Field notes: If you set out to kill monsters, you must tread in inappropriate places. Be advised that a walking, huffing, bawling 2000 pounds, potentially tractor-throwing, fowl-smelling linebacker is no laughing matter.


    My name is Emma Foster, and I am a Monster Assassin. I have a particular set of skills that provide me with numerous ways to decapitate, decimate, and disintegrate any number of monsters, demons, ghosts, and foul-smelling creatures.


    The smell is the worst, and being late at night isn’t much better.


    I moved wide around the Morris farmhouse in a crouch to avoid low-hanging branches and a few obscured tree stumps. This job had brought us into the county. A wide-open space with nothing for miles in every direction. That is until you get to areas occupied by a few farmsandrich-looking homes that, from the road, are specks of light on the hill. This is tied together with unwelcome road work and a series of perpetual construction sites. The Morris farm was one of the larger ones in the area and one of the furthest from town. It sat a considerable distance off the main road with a few side roads leading into the hay and corn fields, culminating at the hub of an unwelcoming, unappealing, stomach-churning animal graveyard and a swampy-looking river.


    Like I said, the smell is the worst.


    My nostrils flared, and I stifled a sneeze. Thankfully, we were still by the main house and barn, but at the same time, we were near the main houseandrunning out the clock. I attempted to ignore the festering aromaandswat at the gnats and the other small insects that hovered near my face. Bugs of any variety were unfortunate kindred spirits to monsters because they strike right at eye level and without mercy. I heard a cry on the other side of the house and slowed my pace while ignoring the pain in my ankle. I’d already tripped a few times, and multiple ear-splitting eruptions blanked my immediate audible recognition of my surroundings, or in less technical jargon, monsters love to make noise, and their bellows, cries, snorts, crackles along the grumbles, poorly timed insults, and death curses, really makes it hard to see and move in the dark.


    I wasn’t sure why I was trying very hard because it wasn’t the time to be stealthy. This encounter, as we referred to them, despite our best efforts on the fly, quickly became a terribly executed frontal assault.


    If the Morris’s weren’t incredibly modified by the compounding destruction, they were probably dead and rolling over in their impromptu graves. It would have been all the better if we had gotten lucky and they weren''t here. I tensed and defensively lifted my arms to protect my face as I moved around the house. The cries and crunches were gut-wrenching, and I saw small movements, but they were dwarfed by giant, unrecognizable objects andjunk being hurled through the air. I heard the animals’ stirring moments before an impact, several of which were separated by only a few seconds. We had to end this before the animals got out. We were far out, but county neighbors would know there was trouble and many questions.


    I ducked around an evergreen tree and froze at the crackles of a weapon''s discharge. I spotted bits of debris hitting the house, and a faint tremor quickly followed. I bolted forward, partially shadowed by a cement crafted with an elevated curve that angled outward and followed a portion of the house that leveled off by Morris’s back porch. I could barely see the back door from my position, and for now, all the lights were off, and it all seemed quiet inside for the time being.


    “Dad, go wide.” My brother Tony yelled. It would have smacked at my ears, but he sounded distant. Had he lost his earbud communicator? Was he injured, or was he lying in wait and talking in a whisper to not attract attention? Any scenario was equally likely.


    I had to get into position; otherwise, our plans and counterstrikes wouldn’t work very well.


    I cleared the last few feet of Morris’s makeshift apple orchard and approached a small hill parallel to the cement wall.


    Hiss! Spit!


    I bounced back as bushes rattled and little murder muffins swiped at my ankles before scampering for safety within the bush''s thorny depths or any personally deemed safe spaces. Portions of my ankles stung from earlier strikes. They were fast little critters; you wouldn’t think their tiny claws would hurt as much as they do.


    Note to self: don’t wear leggings and sandals on a job.


    “Tony!” Dad yelled, “We can’t let him advance.”


    I stopped at the foot of the hill as a few cows ran through the coral, and I heard a whimper beneath a pile of junk.


    A heck, Mr. Morris has a dog. I watched a head peek out from behind some weeds before making a mad dash across the space separating the main house from the barn and a machine shop. A few tractors had been left stationary. For a few moments, the only noise was that of the animals, and the aged lamp posts went out as the dog ducked beside an old truck that cast the farm ground in thick, creamy shadows.


    “Becareful,” Dad whispered. Our comm link made him feel close, within a few inches from my face or shoulder. It''s an eerie feeling to take in, only to have the illusion shatter after there is no contact, and you realize there hadn’t been time for anyone to come close.


