Disclaimer! Please read this before you read the story!

The acts by the main character of this story do not reflect my beliefs on how a police officer should behave. Due to the significance and importance of the movement against police brutality, especially towards people of color, I thought it was important to let people know where I stand, which is firmly on the side of justice and equality for those that have been disenfranchised by our law enforcement system. I am firmly a believer that Black Lives Matter, and that our system has failed the black community in ways that I will never even begin to truly understand as a white man. What I can do is listen to and sympathize with those that have experienced the systemic failings of our justice system firsthand and be an advocate and voice for much needed change.

James O’Malley, the main character of this story, is not a good man and is certainly not a good cop. What he is, is a character archetype known as the “Cowboy Cop”. Think Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry, Timothy Olyphant as Raylan Givens in the show Justified, and any of the many actors who portrayed Phillip Marlowe. These “Cowboy Cops” are entertaining to both read about and watch. Case in point, Justified is one of my favorite television shows of all time and O’Malley was designed as a mixture between Phillip Marlowe and Agent K from Men in Black. However, in the end we have to remember that these are fictional characters designed to entertain us. In the real world, when police officers behave this way they need to be held to account for their actions, certainly not glorified. In the real world, James O’Malley should be sitting in a jail cell.

That all said, I hope you enjoy Kidneys and Ray Guns, the first of what may be an anthology of stories set in an alternate reality Boston where aliens and humans live in a tentative harmony. Welcome to The Hub of the Universe.

PS – There is a lot of swearing in this story. It is set in Boston after all.

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Detective James O’Malley took a drag from his cigarette as he got off the elevator.  An officer lifted the police tape for him and pointed at the third door on the right.

“There’s no smoking here, detective,” the officer said.

O’Malley looked at the officer for a second, cigarette butt hanging out of his mouth the whole time.  The young cop swallowed hard under the pressure of O’Malley’s gaze and tried to keep his composure in the detective’s intimidating presence.  O’Malley finally shrugged and spit the still-lit cigarette at the wall across from the officer and walked towards the crime scene.  Behind him, the uniformed officer stamped out the cigarette and muttered something nasty under his breath.  O’Malley smiled smugly and entered the apartment.

Uniformed officers swarmed the tiny apartment, picking it apart for details.  The studio was barely bigger than O’Malley’s office down at the precinct, with the bed at one end and a kitchen counter at the other.  In between the two was a man in a suit kneeling over what had once been the occupant of the apartment, now little more than a pile of meat.

O’Malley recognized the detective as Bobby Callaghan from District B-2.  Lazy, but not crooked like so many seemed to be these days.  Hopefully, he had done all the preliminary work on the scene so O’Malley wouldn’t be stuck here all night.

O’Malley slid off his overcoat, a classic light tan trench coat, and took off his matching fedora.  He dumped them on some unsuspecting uniformed officer, who promptly ditched them on a nearby chair.  He loosened his tie and pulled a toothpick out of his pocket, slipping it into the corner of his mouth before kneeling down next to the remains of the victim.

“What’s the scoop, Bobby?” O’Malley asked as he looked over the remains.

The body was mostly intact, as in more than half the body was the way it was supposed to be, minus being dead and all.  Unfortunately, the part of the body between the hips and the armpits was nowhere to be found, in its place a gory, bloody mix of flesh, blood, and bone. 

“Another goddam mess is what we got, Jimmy.”  Callaghan pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped some sweat from his forehead.  “I dunno how you deal with this shit, Jimmy.  Every time I look at this poor kid I can feel the puke comin’ up.  Fuck.”

“Someone has to do it.”  O’Malley pulled a pen from his pocket and used it to lift some of the remains of the clothing from the victim’s body.  The edges looked as if they had been burnt.  A closer look at the open edges of the skin revealed similar heat scarring.

“Who’s our victim?” O’Malley stood up and started casing the apartment.

Callaghan put his glasses on and opened his notepad.  “Jennifer Dougherty, twenty-one years old, human, identified as female.  Student at Northeastern and part-time bartender down at one of the college bars over on Boylston.  Looks like her family lives out in Lancaster.  We got the call about the body at about a quarter of three when a neighbor walked past the open door.”

The apartment itself was in good shape, except for the door, which had been blown off the hinges when the perp entered, and some broken dishes and bottles around the kitchen, likely caused by the very brief struggle between the victim and the perp.  The cupboards above the sink and stove were destroyed, their contents scattered around the floor.  O’Malley noticed that there was a slight smell of vinegar in the air, possibly from some of the broken condiments that were scattered about.

