Later that afternoon, Peter Mayhew found himself struggling to focus on making dinner. There were several factors contributing to his hardship, but the top contenders had to be, one: his fingers had more holes in them than a Star Wars movie. And two: he had a hard time thinking about something as mundane as measuring flour when he’d just spent the day having his entire understanding of the world he lived in rocked with the bombshell that supernatural creatures were, in fact, a thing. Luckily, Greg Van Helsing was not struggling through such difficulties.
The big man wielded a kitchen knife masterfully, dicing onions on the counter with incredible speed and precision. Peter leaned on Greg for most of the grunt work, nine of his fingertips now wrapped in colorful bandages adorned with tiny smiley faces. With the large container of chicken enchiladas in the oven, Peter told Greg to make himself at home and then made his way into the bedroom to get changed.
Relieved that he was finally able to change out of his coffee-stained khakis, Peter took a moment to put them in the wash. He happily slipped on his favorite pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt featuring a cartoon depiction of Batman riding a llama in faded shades of neon, and then sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at his phone, which now appeared to be functioning properly, and attempted once again to watch the video he’d been trying to record. He wasn’t sure if he’d been expecting to see something different, but sighed as the screen displayed garbled nonsense. Incomprehensible images and sounds. Renea had sent him about a dozen messages but, before he could scan their contents, Peter heard Flapjack growling angrily down the hall. He sprang to his feet and hurried to see what had alarmed the old boy - Flapjack had his annoying traits, like the worst smelling farts in the history of the world and loud snoring, but he’d never been much of a barker.
“Hey, hey, boy,” Greg was trying to calm the geriatric corgi with soothing tones, hands held up defensively but not aggressively.
Peter looked at the scene before him with furrowed brows. His ancient, small dog had the massive monster hunter backed into a corner and was giving him what for. In the twenty-one years he’d spent living with Flapjack, never once had Peter seen the dog act so aggressively. He walked across the living room slowly to avoid frightening Flapjack further until he stood between them, then crouched.
“What’s wrong, bud?” he asked the dog, who did not take his eyes from their visitor. “This is Greg. He’s big and scary but he isn’t so bad. He’s not going to be a problem for us, alright?”
Flapjack, oh so hesitantly, peeled his eyes from the stranger to look questioningly at Peter. Peter scratched him on the head gently and then stood up. Flapjack eyed Greg warily one more time, growled softly, and then walked away, his claws clicking as he moved down the hallway toward the bedroom.
“I’ve never seen him act like that,” Peter explained. “Sorry, Greg. He didn’t bite you or anything, did he?”
“It’s all good, mate. He was just doing his job.”
Peter fell into the couch and Greg followed his que, sitting in the loveseat opposite. Peter leaned over the arm rest to reach into Renea’s whiskey cabinet and pulled out the bottle they’d been working on last night, then groaned when he realized he had yet to replace the drinking glasses he and Renea had used. He looked at the bottle, shrugged wearily, and pulled a long, burning gulp straight from its neck.
“What a day,” Peter said, sinking further into the couch as his socks slid outward on the wood floor. He noticed Greg giving him a look. “Drink?” he offered.
“I’d love one.”
“Let me grab some glasses from the kitchen.”
“Just pass it over, pretty boy. I don’t have anything transmissible.”
Peter obliged, sliding the decanter across the coffee table - just to the left of his unfinished chess game against himself. Greg took a healthy gulp then held the bottle up, looking impressed. Peter nodded his silent agreement and Greg slid the bottle back to his side. They continued this way, silently passing the bottle back and forth, until the oven timer went off in the kitchen. Peter made to stand but Greg waved him down.
“I’ve got it. The heat wouldn’t feel too good on those raw fingers.”
“Thanks, Greg,” Peter said with genuine appreciation. He hadn’t been looking forward to reaching into the oven. “You can just set it on the stove for now. I’ll serve them up when Renea gets home.”
When Greg returned to find Peter sitting with his head in his hands, the big man sat next to him on the couch. “Today must have been a bit wild for you. Everything’s going to be just fine, Peter. We’ll take care of your werewolf, I’ll move on to my next hunt, and your life will go on just as it was before you ever met me.”