    I had no idea where he was, and for the moment, he had no idea where I was either. The lights flickered again, and I took in the enormous craters, the junk, and the debris; there were metal scrapes, barrels that had crushed like pop cans, and chunks of vehicles now sat scattered across the rocky, uneven ground. The flickering lights created a twinkle across small pools of gas, oil, or some industrial chemical while other pieces lay near pockets of thick, ravenous weeds at awkward angles.


    The lights went out again, and I was left towonder. The shadows were unnaturally thick. That, along withthe uneasy sounds of the animalsand our target, coupled with the county’s usually pleasurable environment. All of that came together and rendered a haunted feeling.


    “What''s our next move?” my brother Tony said. I judged his voice; he sounded unsure, and a bit put off.


    “I had to take a chance; otherwise, he would have struck, “Dad said with enough reassurance that we weren''t up to our necks and waiting for a trap to spring. “It will be over in a minute. “


    “What did you use?”


    “The can of, never see me coming,” Dad said, “this guy went from zero to hostile way too fast.”


    “that''s a problem, Dad, because we can’t move either to regroup or reset. We’re sitting ducks, and the can isn’t foolproof.”


    “I know, but just be ready,” Dad said, “we’re good at making it up as we go along.”


    I bit my lip to hold back a comment. Tony started to reply but pulled back. He was usually a bit more of a smart mouth, but he had matured professionally and was quite a spy. The never see me coming, though! That was a bold move, and Tony’s comment was validbut an enormous understatement at the same time.


    The gizmos instructions came to mind—a slightly comical piece of work my grandpa wrote.


    The never see me coming!!!!! Wow, you must be pretty desperate to use this doohickey.


    This is a distraction device! Like tear gas, screams, and noisy alarms. The See Me Coming resembles a can of soda and fills anundetermined amount of space with a heavy shroud of darkness. Yes, that last line is nerdy, but it is obvious that this is a last resort. It is highly recommended to use this enforcement in the last moments before you make your escape.


    WARNING!!!! The internal composition is a patented mixture and could prompt anxious or furious monsters to give chase. Think of it as the epic most Black Friday videos, only with razor-sharp teeth and a blood lust.


    WARNING!!!!! See Me Coming is a thick cloud where light is not reflected, refracted, or seen in any form, ancient or modern. You will be completely blind if you don’t or can’t escape the blast radius.


    WARNING!!!!! Don’t leave this in a car''s drink holder, as it could be mistaken for a tasty beverage. It is unstable if shaken and not recommended for high-speed pursuits.


    I let out some controlled breaths and kept my feet firmly in place. Our target was on edge, and the most subtle movements could push it off the edge and make it strike. The shadows stirred, and the clouds shifted, offering pockets of light over the sheds and near tractors. I flexed my fingers, and a faint noise clicked my attention toward the house.


    “No, no! Please stay inside.”


    Something moved and a bulb pulsed before motion-activated porch lights illuminated a few pairs of dirty work boots and several bags of dirt being stored for spring.


    “What turned on the lights?” Dad pressed.


    “Cats,” I hissed. While a few bushes beside me shivered and a few small fluffy murder muffins hissed and spat at me before creeping further beneath the leaves and wilting flowers.


    “Emma, anything going on inside?” Dad asked. He sounded breathless as the heavy shadows began to disburse, save for apocket beside a grain silo.


    I glanced at the windows, half expecting to see a face peeking out from behind the curtains. I didn’t know what time it was, but surely someone would have appeared due to the commotion. What kind of farm work would a farmer do at this time of night?


    Still, there was no one.


    “We’re clear!” I replied. The words slipped off my lips, but then I noticed an elevated light, probably a nightlight, beside a counter. I counted to ten but saw no indication that anyone was awake or alert inside. With my heart pounding, I took a few steps as a hulking figure took its first confident step. There was a growl, followed quickly by a huff.


    “Show time,” Tony muttered. He moved at a crouch, passing a long pill-shaped gas tank near the wall of a cattle shed anchored on a DIY scaffolded structure of crossed metal beams and bars welded together.


    Tony was now in place, and the shadows stirred while calves and other small animals began to cry out in alarm. I steadied myself when a dog whimpered, and I heard metal bars rattle. The moon blinked across the farm grounds, and I spotted a clump of metal that had once resembled a tractor. A piece of glass fell and shattered across the ground. The figure took a step, rolling the tractor ball away from its foot. The thing was wide and at least as tall as I was. When it stopped, I heard a crunch and a series of cracks as it knocked into multiple support beams of a nearby shed loaded up to its tin roof with yellow straw bales.


