Pumpkin Spice, стр. 29

COWBOY WITCH HUNTER

The cauldron was beginning to boil over. A frothy green glow was emanating from top, a fire was burning bright below heating up whatever it was the witch was conjuring up. This witch had a dusty gray complexion, her hair was green and frail. She would have been a striking figure had it not been for the numerous warts and rashes on her face. Her left cheek was decomposing, and she had not cut her finger nails in several decades.

The rat was stroking its tiny little arms frantically in the air as the witch carried it to the cauldron and tossed it in, she watched as the skin of the rodent dissolved instantaneously. The witch began to chant an incantation while plucking a hair from her eyebrow and placing it into a mortar. She then began listing the ingredients for her formula, “One witch brow hair.” She picked up a jar of green sludge, “one jar of puree toad.” She poured the gooey liquid into the mortar. “Half an ounce of infant teeth.” She placed several teeth into the mortar, “and finally” the witch hissed, “a snake. Whole.” The snake was still slithering as she picked it up and began crushing it in the mortar. She smiled and took a whiff of the wonderful foul stench that came from her formula. She pranced over to the cauldron and poured it in while reciting another incantation. A lavender smoke began to emanate from the cauldron, a wicked smile grew on the witch’s face.

The door of her cabin was kicked in. She turned frantically to see the intruder. It was the cowboy. Witches had been telling stories of this mysterious vigilante figure. It was said he would wander the woods hunting witches. Most thought this was a myth, no man born of human flesh would so dare hunt a witch. Turned out they were wrong. This cowboy was a witch hunter, and he wasn’t taking any prisoners.

The cowboy raised his shot gun and aimed it at the witch, she cackled loudly as he fired at her. The witch fell to the floor but immediately bounced back up. “Fool! Your mortal weapons are no match for--” The cowboy threw a machete at her and sliced her throat, severing her head from her body. The witch’s head rolled along the floor. Her arms raised up, her fingers gripped the wood floor and her fingertips walked her body back to her head. The cowboy ran and slid on his knees, gliding himself towards the witch. As he slid, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a vile of holy water. He poured the vile down the witch’s neck. The body froze, then crumbled and turned to ash almost instantaneously.

The cowboy left the cabin. He removed a lighter from his pocket, ignited it and tossed it behind him. He never looked to watch it burn, and he wasn’t concerned if the fire would spread throughout the rest of the woods. These woods were haunted by witches, and he was their executioner.

It had been years since he lost his family to the vile cursed beings of the woods. The cowboy made it his mission in life to rid them from the land, and he was all about keeping his word. The cowboy never kept count of how many he killed, nor did he know how many were out there. It seemed every new entry into their woods he would encounter double, even triple, what he had previously. They were spawning at an uncontrollable rate. Some were grotesque, others gorgeous. No two witches were alike. They feasted on infants, and killed for pleasure. The obsession of a witch was their potions and incantations. The cowboy was unaware of their purpose on this mortal earth.

Killing a witch was easy. All you had to do was inject them with holy water. OK, maybe not so easy, but over time the cowboy had become quite the expert at it.

For all the years, and all the bloodshed, the cowboy had little regrets. He wanted it to end, not for his sake, but for the worlds. Children shouldn’t live in fear. In all of his readings and findings nothing ever clued him into how to end witches once and for all. Perhaps they would always be part of the world.

There was a pub located seven miles west of the woods. The cowboy was thirsty and wanted a pint of ale. Something cold and refreshing after a long day of witch hunting. The pub was filled with grizzled old men dressed in plaid, the smell in these folks could not have been from this world, but it was. The cowboy knew this was the closest place to grab a drink within walking distance, so he’d just have to plug his nose. He took a seat at a booth in the far back, he didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. The waitress walked up to him. She stunk of stale cigarettes, rum, and baby powder. Her hair was red, or used to be, and two of her nails were broken. “What can I getcha?” Her breath was worse than the odor in the room. “Beer. Cold.” He stated, trying his hardest not to make eye contact. She didn’t bother saying another word, she just walked away and grabbed his beer. She brought him both the bottle and a moderately chilled glass. The snout of the bottle was chipped, and in the glass, he could see a spider had caught a fly and was eating it for supper. He’d take his chances drinking from the bottle.

An old geezer watched the cowboy sip his beer. The cowboy noticed him, but wouldn’t give