Gilded Age of Ghostbusting
"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.