    “Here he comes!” Dad said.


    I watched Dad up beside a lamppost as the lights came back on and stayed on with brief pops every minute. He held a metal bar, which he tapped on the post, and then he moved toward the shed and stopped near the suspended tanks.


    Dad hit the tank support beams, and I could tell they were one good gust away from collapse. We had skills but couldn’t easily be pancakes just as quickly as anyone could if something large fell on them. After a few rapid hits, a breeze picked up, and I noticed a large cable above the light as it suspiciously began to sway with an occasional tiny spark.


    “Dad, stay clear of those gas tanks,” I cautioned. “There are active sparks! I repeat, active sparks.”


    “Avoid the boom!” Dad replied with a frantic pinch in his voice as something came up behind him. The lights stayed true, and a few cows frantically sprinted up the corral. We were quickly replaced by two massive cows that were bulkier than the others. One had a red tag on its ear. While the other had a ring on its nose. The Morris herd’s bullshavetwelve hundred powers of muscle and bad attitudes. They were late, but they had obviously come because they had felt challenged by another masculine call. If they only knew their challenger was far from ordinary.


    The herd’s bulls lowered their heads and charged at the manger. Their joint impact rocked the entire thing. There was a puff of dust when the rock wall cracked. The steers tried again, and I watched Dad sprint toward the straw as their challenge was accepted.


    “Not good!” Tony yelled.


    Our target emerged from the shadows. I was closer than I had anticipated, and I took in its shocking green eyes. It’s long dark brown hair. The pink snout and meaty arms anchored to a body about seven feet tall with long tooth-shaped horns, which it leveled at the same time it threw its arms back and charged.


    A minotaur on a farm. You’d never hear that in the Old McDonald song. All the animals went livid as a two-legged cousin rushed haphazardly across the farm. The monster stumbledbut still managed to crush chunks of the manger’s cement dividing wall, and it arched and mangled the metal head spaces for cows to eat, like a kid playing with a wet spaghetti noodle. It was surreal and terrifying to see and note that if a cow and a wrecking ball had a kid, it would hands down be something resembling a minotaur. Yes, the large and in charge, gut-goring bull-like creature from legend. The terror of the labyrinth vs some Greek hero whose name had escaped my thoughts. The animals scrambled awaywhile the minotaur pulled back, took two steps, and snorted, leaving Jurassic Park-level craters in its wake. I’d never known any creature until this moment who could turn the earth into Swiss cheese.


    Good glory, this guy is enormous.


    “Emma, back up,” Tony yelled.


    I took a step and stumbled as the minotaur snorted steam and grabbed a plow attachment which he lobbed in my direction. I hesitated for a split second but decided to duck and roll. My long light brown hair brushed across my face. I wished for a hair tie. I got up on my knees and pulled back in a slide position. My legs jerked and constricted while my hips popped, and a few neck muscles seized. I screamed and coughed as the plow whooshed overhead. Once I was clear, I moved to my knees, small rocks cutting into my exposed skin. We were going to have to reinforce my leggings’ knees. I looked up and then dropped onto my stomach covering my head with my arms as a new ball of warped metal and crushed tires flew overhead. It zipped through the air and collided with four additional rusty oil drums surrounded by thick weeds. One drum escaped the impact and flew a few feet to the left while the others were pancaked beneath the tractor''s weight, thrown with incredible force.


    "Move!" Tony yelled, coming up in a wide arch in front of me. "Before it finds a suitable weapon or sets up for another charge."


    The minotaur beat its fists against its chest, and I moved into a crouch as one of the bulls appeared with its head low and it huffed as it circled the minotaur to measure him up. The minotaur snorted then shook his head, one of his horns pierced a sheet of tin siding and shredded it like a vegetable peeler. The bull pulled back and the minotaur hit his chest as the bull padded away, but the minotaur remained where he was.


    "It’s still a bit nervous.” I called back, “The ground is uneven. It can’t put its full strength into a charge.”


    “Don’t let it focus,” Dad added. He cleared the gas tanks and moved toward the corner of the machine shop. While Tony meanwhile approached the car, probably to get more gear. There was a faded sedan by the main barn, and I was amazed that he hadn’t crushed ours. I rose and ignored the stitch in my side, and I moved back to the grass and toward the shed where Mr. Morris kept his calves. We had him boxed in, but this was bad and quickly getting worse. There’s truth to the saying the bigger they are, the harder they fall.