“Here’s how I think things went down,” O’Malley began. “Our perp, a real big son of a bitch, came through the door roughly two hours ago.  Our vic had just gotten home from working at the bar or from goin’ out with her girls and was making herself a nightcap.  The perp kicked the door down and grabbed the girl as she was getting something out of the fridge, slammed her against the cabinets a few times like a ragdoll, likely killing her at that point, before laying her carefully out on the ground.  Based on the burns on the clothes and the skin, some sort of high energy device was used to open Ms. Dougherty up, at which point our perp removed all of her internal organs very carefully before leaving back through the front door with the organs.”

Dougherty flipped through his pad and looked at the remains of the victim.  “You sure about those organs, Jimmy?  I mean, there is a fuck-ton of human remains here.  Some of it could be her guts, right?”

O’Malley shook his head.  “Take a closer look.  The only thing remotely solid in that mess is bones.  This also matches the M.O. of a case I’m working on.  Two other vics, both laid out and opened up just like this girl.”

“Well shit, Jimmy, looks like you got your hands full with this one.”  Callaghan had a clear look of relief now that he knew he wouldn’t have to work the case.  “Fuckin’ aliens, am I right?”

“Fuckin’ aliens, Bobby.  Fuckin’ aliens.” O’Malley agreed as he donned his jacket and hat.  “Have the blue-shirts wrap everything up and then call it a night.” 

“Sure thing, Jimmy,” Callaghan replied, eager to be done with this crime scene.

O’Malley lit up another cigarette as he stepped out of the apartment and made his way down the hall.  He tapped the call button for the elevator and waited patiently for it to arrive.  With a loud ding, the elevator doors slid open and he stepped inside.  He pressed the G button and then depressed the close doors button.

“It’s gonna be a long goddam day,” O’Malley thought aloud as the elevator doors closed behind him.

O’Malley strolled into Police HQ at quarter past eight.  He hadn’t bothered going home from the crime scene, instead opting to get some sleep in the back seat of his Corolla in the department parking lot.  Either nobody noticed or nobody cared that he was fifteen minutes late, one of the positives of working in a one-man department.  Most alien law enforcement was handled at the federal level, so the city didn’t feel it necessary to budget for more than a single detective in Alien Investigations.

He made his way quickly through the detectives’ bullpen to his office.  On the frosted glass of his door read the words: Detective James O’Malley: Alien Investigations Unit.  He slammed the door behind him and threw his fedora at the hat rack, the hat landing perfectly on top.  He tossed his jacket on the couch and made his way to his seat behind the large wooden desk.  He opened the window directly behind the desk and basically fell into his office chair, pulling an ashtray and a bottle of scotch from the bottom drawer of the desk a moment later.  He poured himself a glass and lit up another cigarette and started pouring over his notes.

There were two folders on O’Malley desk:  one was for a sixty-eight-year-old retired pediatrician who lived in Beacon Hill and the other was for a forty-four-year-old mother of four from Brighton.  Both of them had expired within the past week.  As it happened, both had been carved up by a high energy tool like last night’s victim and were also missing all their insides.

A quick knock was followed by the door to O’Malley’s office swinging open.  Julianna Ortiz, his secretary, entered the office and waved a folder that she was grasping in one of her tentacles in the air.  Like most Taurish people, she had purple, scaly skin and walked on six tentacles.  In place of her arms were two more long, slender feelers with three grasping mandibles at the end.  She was wearing a yellow sundress with a white shawl today.  She had three large, emerald-colored eyes and an oddly human-shaped mouth.  On top of her head were countless antennae that she would fashion like human hair, assuming that hair sometimes moved around like it has a mind of its own.  Today she wore a plastic headband that held her antennae back.

“You shouldn’t be smokin’ in her, James,” Julianna said as she looked at him disapprovingly.

“Sorry Jules, it won’t happen again,” O’Malley lied as he put out the cigarette in his ashtray.  “Is that the Dougherty file?  Say, that dress really brings out the green in your eyes.  Did you do something new with your antennae?  It looks good!”

Julianna threw the file at his desk and glared at him.  “Nice try.  You think flattering me will make me forget that you were fifteen minutes late?  Again?”  She placed her arm feelers where her hips would be.

“Yes?” O’Malley answered hesitantly.

 Julianna huffed loudly before slithering out of his office.  She slammed the door behind her with such strength that O’Malley was sure it would break the glass.