“It’s not that,” Peter said, not taking his head from his hands. “I just don’t know how the hell I’m going to explain any of this to Renea.” He stood abruptly and covered his face with one hand, pulling it down like a TV show host revealing a fabulous prize. When his face was visible again, Peter was wearing the most casual expression he could muster. “Hey, sweetie. How was work? Good? Great. Hey, so vampires are real, and this is Greg Van gods damned Helsing, and the two of us are going to kill Kinsey Fox tonight. Oh, speaking of, we need you to get her home address for us. Enchiladas?”
“Sounds like a good start to me.” Greg boomed out a laugh that shook the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. “Van gods damned Helsing. I love that.”
When Renea arrived, Peter and Greg had drained the rest of her whiskey and were making their way through a second bottle that Peter had delivered to the house. She stood in the doorway looking puzzled, her briefcase slipping from her shoulder to land on the wood floor.
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“Sweetie!” Peter slurred, crawling over the couch with all the coordination of a drunken, newborn giraffe. “I thought you were never coming home!”
He wrapped his arms around his wife, who had to widen her stance to keep him upright. He gave her a sloppy but sweet kiss, eyes lidded with drink.
“I came home,” she said awkwardly, glancing toward the couch. “Who’s, uh… Peter, who is your friend?”
Peter’s brows drew together, and then he seemed to remember something. “Oh my god, that’s right. Renea, that’s Greg.” He turned, arms still around Renea, to glance at Greg over one shoulder. “Greg, this is my lovely wife Renea.”
“Pleasure, ma’am,” Greg called, not getting up.
“Pleasure,” Renea said, looking at Peter questioningly. She glanced at the myriad of multicolored bandaids on his hands. “What happened to your hands?” She reeled on Greg, stepping forward to place herself between the stranger and her husband with one hand pulling Peter behind her defensively. “Did you do this to him?” she demanded.
“I lost round one with an ancient puzzle box,” Peter explained, waiving it off with one hand as though it were nothing. “Greg’s a monster hunter. Oh, and it turns out vampires are a thing? I guess? And the pitwolf is actually a werewolf. We’re gonna kill her tonight.” Peter paused, frowning. “I’m forgetting something. Oh! We made enchiladas. Greg, I feel like I’m still forgetting something. What’d I miss?”
“Address,” Greg said.
“That’s right,” Peter said. “And we need Kinsey’s home address. How was work?”
Renea’s expression was unreadable as she allowed her aggressive posture to relax slightly. She looked from Peter to Greg and back twice before responding.
“What?”
“Yeah,” Peter acknowledged. “That was a lot, huh?”
Still processing Peter’s words, Renea narrowed her eyes, frowned, and then helped Peter back to the couch. She grabbed the bottle from the coffee table and took a respectable gulp, eliciting an impressed grunt from Greg, which she ignored. She then sat down next to Peter, who leaned heavily into her shoulder, looking up at her with lovey, drunk-Peter eyes.
“I’ll bet you’ve got some questions,” he said, intuitively.
Greg read the room expertly, quickly excusing himself to get the enchiladas plated as the interrogation began.
“Why does it smell like gunpowder and garlic in here?”
The questions continued, Peter answering each honestly and with the complete lack of reservations that only the combination of true love and heavy drinking could produce. Greg returned with dinner during Peter’s interrogation, and smartly spent the remainder of it silently enjoying some very tasty chicken enchiladas. All three ate their fill of enchiladas and drank their fill of whiskey before, finally, Renea seemed to have a handle on the events leading up to her return from work.
“So, let me sum this up,” she said as Greg piled the empty plates back onto the tray he’d carried them over with and made his way back into the kitchen. “You posted an ad online to have my coworker killed, and then met up with a rando that replied to said ad claiming to be Greg Van Helsing, of the Van Helsing Van Helsings. The two of you actually came to my office, decided that Kinsey Fox, who saw you with this man and told everyone about the stain on your pants, by the way, is a werewolf, and then spent the afternoon with a sexy naked vampire lady that lives in a trailer park. Did I miss anything?”