    “We need a quick plan,” Tony said. “I don’t think he will tire out before we do.”


    Tony was right about that. I moved toward a ditch bank parallel to the yard as the Minotaur picked up a large tractor tire, nearly as tall if not taller than the average adult and one a child could sleep in if the tractor was parked. The Minotaur seized the tire as easily as humans picked up dinner plates. The large cow-like creature had steer-equivalent horns. It stood on two legs and meaty arms and had thick amounts of fur partially covered by the remnants of clothing held in place by a few sagging threads or a single button. There were fragmented pieces of its modern-day life. I glanced at a tree with a brief moment of hesitation, considering the cement wall and the height of particular branches that could support my weight. This prize or obstacle also attracted the Minotaur’s attention. It held the tire like a shield but then discarded it and came closer. I gulped as it came right toward me. I kept still, and it reached the grass and stopped. Light from the posts near the main barn glinted off its round eyes, and I could see its matted fur along thick muscles around its neck and shoulders. In another instance, if it had been a human dude, my mind might have been in the clouds because muscles were muscles. Needless to say, having your life on the line is an excellent reality check.


    I licked my lips and tried to stay relaxed. Monsters in an enraged form lose a considerable degree of the sense they’d accumulated over centuries of evolution. A few groups lived as their ancestors did, while the rest got jobs and families and even paid mortgages. They send their kids to school and have parties on weekends. Yet, even with a loss of sanity, they can still tell the difference between masculine and feminine beings. Mom had drilled this into my head as a teenager.


    This is a titan-class monster. It''s measuring you up. It’s trying to decide if you’re a friend or a foe. It sounds sexist, but creatures often underestimate their female species. They can sense innocence just as they sense traps and enemies but they’re really terrible at distinguishing between the two. The epic video rants on the internet are evidence of that.


    It had attacked me earlier but hadn’t taken the time to gauge its surroundings. This offered a small window of opportunity. Still, it wouldn’t take long before it found something it would use to stake its claim and fend off any perceived intruders, which would include Mr. Morris and his hired help along with all of his livestock, which were already rattled and would definitely run if a fence or shed got damaged. It was an unsettling image in my mind to envision this creature roaming the fields, smashing its enemies across the head with its new weapon and then flaunting its latest kill as people tried to get close.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    I really wish I could have stretched this morning.


    My options were limited, and time was running short. Based on their mythological reputation, a Minotaur often relied heavily on their size and strength, and they could put on incredible bursts of speed at a moment''s notice. In modern days, with paved roads, alleys, and heavy traffic. A Minotaur had more challenges to deal with to get to know their land or territory. At any point, a titan-level monster internally demanded to know where the refuge could be. Where an enemy might try to strike, and for what reason would someone try to exploit their claimed space? Gone were the days when a creature would merely strike an unruly opponent. We became important and necessary because creatures liked to lie in wait and strike when their opponent didn’t expect it.


    The straw shed’s support beams began to buckle, and my jaw dropped when the Minotaur reached up and seized a thick branch. It hardly needed to exert itself before snorting and yanking down hard. The tree’s trunk cracked, and the entire thing began to lean. The Minotaur snorted again and pulled, and I dropped down as the tree shuttered,spraying splinters and dead leaves across the grass.


    Now armed, the Minotaur gripped it in both hands. I glimpsed stains across its off-white horns, and the reddish-brown color was clearly blood from previous encounters. Reasonably, it probably added to the putrid smell I was having trouble stomaching. Our time was up. He had found its comfort level and a groove. He had taken on a challenge and won. If we didn''t subdue him fast, he was going to freely charge, and the farm was going to become a demolition zone.


    “Hey!” Dad yelled a moment later. He was drawing attention to himself so Tony and I could act. Dad hit the bar on whatever he could to make noise. Meanwhile, the Minotaur, wielding the branch like a bat, straightened its shoulder and snorted like an egotistical biker, ready to start a bar brawl. The Minotaur gripped the branch and turned. Tony added a few more sounds to split its attention.


    He’s found his comfort level and a groove. The farm’s champion didn’t pose much of a threat. We’ve got to go in hard and subdue him now.


    The Minotaur cracked the muscles and joints in its neck and shoulders.


    Dad and Tony can come at him from either side. I reasoned. The Minotaur tapped his new club in its hand. The next two or three minutes would be a learning curve, as it would watch for a chance to use its new weapon. We would have to come in hard and fast if we wanted to avoid being within striking distance.


