Before you read this story, you REALLY should read “G-Raff: What a Tallee Got ta do” and the first two books in the series that inspired this tale, “Monster Hunter International” . I re-iterate that these brain worms that my fingers produce are not MHI Canon, nor sanctified in any way. They are “Inspired by” stories. 

“Re-Sprite: A G-Raff Adventure”

“Yo, Homies, everybody where they ‘sposed ta be?” G-Raff asked, as he tapped on his clip-on tactical mic to allow voice-activated two-way communication.

“Roger, G-Raff. We’re in position and are a go,” came the deep, low-volume reply through G-Raff’s Bluetooth earpiece. “Eyes on exits. Just need a count and locations of targets before we breech. And please stick to protocol. Don’t engage without my say so. You’ll call it in first.”

“Ya, Big Ugly, what-evs. Goin’ dark, total ghost penetration in three. G-Raff in da’ house, hoot, hoot,” G-Raff replied, smiling to himself. He would pay for the “Big Ugly” remark on the ride home, he had no doubt. That bad-ass dude on the other end had no sense of humor.

G-Raff had been his thug name. A slam and play on Giraffe, because he was tall for a gnome. A Tallee. Now he wore the moniker with pride. His handle in the field.

From inside a military foot locker marked “Caution: Toxic Micro-person -This side up”, G-Raff pulled down the edges of his black pointy cap, brought his hands together, and pointed them in the direction of the building that the New Orleans and Alabama teams had been surveilling. The building housed an illegal rum distillery that had been running, off and on, since the 1920’s. It looked like it hadn’t been re-painted once in that entire time. The swamp gas and incoming fog added to its ambience.

G-Raff lightly clapped his hands. A 12” diameter tunnel popped into existence in front of him. Inside the tunnel was a solid surface that existed in the Fey realm. The length of the tunnel penetrated the outside of his box, all the way through and into the building he had directed it at, opening out into the interior. There was no physical displacement of the matter on the Earthen plane, just an interruption and bending where the tunnel began and ended. When the tunnel ceased to be energized, all would be as it was before.

The gnome looked through the length of the popped tunnel like it was a long pipe. The distance seemed shortened, an almost telescopic effect. The other end of the energy tunnel looked like black circle. That meant the room where it exited had no immediate light source.

“No probs, huh, Fuzzy? We ain’t afraid of da’ dark, is we?” G-Raff said, to his ever-present monkey themed backpack.  Made for a small child, the simian mimicking accessory resembled a fur covered monkey that was hanging on for dear life. It faced backwards, with an “X” sewn in where its left eye should be. Brown and black fur, a zipper for a mouth, and long arms that doubled as straps, ending in flesh-tone Velcro and plastic latch palmed hands.

Fuzzy wasn’t a kid’s toy anymore. Fuzzy was there to make sure G-Raff got home alive. Fuzzy was part of G-Raffs tactical ensemble. Fuzzy was modified. Fuzzy carried extra weapons, ammo and a gnome specific medical kit. Fuzzy was easy to talk to and his silence on any subject meant he agreed with G-Raff, who reached across his chest and fist-bumped one of Fuzzy’s cloth hands. “Time ta hit it, dawg.”

G-Raff pushed his hands into the event horizon of the tunnel, using his charged hands to grasp it, twist it slightly, and swing it around somewhat. G-Raff, like most gnomes, knew how far he could move it from its cast point before the magical energies would break it down and end its connection.

While light could travel through the event horizons at either end, sound could not. Neither could smell. And Electronics? Not so much. While powered devices usually survived a tunnel journey, it took time to recover and restart after they passed through the Fey realm. That also meant G-Raff’s comm had over a thirty second dead-air time once he made it through.

“That’s one dark-ass room,” G-Raff said, knowing his observation would transmit to the team. They wouldn’t answer unless he asked a question, or they needed to alert him to any danger. “No movement. Going in. I’ll tap twice every minute once I’m through.”

He hated doing the fanger jobs at night, but it was nearly dawn and this was their best shot at catching the vamps returning from a night of hunting. Bonus would be that any “human snacks” picked up along the way would still be alive. Probably.

Being a Tallee, at his 20” or so, he couldn’t pop a larger tunnel to accommodate his frame, so he moved as best he could. Most gnomes averaged closer to 14” at full height. He knew he was an oddity from gnomes in a few other ways. G-Raff reached further inside the tunnel and braced his hands on either side, jumped and pulled his large frame inside.