“Thank you for the file!” O’Malley yelled through the door.

With his daily scolding from Julianna complete, it was time to get to work.  He placed the new file next to the others.  Three victims, all killed with a similar modus operandi and all missing their internal organs.  Unfortunately, that is where the similarities ended between the victims. The first, the sixty-eight-year-old doctor, was killed in his home in Beacon Hill in the early evening.  The second, the forty-four-year-old mother, was murdered in her apartment in Brighton in the early morning.  And the last, the twenty-one-year-old college student died in her studio in Mission Hill in the dead of night.

O’Malley opened up all three folders and started to piece together what he knew.  He lit another cigarette and took a sip of his scotch.

First fact: the killings all happened in Boston neighborhoods in the past week.  This meant that the killer was likely a local or here for an extended amount of time.  Second, the killer was inhumanly strong; strong enough to swing a grown woman around like a doll.  There were a few different species that fit that bill that O’Malley could think off the top of his head.  Third, heat scarring on the victims indicated that they were operated on with a high energy device, either a tool or weapon, after they were killed, and their organs were harvested and taken with by the killer.   No clue yet as to why the organs were taken.

O’Malley downed the rest of his glass of scotch and ran his hands through his unkempt hair.  He looked over the photos again, examining the bodies in detail.  He put the three pictures next to each other and took a look at the way that the energy device had cut through the corpses.  It looked like the first was a bit shaky, while the second was very clean, and the third looked like the perp had rushed, with lots of uneven edges and extra cuts.  He knew this was significant but couldn’t quite figure out what it meant.

More questions than answers so far in this case.  Why were these seemingly random individuals killed?  What was the killer doing with the organs?  And why did the cuts on the body look different in each case?

Making affairs worse it was also only a matter of time before the media picked up on this case.  Human-Alien relations in Boston and around the country were already at an all-time low; the last thing they needed was an alien serial killer to add fuel to the anti-alien sentiment seemingly harbored by so many.

O’Malley extinguished his cigarette and pressed his intercom connection to Julianna’s desk: “Jules, can you call archives and let them know I’m on my way over?”

“Sure thing, detective,” Julianna’s voice replied over the intercom.

“Another thing: if three of the same items are cut with the same tool following the same pattern but they all end up different, what would that tell you?”  O’Malley waited for Julianna’s answer.

“Is this a riddle?” she asked, slightly irritated.

“Humor me on this one, its important,” O’Malley said.

There was a pause and then finally Julianna responded.

“Three different people did the cutting is what I would guess,” Julianna answered.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking too,” O’Malley answered.  “Thanks, Jules, you’re a lifesaver!”

“Whatever,” was the last thing Jules said as the intercom clicked off on her end.

O’Malley donned his coat and fedora and hustled out the office door, hoping this new train of thought would lead in the right direction.

Buried in the basement of HQ was the Alien archives.  Every single extraterrestrial event, species, and individual since the Great Ingress of ’98 was recorded here at length.  From the signing of The Residential Treaty by President Clinton in ’99 to the Vegan Uprising in ‘07 to the crime empire of notorious Fomalhautian gang boss Zab Nibdrox, every minute detail about the extraterrestrials on earth was stored in the archives.

O’Malley stepped out of the elevator and entered the archives.  The archives were the most modern part of HQ, filled with the latest in computer technology and holograms and all sorts of science fiction nonsense.  All this fancy tech was beyond him; he preferred his tried and true system of pen and paper.

“Konnichiwa, Todd!”  O’Malley greeted the young man behind the desk.

“For the last time detective, I’m not Japanese.”  Todd Martin stood up from his chair behind the desk and gave O’Malley an irritated look.

“Are you sure?” O’Malley asked.

“Pretty sure.”  Todd exhaled deeply.  “What can I do for you, detective.”

“I need some information.”  O’Malley pulled his notepad from his pocket.  “First, a list of species with super strength.  Second, a detailed history of the illegal human organ trade in Boston.  Third, all known alien criminal organizations in the city, past and present.  Finally, a list of those species whose native weapon tech employed high energy beams.”

Todd tapped away at his keyboard as O’Malley spoke.  After a moment he lifted his head.  “Anything else detective?”

“A coffee and a bagel would be nice.”  O’Malley joked.

Todd rolled his eyes and pointed to the first booth on the right.  “Your requested information will be in booth one momentarily.”

“Domo arigato, Todd!” O’Malley said and made his way to the booth.