    “Game time,” I said, “On my call, use the surge force buckle and aim for his legs. Both of you at the same time. Take out his legs and I’m going high for the sling string takedown.”


    “we’ll be ready,” Tony said breathlessly, “count us down.”


    Now was the moment. It was now or never. The surge force buckle and the Sling String takedown were not good tactics for this terrain or this kind of target and undoubtedly this exact scenario. Grandpa Pop would put it in the top three of the stupidest ones, but then he would help us anyway.


    “Dad, can you fudge his senses?” Tony asked.


    “On it,” Dad replied.


    I pulled out a pair of fingerless gloves from my thigh utility pocket. These were one of the seven tools we typically always carried. I put them on as Dad cracked a flare, filling an area with colored smoke. Only these weren’t ordinary flares. Thanks to Grandpa or Pop''s clever engineering skills, they would obscure the immediate area with colorful, scented smoke. Something way more practical for this kind of monster. Unlike the never see me coming, where we were blind and stuck. The flare’s smoke was no more potent to us than the fire trailing behind a firework on Independence Day. Monsters though, unlike humans, rely a lot harder on their senses, and they are attuned to a certain environment. A farm in the dark was nothing for a wild, open-range species, but if you give it a wash of new aromas. The shock makes them hesitate. It creates a challenge that they can’t immediately tackle, and it’s not something they’re readily able to take on, giving us a window of opportunity.


    I put on the gloves and exhaled on the gems embedded in my fashion statement of 3 rings. The gems began to glow, and I followed up the action by gently smacking each palm across the back of the opposite hand. The Minotaur swung his branch club back and forth like he was waiting for a home run pitch. He took a few steps, sniffed, and began to sway back and forth. He was in a daze, but it was unlikely that the smoke would knock him out.


    “Three!” I hissed, clenching my fists together.


    On my right hand, four stick fingers appeared. I tapped it a second time, and two more appeared, with one standing before the other five with arms above its head. Immediately, my hand began to fill hot. I checked my left hand and shot the image of a catapult, and I touched it a second time, which generated the image of a sprinter.


    “Two” I yelled. At that exact moment, a breeze kicked in and created puffs that swelled around the minotaur-like bubbles. It was only going to last a few more seconds.


    “Power!” Tony responded. That was confirmation that he was in place and ready to move.


    “Charge!” Dad added almost immediately after.


    “One!’ I yelled, then from the corner of my eye I spotted two tiny dots like light moving up a path from the fields.


    “Time crunch,” Dad called as I took my first step. That was code for we were about to have company. The smoke lazily drifted around the Minotaur’s legs, slowly rising towards his midsection. The nearby cattle began to stir, and several trotted deeper into the corral. My body felt supercharged, and then all my extremities began to tingle. I pulled my arms back and put all the power I could into a sprint. The Minotaur wasn’t any more than ten feet in front of me. I hurried forward when it howled, bringing the branch at a sideways arch intending to catch me across my side. Once again, it snorted and lowered its head, ready to charge. In my current state, I timed my movement and jumped. I caught the branch beneath my foot, using it to push me a bit higher.


    “Torro!” I yelled. I almost didn’t have the wingspan in my arms to grip its horns, but I managed to grip them. I had momentum, but there was an instant where the enforcement kicked in, and my perspective slowed and became a bit fuzzy as the blood rushed to my head. I held on, and the sensation passed, and I continued with my follow, right on cue, Dad and Tony burst through the smoke. The Minotaur tossed his head back and forth and he attempted a downward swipe, but his club’s impact hit the ground right between Dad and Tony. One of them kicked at the club and it slipped from his grasp. The two of them immediately moved to a crouch and plowed forward ramming their shoulders into the Minotaur’s legs. I pulled and they pushed and like a rock in a catapult; the Minotaur rose into the air and the enforcement’s boost allowed me to slam him face first right into the ground. The shockwave broke nearby windows and rattled the iron bars on a shed’s cement-based manger.


    I landed and collapsed into a heap, my hands throbbing. The smoke obscured the Minotaur’s form, but it only took a few seconds for it to clear. I felt my hair plastered to my face, and I watched apprehensively as the Minotaur’s arms padded the ground. He lifted his head just a little bit and appeared to shake off the disorientation. Dad and Tony hurried to my side as the Minotaur collapsed, drooling heavily.


    “Emma, get the gloves off!” Dad yelled.