Time shifted. The feel of the tunnel solidified, becoming soil and rock. He was in the Fey realm.

A larger network of permanent ancient gnome tunnels existed in Fey, made by entire burrows and tribes of gnomes that had existed in the Stilarted Time, the period before they’d left the darkness and enslavement of Fey for the greener Earthen pastures.

G-Raff shook his head to clear it. Old memories and ghosts could overwhelm a gnome passing through Fey. The calling of the magic energies that permeated the realm, and the powerful beings that controlled it, could sway the weak to stay. And serve.

“Not me, assholes. G-Raff is O.G. and don’ bow ta nobody. Ever,” G-Raff declared, as he hunched and moved forward. “Except these tiny-ass tunnels.”

Gnomes were one of the few creatures that could move back and forth between the realms so fluidly and without physical repercussions. He would hunch over or crab walk, the entire way at his normal pace. What took two minutes from his perspective, occurred in a micro-second on the Earthen plane. He’d pop out seventy-five feet away in the blink of an eye.

“We makin’ our own way, huh Fuzzy? And we winnin’,” G-Raff said to clear the thoughts from his head and re-focus on the mission.

G-Raff reached the end of the popped tunnel, looked out, and up, into a darkened distillery production room. The lack of light wasn’t a real problem for him. Gnomes were raised in tunnels and had adaptive vision, seeing into numerous bands of light humans could only view with specialized equipment.

He saw boxes, bottles, and barrels. And a helluva a lot of modern distilling equipment, tucked around large metal tanks, putting out quite a bit of heat. It was no “Mom and Pop” operation.

He’d moved as close to the tunnel’s event horizon as he could without breaking through, since he would be detectable to others in the room. There was nobody in the immediate area.

“We go in three, two,” G-Raff said, finishing by moving his arm around and holding up a single digit for Fuzzy to see. As he pulled himself out of the tunnel, it popped out into existence. He took in his surroundings, moving quickly and quietly toward a stack of crates.

That’s when he heard the growl. A deep, rumbly growl. A predator’s growl. G-Raff slid his arm into the strap that was integrated into the side grips of his .45 Para Ordnance mini-1911 framed Warthog pistol. He pulled the weapon free of his leg holster and brought his left hand into position to help support the gun, as well as press into the re-configured beavertail safety. No need to chamber a round since he never left the box without one in the pipe. A silver tipped one. And ten more in the double-stack magazine just like it. And a stack of dime sized silver slugs in his under-barrel, rail mounted, .410 shell mini-launcher.

“Now what we got here? Someone come ta visit? You follow my children home, did ya?” came a voice, thick with a Caribbean accent. And more growling, moving quickly to the gnomes right. A chain rattling along the floor and clunking up the sides of wooden crates.

G-Raff stayed loose and swung his weapon in controlled movements, keeping it lowered, but pointed the direction of the sounds.

“Come out. Meet my children. Let us see your face. Maybe you feed my children. Or ol’ Milk-Bone, he gonna maybe just eat you where you stand, mon. A hungry dog’s hard to control. And he’s really hungry.”

The last remark was punctuated by a snorting grunt from behind the crates to G-Raff’s right. G-Raff continually scanned his surroundings, ready to pivot and fire. It was times like this that the two years working, and training with, the Feds paid off. And the additional training at the Compound, along with the missions, had further sharpened his skills. A scrabbling sound and the growling now came from his left.

“Two of them?” he thought for a second but dismissed the notion. There was only one of the creatures moving fast and he knew what it was. G-Raff slid his left hand to tap his mic twice. Nothing. No static, no tick. And worse, no reply.

Gnomes were not known for their fighting prowess. Small, with stubby legs, they mostly run and dive for the nearest burrow entrance when confronted, while blasting off a few indiscriminate rounds from whatever 22 cal or .380 P.O.S. . they could lay their hands on. When they stood their ground it usually involved an entire burrow. “Group bravery” and all. Everybody knew that. Everybody expected that.

Everybody except G-Raff. He was different. A Tallee. An outcast. Some would say a traitor, others a hero. A well-trained one at that. He wasn’t going to hide. And he sure as hell didn’t randomly shoot his weapon. Even when a shape flashed overhead. He tracked it to his right but didn’t shoot.

He felt, rather than saw, movement. It was coming. G-Raff leapt, using his stubby but powerful legs and years of training to jump to the top of the nearest crate.

One down.
Take step, leap diagonal. Land. Change direction.
Two down
Step, jump. Land. Change direction.
Three down.
Jump straight up, no change. Break pattern.