“I was born in Cambridge to third-generation Americans, you racist prick,” Todd muttered under his breath while faking a smile.

O’Malley entered the booth and a door slid closed.  He hung his jacket and hat on a hook on the wall before taking a seat on a small stool.  As he sat down, the booth went dark for a moment.  A few seconds later a virtual guide appeared before him.

“Thank you for accessing the Alien Archives,” The holographic man said.  “I have compiled the information you requested, and I am ready to display.  How would you like to proceed?”  Several options formed a list in the air next to the holographic concierge.

“Can you overlap all four requirements and generate a likely suspect list from there?”  O’Malley asked the machine.

“Please wait.”  The holographic man vanished for a moment, leaving O’Malley sitting in the dark booth alone.  A few moments later he reappeared.

“I have compiled those requirements into a single list and ranked them from best match to worst based on your requirements.”  The concierge went still, waiting for O’Malley’s input.

The list was shorter than he expected.  Only three different results came back.  The first was the Alpha Centaurians, who ran various semi-legit businesses in the North End.  Seemingly infatuated with Italian American culture, they established themselves as the de-facto mafia organization of the city in the early 2000s.  Standing between seven and eight feet tall with four massive arms, they were physically imposing and known for high-tech weaponry.  They had briefly been in the human organ trade back around 2010 but most of the family moved down to Rhode Island shortly after that due to the crackdown on organized crime in Boston.  They were bit players in Boston these days, keeping to illegal gambling and side hustles as opposed to any major crime.

The Denebs of Southie were next up.  While not physically imposing themselves, they often hired muscular help, such as Reguloids or Vegans.  Their involvement in the human organ trade was more often as customers as opposed to dealers; Denebs were carnivores with a known taste for human flesh.  The Boston Denebs were mostly drug runners and they likely wouldn’t risk their cartel over a small stake in the organ business.  The only way they would get involved in selling would be if it was on a much larger scale, such as the California Deneb Cartel which handled the illegal human organ trafficking for the entire west coast.

Last was the Magellanic Cloud People.  No physical bodies to speak of, they were literally floating colored clouds.  They also had rather powerful psychic powers.  They weren’t a crime organization per se, but rather just disregarded most human law in general as they felt it was beneath them.  They would sometimes start different rackets just to remind the other species who were the most powerful.  They used to have a part in all the illicit operations in Boston but seemingly got bored with it and have been complacent to just watch the ocean in Winthrop.  They were oddly fascinated by whales, specifically the humpbacks.  Maybe they knew what the whales have been singing about all this time.  Unfortunately for the rest of us, they would never share it if they did know.

“Who’s running the Centaurian family these days?”  O’Malley asked the concierge. 

“The de facto head of the Centaurian family in Boston is Sal Glorpfash.”  The concierge said and brought up a map of the North End.  “He owns a cigar bar called the Coalsack Nebula on Hanover Street.”

“Known Associates?”  O’Malley asked

“Two of his brood act as bodyguards.  Their names are Nicky and Tony.  His first concubine, Maria, runs the day to day operations at the Coalsack.”  The concierge vanished replaced by three more very large Centaurians, one of which was wearing a 1950’s style dress.  “His other four concubines stay at their home in Winchester caring for his thirty-two pupae.  A Belltrish accountant named (three different whistle tones followed by a shrill noise) Jones Jr. handles Mr. Glorpfash’s finances.”  A small, tripodal creature with two little arms and large eyes on an oversized head replaced the three Centaurians.  “Those are his closest associates; of the seven hundred and thirty-two Alpha Centaurians in the city, eighty-six of them are known to associate with or work directly for Mr. Glorpfash.  Records also indicate that Mr. Glorpfash is deeply in debt to his brother, Rizzo Glorpfash of the Providence Glorpfash family.”

“Well, well, well,” O’Malley muttered to himself.  “We have a means and now we have a motive.  I think it’s time to pay Sal a visit.”

O’Malley stood up, causing the archive booth lights to come back on and dismissing the holographic concierge.  The door slid open behind him.  He grabbed his jacket and put his hat on as he stepped away from the small chamber.

“Did you find everything you were looking for, detective?”  Todd asked from his desk across the room.

“Sure did, kid.  Sayanora, Todd!” O’Malley donned his coat and stepped through the doors, exiting the archive.

“Asshole,” Todd said as he shook his head in disgust.