    I looked down and scrambled to pull them off as small portions glowed a crystalline orange, not much different than embers or molten lava. The heat had reached my skin, and I held my hand''s palms up. Dad took my wrists, so I didn’t bring them toward my chest or stick them on the ground.


    “I’ve never seen an enforcement do that before,” Tony said as he kicked some dirt over the gloves, which had ignited some weeds, and the whole thing had begun to smolder.


    Dad pulled out a light. I had some cuts, and my skin was dirty, but I didn’t see any black, purple, or stark white spots, and I could still move my fingers.


    “It’s a good thing you hadn’t been using them before we did the takedown,” Dad assessed. “Otherwise, the whole might have been worse. I see you can move your fingers, how are your hands?”


    “Tender,” I said, but I doubted I’d be able to clench a fist.


    Dad put his light between his teeth and gingerly palpated my palms. “You overloaded the reinforcement. Your skin is hot to touch. I’d wager you’ve been burned. We’ll need to get home so Mom can take care of it.”


    “Morris is really close,” Tony said. The now incapacitated Minotaur lay with its head to the side. With considerable effort, the three of us managed to turn him out. The smell was a mixture of burnt rubber, a skunk, and cow manure. How long had he been coming out this way, and what was he doing? Breathing, I watched Dad check his watch while Tony secured the manacles, and I stomped my gloves out as sparks leaped into the air. The Minotaur was breathing heavily, shaking its head every few seconds. I stepped back, the smell was getting a bit too much for me. Tony also moved around when the Minotaur snorted and dropped a massive ball of snot from its snout. The glob dangled on a slimy string before sliding down the creature''s sweaty hair and plopping onto the Minotaur''s chest.


    "That was gross," Tony said.


    “True, but we’ve got to move. Let’s ensure he’s secure, and we have no time to make a clean getaway,” Dad said. “Go to the van and employ distraction plan number 2.”


    Tony and I nodded, and we hurried to the van.


    Monster assassins don’t go after any old monster, and please don’t confuse us with the stereotypical monster hunter. We get calls or contracts questioning a monster’s suspicious actions in a specific area, which doesn’t involve kids selling cookies and lemonade, noisy neighbors, or people who park horribly at the grocery store. We’re not hillbillys, bums, or wandering vagabonds passing through an area humbly accepting our simple existence while looking incredibly suspicious in the process. We occasionally visit spooky, abandoned houses, but we’re way more prepared than the people who visit blacks hunting for the paranormal and supernatural. There is even a secret police force that deals primarily with monsters; now, these guys can be scary. Once monsters learned that national parks had popularized visiting caves, they all decided it was better to blend in.


    The Minotaur had a life outside of smashing things and beating the crap out of people who challenge it. He had used his public face, and the circumstances had attracted other people’s attention. We dealt with himand hopefully avoided any large-scale issues. I forced myself to ignore the damage. It was not going to be a pretty sight in the morning, which was for sure.


    The main farm sat at a higher elevation that allowed us to track the tractor’s movements. As it rounded a bend in the road near a line of sheds full of grain and other pieces of farm equipment. We all did our part while watching for it out of the corner of our eyes. We couldn’t just run. The Morris farm had neighbors, and occasionally, a sheriff’s deputy was parked along the highway lying in wait for the drunk driver or someone speeding.


    We have a public face and a reputation in our community. In this case, there were several obstacles to avoiding drawing some attention to our supernatural exploits. Our escape plans, of which we were all well versed, set up the best kind of scenarios possible to explain our presence.


    Like a race car pit crew, we secured the Minotaur and busted out distraction plan 2 from the trunk, which, for me, was proof that you didn’t have to take forever in the bathroom to look amazing for a night''s own. In a flash, I moved from a plain shirt and my now sad excuse for leggings to a flowered dress, flats, and a little makeup. Tony got his shirt, tie, slacks, and polished shoes on. Conflicts and encounters get messy, so if you want to sell an alternative story, you’ve got to look the part. Dad joined us a moment later, in a white shirt and tie. The lights from the tractors flashed across the space where we had taken the Minotaur down and Dad quickly put the van in reverse and pulled back a few feet to present the illusion of our arrival.


    “Ready?” Dad asked, steering the van forward and putting it back into park to hopefully look as though we’d been idling for only a minute or two. Dad carefully placed a glowing green ball in a drink holder which he then covered with a cloth; he had wiped the muck from his hands. Mr. Morris and his tractor chugged up the incline and came to a stop by his house. He turned off the engine, but he kept the lights on and with an astonished expression, he stood up to survey the scene.


