Hello! Welcome to RUNNER RAMIREZ & THE RACETRACK FROM HELL! Over the next 12 weeks we will follow Runner Ramirez as he investigates a strange horse track in central Florida which may or may not be a front for a supernaturally backed gang! I hope you enjoy! Let’s get started with Chapter 1!
Runner Ramirez & the Racetrack from Hell
By Tyler Tarlton
CHAPTER 1
"Okay, are you comfortable?"
"Sure."
"You don't mind if I record this do you?"
"I've already agreed to tell you my stories, why would I care if you record it?"
"Right. Um, so let's get started then. Recorder...on. Okay, it is Sunday October 31st, 2021. Halloween actually. I am with Reginald Ramirez, born-"
"I go by Runner."
"Oh. Yeah okay. I am with Runner Ramirez, born-"
"Can we just get this started? There's a lot to tell and I can't just sit around here all day."
"Sure, we can do that. So Mr. Ramirez, um Runner, it has been said that you spent much of your life willingly possessed by a demon. Can you tell me how that happened?"
"First of all he was a reformed demon and second of all I don't want to talk about that part right now. Those early days were very difficult and I'd rather build up to that telling if you don't mind."
"Of course. Can I at least get the demon's name?"
"No. I say that and we'll have a bunch of hellspawn showing up. I'm too old to be cleaning up another person's blood."
"Um, blood?"
"Your blood specifically."
"I'd like to avoid that then."
"Smart."
"Okay, so, what is it you want to start with?"
"Let me start by telling you about the time I met Reginald Fairweather, I know you know him."
"Everyone knows Sir Reginald Fairweather."
"Don't get me started on his knighthood. What a joke. The Prince's nephew was not possessed, just nuts."
"Sure...so how did you meet him?"
"The year was 1925..."
I had drifted around quite a bit after the war, finding myself in all sorts of locations, drawn to each by my, um, live-in guest. I call him my 'friend'. I was told growing up that I had a nose for trouble but this guy...he had a whole essence for trouble. Being from hell will do that I guess. And not just your normal trouble but the weird, batshit-crazy, paranormal kind. Needless to say it was quite annoying. But he had saved my life so...
Anyway, I found myself in the town of Pompano Beach, Florida. After the war ended people started flocking to the area in droves. But not the old people you see today but attractive, ambitious youngsters with some sort of disposable income. Now those kind of folk who live in such places tend to attract the sort that live on the seedier side of life. Which in that day meant moonshiners and bootleggers. Prohibition was in full swing and bootlegging had become a big time industry, especially in that part of the state with its mangroves, swampland, and what not. The biggest fish in that sea was Clyde Bohannon, called Big Bo by his gangster cronies. He controlled most of the bootleg trade in Florida and beyond. Quite ruthless too I might add. But in 1925 he had a problem; a whole lot of cash and nowhere to put it. Someone fed him the idea of building a huge horse track on the outskirts of town. And I mean HUGE. This monstrosity could hold almost 50,000 people and had stalls for a thousand horses. The size was so out of place it would seem pretty obvious Big Bo just wanted the place to clean up his dirty money. Pretty obvious to anyone but the powers that be at least. Turns out those powers were taking on some of that cash for themselves. Which explains the selective blindness.
Of course, I knew none of this information when I stepped off the bus on October 5 of 25. I had wrapped up an odd adventure involving a war between reanimated dogs and vampire squirrels, don't ask, when a sudden urge to travel south washed over me.