He cleared the top edge of the fourth crate. As he did, he spun completely around, leveling the gun to draw a bead on his pursuer.

But he was pointing at empty air. The gun was aimed where the target should have been but wasn’t.

Before he could look anywhere else, hot breath blew down his neck, the fur on Fuzzy Monkey’s strap arms tickling his bare skin as the moist air moved over it. He heard bottles around him topple over and roll.

“Damn,” G-Raff said, letting his shoulders drop. The growl came directly behind him. His body shook and vibrated in concert with the low rumbling.

There was a crackle and whoomph sound, the smell of burning sulphur and the wall G-Raff was facing became lit by firelight. He didn’t see his shadow, consumed as it was by the hulking outline of the beast crouched between him and the torch light source. It had broad shoulders, bristling hairs, and two pointed ears. G-Raff urgently tapped his mic twice. Nothing.

“Fuck it,” he said.

“What you say? You don’t sound so big. Maybe jus’ a little snack instead,” the unseen speaker’s voice said, echoing in the big space.

“Snack this, asshole,” G-Raff roared, as the crate’s wood creaked. The unseen beast shifted its weight, moving in for the kill. “Sick him Fuzzy!”

G-Raff felt the bump and tug from behind, the attacker taking a bite as the gnome shed Fuzzy Monkey and spun. He moved to the right, pivoting to face his adversary.

The beast’s giant head was inches from G-Raff, chomping down on what it thought to be a tall Gnome, but instead was a mouth full of polyester faux fur and flailing cloth monkey arms.

A werewolf with a chained collar around its neck. Small by werewolf standards, but giant to a gnome. It snapped down on Fuzzy Monkey again, but it couldn’t bite through. Fuzzy had equipment in him that wouldn’t just chew up easily. And an inner back-plate made of ballistics ceramic sandwiched between titanium and carbon fiber. Small, light and damned effective at preventing shit from stabbing an ex-thug gnome in the back.

“Break a tooth, bitch!” G-Raff said, smiling, as the werewolf turned its head toward him.

The beast’s eyes were wrong. G-Raff had read up on werewolves, seen pictures, and most had golden or yellow-orange irises. That one’s eyes were dark orbs. Black. No whites or iris. Like the endless depths of an oily pool.

G-Raff shook off the stare and dropped the hammer on his single rail-mounted .410 round. The recoil sent a shock up his arm and spun him slightly.  Normally, a wild dispersant pattern of the coins spun and punched into a large area, but with limited range due to lack of kinetic energy. Not this time.

A brilliant extended flash leapt from the under-barrel. Packed in the shell, between the gunpowder and the coin shaped slugs, were magnesium pellets. It was a special shell he’d talked the Compound’s resident gunsmith into making. At that close a range, there wasn’t much slug separation, so they would move apart in the flesh, after impact.

And impact they did, hitting the werewolf in the right eye and lower edge of the socket, creating a spray of blood and flesh. None of the coin shaped slugs exited, they were bouncing around, slicing, flipping and squishing brain matter as they created paths inside the beast’s skull. The magnesium charged flame acted as an incendiary and ignited the fur on the right side of the creature’s face and upper body.

It howled and screamed, scratching at the burning wounds, and tried to spit out Fuzzy Monkey.

“That’s gotz ta hurt like a mofo,” G-Raff said, running past the werewolf along the top of the crate, toward the lit torches and interior of the old distillery.

G-Raff jumped, hopping down the crate edges, giving him time to look around. There were five torches in a star pattern. In the center stood a black man in a loin cloth, a white shirt, and wearing a skull for a hat. He also wore a red bowtie. His hands were raised over his head. A bottle of rum in one, a silver seashell with a center mounted black pearl in the other. It glowed slightly and looking at it made G-Raff feel queasy. Surrounding the likely Voodoo necromancer, were a dozen vampires swaying, working their fang laden mouths hissing and moaning in unison, held at bay by his powerful magics. In the circle on the floor, were five people trussed up.

Dinner or a sacrifice. Maybe both. Or zombies. Probably zombies. Necromancers are forever raising zombies and they need material to work with.

“What the shit?” G-Raff thought. “A freakin’ necro-voodoo priest who can control a werewolf? And he has vampire servants? Workin’ for a livin’, they never said it’d be easy.”

G-Raff rolled his shoulders and squared up.

“Yo, Papa Voodoo, G-Raff is in da’ house and I’ma drop yo ass like TuPac did his killa’ rhymes!” G-Raff yelled backing up slightly. Aiming the warthog, he fired twice in quick succession. “That would be hard, and often!”

