A Matter of Taste

(a "Bureau 13" story)

"One-two-three!" screamed the furious crowd of Scottish villagers, and the crude battering ram surged forward once more. With the sound of splintering wood the huge doors blocking the entrance to the abandoned coal mine crashed apart, splinters exploding into the night air heading towards the moon.

"For God and King!" bellowed a red-faced dollymop, brandishing an executioner's axe.

Shouting in victory, the mob of highlanders dropped the old weathered caber and started to charge in through the ruined barrier, the local constable and grimy navies waving their wooden staves and blunderbusses.

In the lead of the angry throng was a lean whippet of man sporting a soft brim hat, swallow tails coat, tight breeches and fine Chase & Adams boots, dapper gentleman's clothes from across the Atlantic. The big Yank looked a toff, but tucked firmly into his black leather belt was a shiny silver badge bearing the Great Seal of the

President of the United States, and grasped in his big calloused hands were a brace of ornate Collier pistols, the long tapering .72 barrels of the new style breechloaders gleaming like polished justice in the rosy dimness of predawn.

The name he gave the locals was J.P. Withers, and he was the very first Federal Agent of the brand new organization of American police designed to deal with supernatural criminals. Hopefully. Cocking both of the curved hammers, Withers double-checked to make sure the copper percussion caps were firmly in place. Now was no time for a deadly misfire. As a duly empowered agent of Bureau 13, it was his task to see that the inhuman beast who had plagued Manhattan, and now this peaceful Scottish valley, must never be allowed to kill man, woman, child, or even somebody from France! Hopefully, the silver and wood balls in his primed guns would send the beast to hell, or maybe somewhere even worse.

Although lead by resolute Withers, the brave British posse stopped dead in their tracks as the flickering light of the torches clearly illuminated the interior. The ceiling of the mining tunnel was completely covered with fat chattering bats, thousands of the noisy beasts flapping their leathery wings and foam dripping from their cruel mouths. And the hard stone ground was solid with a living carpet of snarling rats. Millions of beady eyes stared at the humans and the villagers could feel the tangible cloud of their living hate and hunger. Even the one barrister in the crowd felt faint.

Suddenly, a cold wind blew from deep within the old coal shaft, carrying with it a smell of newly turned earth, death and mint leaves. Withers frowned. As always before, that was when the torches sputtered out. But now, bits of hot oakum were used to ignite dozens of whale oil bullseye lanterns, the glass flumes protecting the delicate flames within and brilliant white cones of light brightly illuminated the rocky passage.

The beams bobbed about in frantic search and soon converged on the source of the wind. At the rear of the mine, a dimly seen figure smirked at them and stuck out its long forked tongue. Standing brazen at the rear of the mine entrance, protected by the slavering army of night hunters, was a humanoid creature dressed in a double-breasted Duke Street coat, ruffled shirt, Beau Brummel breeches, roll top boots, and wrapped in a long flowing Spitfields silk cape. Very nice, indeed. However, his skin was deathly pale, his eyes glowing red and his teeth a dentist's nightmare.