Peter scratched his chin thoughtfully. “We made enchiladas.”
“You’re insane.” Renea ran her hands through her hair in rapid, anxiety laden strokes with increasing frequency and ferocity. “Peter, I love you, but what the hell? Do you actually expect me to believe any of this?”
“Not a word,” Peter said honestly. “But it’s what happened.”
“I…” Renea paused, resumed her seat on the couch, and then stood back up. “I’m going to go and take a really, really long bath.”
Drunk as a pair of skunks, Peter and Greg fell asleep in the Mayhew’s living room while Renea took her bath. When she woke them up an hour or three later with a pot of coffee, the two groggy men greedily devoured it with another plate of leftover enchiladas. After some time to think, Renea declared that despite the ridiculous nature of pretty much everything Peter had told her about his day, she chose to move forward based on the fact that he was an honest man. She had no reason to believe he would lie to her, even though it was impossible to believe his claims.
Getting the home address of a coworker, even for someone as capable as Renea, was not an easy task. Even convincing her to try to get ahold of Kinsey’s address had taken some work. Despite trusting her husband entirely, she was unable to simply accept the ridiculous story he told her as the truth. In fairness, Peter didn’t blame her at all for that. He would react with much the same skepticism were their roles reversed. When Greg provided his alternative plan, showing up at Renea’s office again in the morning where he knew Kinsey could be found and killing her there without verifying her condition, Renea caved - with a few conditions.
“I’m going with you. I’m driving. And if I say we’re leaving, then we’re leaving. Deal?”
“Deal!” Peter shouted excitedly, one fist pumping the air. “Team monster hunter!”
“No deal,” Greg said. “I’m good with you coming along, ma’am, of course. And you can drive. We don’t need Peter pissing himself again. But that last condition doesn’t track. I’m the expert here. You two can leave any time you want. I’ll leave when I decide to leave. And no team monster hunter. You two are coming as observers because Peter strong-armed me into it.”
Renea narrowed her eyes at the big man. “No. I’ve got her address and I’m not going to give it to either of you unless all of my conditions are accepted.”
Greg frowned at Renea then turned to Peter, silently pleading for some backup on the matter. “Don’t look at me. No way, dude. She’s in boss mode right now. Believe me when I tell you that, in boss mode, this tiny woman is as unmoving a force of nature as the greatest mountain. If that’s her decision we’ll have to accept the terms.”
“Or I could make a scene at your office tomorrow morning,” Greg threatened, brow raised.
He was clearly under the impression that he could use that same trump card as many times as it took to get his way. He had just as clearly never been in an argument with Renea. Peter gulped as the tension rose between them. He considered stepping in, finding a reasonable compromise that everyone would be happy with, but he’d been married to Renea long enough to know that, once she entered boss mode, there would be no compromise. It wasn’t until his wife threatened to make a scene right there in the living room and Flapjack began growling at Greg in support that Peter found himself unable to continue watching from the sidelines.
“Stop it, both of you,” Peter said, getting to his feet and placing his hands on his hips authoritatively. His stupid t-shirt with Batman riding a llama did not help with the vibe he was going for. “Before this pissing match gets any more heated, let’s consider something vital. Renea, in what situation or situations do you foresee needing to leave before Greg is satisfied by Kinsey’s transformation and subsequent death or acknowledgment that she did not actually transform under the full moon and therefore no longer needs to die?”
Greg, smartly, remained silent as Renea considered the question.
“I can’t think of any,” Renea finally conceded.
Peter nodded sagely then turned to Greg. “And Greg, if Kinsey turns out not to be a werewolf and Renea says it’s time to go, what situation or situations do you foresee being compelled to stay?”
Greg smiled appreciatively at Peter. “Not a one. Unless someone else in the household is a werewolf.” He paused, taking off his hat and scratching at his greasy black hair. “Or other dangerous supernatural creature.”
“I think that’s fair. Renea, do you think that’s fair?”
“Yes,” she replied glumly.
“Then we’re all in agreement.”