The two silver .45 caliber rounds struck something and dropped to the floor, shaped like dangerous flowers as the hollow points had flattened against the invisible barrier marked by the torches.

“Ya can’t hurt me, little G-Raff. The spirits protect me. G-Raff the gnome. There be people looking for ya Mon. I can see why. Children, bring that little mon over here, but try not to kill him!” Skull Hat said, the last part sounding like Keel heem. “We’ll bleed him a little. Kalfu and Great Mait’ Carrefour will be pleased to have some gnome blood mixed in their rum!”

G-Raff popped another round at the barrier and it stopped short. He grunted a confirmation.

“Can’t hit you, huh Voodoo man? Cool. What about them?” G-Raff asked as he swung the gun toward the nearest pair of vampires. As he aimed, he noticed something odd. The vamps’ eyes were completely black, no iris, like the werewolf’s. Normally a vamp has red irises when it’s in blood lust. G-Raff filed it away and got back to business. Unleashing rounds at the vampires, two heads snapped back in a spray of bloody ichor, and they dropped. Even with silver hollow points, he knew they’d get back up, but he was buying himself time. He emptied the remainder of his magazine into the closest vampires and then drew his knife.

A modified M9 bayonet, with a silver insert in one fuller groove and a piece of blessed ironwood in the other.

The vampires turned toward him but didn’t move. The Voodoo man nodded his head toward G-Raff and repeated himself “Children, get your move on. I said bring him to me!”

The unwounded vampires took a step toward the gnome.

G-Raff’s earpiece popped and crackled. He smiled.

“Code red! A dozen vamps, a voodoo necro, and a friggin werewolf! Code Red now, mutha fu—,” G-Raff didn’t finish the message. He’d been too focused on the voodoo man and the vamps. He didn’t notice the werewolf had slid beside him. It backhanded him into the crate. Hard.

G-Raff felt something break inside, his custom blade fell from his hand. The werewolf moved between G-Raff and the Voodoo man. It bent down and twisted its head to take him in one bite, one eye missing, the other black as night.

“Damn, dog didn’t ya hear?  Massa said don’t ke-ee-eel me!” G-Raff squeaked out, his back against the crates as his legs gave out. He slid down and could barely sit up.

The werewolf snapped its jaws at G-Raff and shook its head. It opened its mouth wide. All G-Raff saw was fangs, tongue, and slobber moving in. He flinched, blinking hard, knowing it was the end. But the bite never came. He looked out through a squinting eye.

The werewolf’s mouth was again filled with his old friend, Fuzzy Monkey. When G-Raff had slammed into the crate, it jarred the boxes, letting Fuzzy drop from the topmost crate. G-Raff’s monkey pal stared back at him, smiling, his furry arms looped around the werewolf’s jaws. The werewolf scratched at Monkey and snapped at the straps, but it only twisted Monkey’s arms more. Fuzzy rode the beasts maw like a horny dog humping a leg.

G-Raff looked up and saw the vampires moving in behind the werewolf, pushing it out of the way. He was a dead gnome and he knew it. He didn’t think he could be turned, but he could be eaten. He thought about Hanna and Signe, back at the Compound. How they would be told about his heroic end as a snack. He hoped the team would look after for them. The pain washed over G-Raff as the adrenalin wave ebbed. He coughed up some blood. The vampires licked their lips, black orbs for eyes moving in. The world blurred.

“Whoomf.”

G-Raff felt a powerful thump in his chest. It wasn’t a bite.

“Whoomf!”

He felt another. The thumps were irritating, but not painful. No bite. No grabs. No getting torn apart by ravenous claws. The tactical earplugs where dampening the thunder. He looked up.

“Whoomf!”

Big Ugly Guy was standing over him, pumping out round after round from his giant man-cannon.

“The only one that gets to kick the gnome’s butt is me!” Big Ugly Guy yelled, laying down a continuous barrage into the advancing undead. G-Raff tipped to his left, ending up on his side, staring into the distillery. The werewolf was running away.

“Fuzzy?” G-Raff said, a pit in his stomach forming at the thought of his companion still attached to the werewolf’s face. He coughed again, shook his head and saw the lump of fur on the concrete floor a few feet from him. It was Fuzzy Monkey, its one eye looking at G-Raff, strap arm laid just so, reaching toward him. G-Raff tried to stretch out his own hand, but his world went as black as the werewolf’s eye.