I guess here I should explain how I know where to go after I finish up with an adventure. When I first acquired my 'friend' I would suddenly get these waves of electrical shocks down my spine. Kinda like when you hit your funny bone. They've come in two varieties: short bursts and long bursts. I tried to ignore it at first, figured it was some side effect of my time in the war, til I noticed a pattern starting to emerge. Something I should've recognized from the start since it was taught to everyone at Basic. That blasted demon was using my nervous system to talk in Morse code. He told me he could speak by other means but those would be more noticeable to the man downstairs. He said he did not want that. And believe you me, based on the things I've since seen, no one wants that. Ever. So that's how he'd tell me where to go next. Sometimes anyway. Other times I would just pick a direction and go, he'd inevitably point me somewhere along the way. Now how did he know where to go? I guess such beings are naturally drawn to those like themselves. Evil knows evil I suppose. Long story short, my 'friend' talked to me in Morse code. And the code he shocked me with after killing those damned zombie dogs pointed me to the Sunshine State. Every time those messages would appear he would only relay to me the location, never the reason for being there. Whether he didn't know or didn't want to say I could never tell. Even on his most talkative days I'd never call my 'friend' chatty.
Regardless, I left the bus depot and headed for the nearest diner. I always had a thing fort those types of restaurants, the greasier the better. Turns out my guest did too. And having him around, especially after every time he, um, exerted his power to help me, I was always super hungry. And nothing satisfies such a hunger like a big diner breakfast. Time of day don't matter either; if a place serves breakfast while I'm there, I'm eating it.
It was getting dark when I walked through the doors of Pompano Arms Diner. Name sounded more like a fancy apartment complex than a diner but the place smelled of bacon and dirt so it was alright with me. I drifted to a corner booth, one that gave me good views of each entrance and exit. When you've been jumped by gargoyles, mummies, and other strange creatures you learn to watch your back.
I ordered the biggest breakfast platter they offered with extra everything and settled in to read the newspaper I had picked up at the bus depot. I found long ago that local newspapers often contained the most useful hints as to why I had been led to any location.
A quick shock hit my lower back as I flattened the front page before me. It wasn't enough of one to make a word or even a letter but its intent was clear, look! I leaned over the paper and saw the main headline.
FOXTROT HORSE TRACK CONSTRUCTION NEARS COMPLETION
I scratched my scraggly beard and thought that it had to be the reason I was here. Sure gambling was a vice but it didn't seem to be the thing a demon-infused miscreant dealt with. Perhaps it was a front for a giant speakeasy I don't know. Or didn't at the time. As I mentioned, Prohibition was still in full force back in those days. It seemed like everyone and their mother was opening some secret bar in their basement or under their garage. I mean, everyone knew of at least 2 or 3 of such joints as did the cops. Whether they acted or not largely depended on how much they got paid. But I digress.
My food arrived and I pushed thoughts of hidden speakeasies to the back of my mind and got to eating. I've heard on more than one occasion that I eat like some sort of starving dog...though the last person to say that to my face couldn't speak at all for a week after. I've found that food is the one bit of normalcy I still have in my life; mock or question that at your own peril.
I had just finished my stack of hotcakes when another shock hit my spine, actually a series of them that spelled out "look right." I lapped up some syrup with a piece of toast and looked in the indicated direction. The corner booth was full of several construction workers that appeared to have just come off the job site. Odd as it was near midnight at the time. I had always thought that there were union rules about night construction work but money always talks and in this case it said to get that track done ASAP. I couldn't really make out what they were saying, while my 'friend' could enhance hearing he didn't often enable that ability, so I dropped a few bucks on the counter and drifted to the door by the booth. I stopped and feigned finishing up an article in my newspaper. I could see that the guy in the furthest part of the booth held a bottle under the table and was surreptitiously pouring shots into his coworkers' coffee mugs. After each was poured the men placed them together in the middle of the table in preparation for a toast. An older man on the far side spoke up.
"You knows I'm not one for speeches but Buck was one of us..." he began. "A good guy, diligent worker, and devoted to his family. To Buck!"
The men gave a small shout then drank. Their mugs dropped along with all conversation and sound. It sounded like this Buck had died. And since my 'friend' had pushed me over there after indicating the newspaper headline...this death had something to do with the construction site. That had to be where Buck passed. I took another glance at the workers then tossed the paper into the trash and left the diner. I had a construction site to visit.
What will Runner find at the construction site? And what’s really going on with this horse track? See you next week for Chapter 2!