    “Let’s go,” Dad said, “And remember as far as he knows, we just arrived.”


    Tony nodded, and I gave a thumbs up. There wasn’t time to say anything else, and I hoped the darkness would hide how messy we looked.


    Mr. Morris, the proprietor of Morris Farms, had cultivated the same land for nearly twenty years and worked tirelessly with his father and grandfather for thirty years before that. Early evidence of fall weather was settling in, and Mr. Morris planned to make sure everything was all set for the next planting season. His workers had everything well in hand when he headed out into the fields. A few neighbors had swung by, and a little after dusk, he’d settle onto his nearly crippled tractor for a peaceful evening.


    A peaceful evening shouldn’t include trenches, craters, and nearly pulverized antique farm equipment. The aged farmer pulled his tractor to a stop, observing the large indentation in the grass and weeds. He spotted bits of paper, envelopes, and newspaper scattered through his wife’s flowerbed, along with bits of wood, small bolts, and jagged pieces of metal. He rose to his feet. The tractor’s height gave him visibility to take in the whole situation. I watched him place a palm on his white, scruffy chin. The abject horror was unmistakable. He hadn’t noticed us yet.


    “Honey!” Mr. Morris called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. He had a strong voice, with a slight gruff that he could mask if he ever played Santa Claus at the local church or community center. It was an odd mix because he looked like a drunk, miserable farmer, but typically, he was a cheerful, average man on the sunnier side of life.


    I prepared myself for a shift to a far extreme. You live through cuss words and profanities. Sometimes, they even dance on the tip of your tongue. The farm’s overall damage was extensive, and there wasn’t much we could do without raising suspicions about our activities. The residents might rally behind him, but it would take time. Time he might not have.


    “Hello, Mr. Morris,” Dad called out with a jovial tone.


    Mr. Morris flinched and gripped the tractor’s steering wheel, “Gosh dang it, Jim, you practically startled me.”


    “Sorry about that,” Dad replied. He often used rather jubilant salutations to mask his calculative demeanor. He came off as a pleasurable and respectable neighbor, but he wasn’t one people would expect to take charge out in the open. This little corner suited Dad fine because it allowed him to take control secretly. He was the face of the family, but he welcomed a fa?ade to obscure his motives and intentions, especially if we were attempting to fulfill a contract.


    Mr. Morris regarded each of us. It was likely three well-dressed people were his targeted vandals, but he was old enough to think everyone was guilty of something. I forced a smile and observed his face. It was hard to see from where I stood, and any micro expressions were hidden beneath his hat and wrinkled face. Mr. Morris gruntled as he turned on the central tractor lights and carefully lowered himself to the ground. I stepped to the side to avoid being blinded as Mr. Morris approached Dad.


    “What the blazes happened here?” he asked. Dad offered a hand, but he didn’t accept it. Instead, he reached out, pulled off a cowboy hat, andran a hand through wavy salt and pepper hair. I tensed at his stunned expression. He was undoubtedly trying to assess what had happened. Fortunately for us, Tony and I had our strengths, but we couldn’t sell a lie like Dad, who easily could have been a solid lawyer or a politician in another lifetime. Dad pulled his hand back and presented bewilderment and concern that came off genuine even to me. Tony tensed, but we exchanged glances to reassure each other. The moral ambiguity that was threaded through our line of work made life more than a challenge. The damage was bad, but it would have been worse if we hadn’t stepped in. We could question how, but there is no second-guessing a threat level when any kind of monster is involved.


    “This is certainly a sight,” Dad said, “is everything ok? Did your herd get out or something.”


    “From time to time they do, but this!” Mr. Morris said breathlessly. The shadows on his face sharpened his apprehension and alarm. He was neighborly even though there were plenty of stories where he could scare the punks who would spray-paint his barnor smash eggs across his windows or his tractor''s windshields.


    “Who the devil,” Mr. Morris huffed.


    “Is there anything we can do? “Dad asked.


    Mr. Morris glanced at the three of us and then put his hat on his head. “I doubt it. What brings you out here anyway?”


    “Mr. Morris, we’re relieved that you are all right.”


    “We were just passing by,” Dad said, keeping a jovial tone. “We were just on our way home from the church social and wanted to bring some cookies Mrs. Foster made. I heard you’ve always been a double chocolate chip fan, right?”


    Dad motioned to us as a cue, but as he did so, a breeze caught my skirt, and I stayed put to keep it down and to avoid showing my hands. Luckily, Tony had come prepared and held a plate wrapped in plastic, which he held out to the old farmer. Mr. Morris looked at the plate before crossing his arms over his plaid work shirt.


    “What are you three really doing here?” Mr. Morris asked. His suspicion was a bit off-putting, if not alarming. By experience, we all have reasonably good game faces, but what did he see? Or what was he worried about?


    “We’re just trying to be neighborly,” Tony said, holding the plate a little further, but the farmer still didn’t reach for them.


    “I’m sorry if we caught you at a bad time,” Dad added, subtly motioning for Tony to step back beside him. “We didn’t realize if there-”


    Mr. Morris gruntled, then shot us, the happy go lucky Foster family, an exhausted smile. “Sorry folks, I’ve been busy today, and it’s the gosh darn diabetes. I’ve not been able to enjoy a good chocolate cookie for quite a while.”


    “I’m sorry to hear that,” Dad said, then pointed to the farm. “Do you need-”


    “Have a good night,” Mr. Morris huffed as he climbed onto his tractor when the porchlights of his home came on. Emma blinked as the angle of the plow blades brought a tear to her eye.


    “Herbert?” a woman’s voice called from the door.


    “Coming, dear!” Mr. Morris called, turning on his tractor, and get the police on the phone.”


    Mrs. Morris looked worried, but Mr. Morris ushered her back inside as he climbed back onto the tractor. Dad nodded to the van, and we piled in as Mr. Morris backed the tractor up a few feet and steered it toward his machine shop.


    “That could have been worse,” Tony said.


    “Agreed,” Dad said, he turned on the van and restrained himself from accelerating at a higher speed, “but it certainly wasn’t pretty.”


    “I’d call that awkward,” I said.


    Dad moved toward the road, signaled, andthen we proceeded. It wasn’t like there was heavy traffic in the area, but we needed Mr. Morris to disregard any thought about us while he assessed the damage.


    “Send Mom a message,” Dad said, “we’ll need to have a plan and a debrief immediately.”


    “Do you think he suspects something?” I asked.


    “He was worried about something, but that could be any number of things.” Dad assessed. “We cut it close, and he’s no idiot, but we didn’t exactly look like superhuman vandals. The sheriff’s office will come out within the hour to assess any possible threat, and they’ll spend some time making sure his herd is secure. Then he’ll have to set the matter aside until morning when he can go out and inspect the whole thing.”


    “That’s certainly not going to be pretty,” Tony said. “The Minotaur came close to prize fighting against both his bulls.”


    “True,” I said, “they’ll also have questions about the lights and his gas and diesel tanks. They’ll need to secure those as soon as possible.”


    “I’m sure he’ll get his hired hands on it,” Dad said, “and they’ll probably be the first people the police question. They’ll want to check if anyone had been hanging around, or if they had seen anything suspicious. The help will alibi each other for the damage. The police may get wind of the mailman coming around at night, and they’ll investigate it, only to have a field day when they come up empty. Since we were caught on the scene, we’ll need to cover our bases if they ask questions.”


    Tony took a sip of water. “Do you think the Feds will get involved since the Minotaur brought his post office van out here, and they’ll find it compacted or in pieces all over the farm?”


    “There’s bound to be mail to which will raise further questions,” I said.


    “The Feds and M.A.G.E will probably butt heads about it,” Dad concluded. “I’m not sure how, but we’ll let that be their problem.”


    Tony cracked his knuckles, “Do you want me to feed into any conspiracy theories online?”


    “If they come up it might not be a bad idea,” Dad acknowledged. “It may also help if we set up some social pictures and lay a false trail to tone down any outlying suspicion.”


    “I bet Mom’s already on it,” I said.


    “Probably,” Tony said.


    And we proceeded home without any further assessment. The mission, at least for tonight, was over. I glanced at the glowing ball, or trap we used to catch monsters. Its function was a mystery to me, but as long as it worked, I was pleased that I could finally put the smells and the delayed stinging of those ninja kitten''s claws far from my mind.


    I wadded up my jacket and placed it against my window. I didn’t fall asleep, but I happily allowed myself to doze. It was hard and bizarre. I could hear the cows bawling, the Minotaur bellowing the kitten hissing all at once. Monster Assassins eventually get accustomed to the noise in all of its forms. Despite my experience and ability, I made a mental note to find some soft music and committed to getting better sleep.