O’Malley double-parked his Corolla on Tremont Street directly in front of the Coalsack Nebula.  O’Malley reached into his glove box and rifled through it.  He pulled out napkins and the Corolla manual and far too many loose bullets until he finally found what he was looking for: a solid gold knuckle duster.  He slid the weapon onto his right hand and gripped it hard.  As he stepped out of the car, he slid his hand into his coat pocket concealing the knuckles.

Holding the door to the Coalsack open was a statue of a Centaurian in a suit holding a cigar box.  The opposite door listed their services, including cigars, premium liquors, earthworm cocktails, and something known as an Artellian Screwdriver with a warning sign underneath stating it was fatal to humans.

O’Malley walked down the stairs and pushed open the door, triggering a little bell.  To his right was a glass humidor, filled with cigar boxes from around the world.  Adjacent to the cabinet was the bar, which Maria Glorpfash stood behind cleaning glasses with all four hands while wearing a different fifties style dress.  At the far end of the room was a table, with three Centaurians and a Belltrish man sitting at it.  The sound of the bell prompted two of the Centaurians, Nicky and Tony, to stand up and make their way towards O’Malley.  Sal and Jones Jr. went immediately back to their conversation.

“Whatcha doin’ here, pig?” Nicky asked O’Malley.  Nicky stood at least two feet taller than O’Malley and was built like a small warehouse.  He wore a black, sleeveless shirt and flexed all four arms menacingly.

“Yeah, we don’t serve your kind here, cop.”  Tony put extra emphasis on the word cop as if he were using it as an insult.  “Why don’t you scurry along back home before something bad happens.”  Tony unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt and began the long process of rolling up all four sleeves.

“What’d you say?” O’Malley asked and held his left hand to his ear in a cupping motion.  “It sounded like a threat, but I may be mistaken.  My hearing is going in my old age.  Could you say it one more time, a little louder and closer?”

As Tony leaned in O’Malley pulled his right hand from the pocket and swung hard at Tony’s face.  The golden knuckle duster made contact with a dull thud, sending green scales and blue blood flying in every direction.  Tony hit the ground with a thud and started screaming.

“It burns!” he yelled as he held his face with all four hands and rolled around like a toddler having a tantrum.  Centaurians were ultra-sensitive to gold, which meant Tony wasn’t getting up any time soon.

Once Nicky realized what was happening, he reached for a weapon behind his back. He was too late though, as O’Malley already had his gun drawn and leveled on Nicky’s head.  O’Malley pulled the hammer back on his .45 and glared at the Centaurian thug.

“Let’s not be hasty and do something we regret now,” O’Malley warned the Centaurian.  “Three hands up in the air and slowly pull the ray gun out from your belt with your fourth and toss it to the floor in front of me.  Any sudden movements and you’re getting an extra hole in your face.”

Nicky complied, slowly pulling the odd-shaped energy weapon out before giving it a soft throw towards O’Malley.  It hit the ground with a plastic sounding thud at his feet.

“Now pick up your brother and get the fuck out of here.  There’s a free clinic over on Washington Street; tell them James O’Malley sent you and they’ll get him all patched up.  May even give you a discount.”  O’Malley motioned to the door with his gun.  “Now, shoo.”

Nicky picked up the still screaming Tony and half dragged, half carried him to the door.  O’Malley un-cocked his .45 and slid it back into his holster.  He picked up the surprisingly heavy alien gun and made his way to the back corner.

“Sal Glorpfash!”  O’Malley said as he pulled out a chair across from the Centaurian and sat down.  “How long has it been?  Five, six years?”

“Not long enough, O’Malley.”  Sal spit on the floor next to him and leaned over the table, resting his chin on two of his hands.  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

O’Malley pointed the ray gun at Jones Jr., eliciting a squeak from the diminutive alien.  “I think it’s time for you to leave, Junior.”

Without wasting a moment, the tripod scurried off, hands waving in the air above his head and making a loud warbling noise.  From the sound of it, the warbling continued well out the exit and down the street.

“Does he always leave like that?”  O’Malley asked while stifling a laugh.  “He does realize I can’t even use this thing, right?”  O’Malley slid the ray gun across to Sal.  Alien weapons were useless in the hands of humans thanks to genetic locking.

“More often than I’d like to admit on the crazy running and let’s just say guns aren’t Junior’s weapon of choice if you catch my meaning.  Give him some numbers and a little money, however, and he becomes the most dangerous alien on this stinkin’ rock.” Sal whistled to get Maria’s attention.  “Hey toots, get me an Earthworm cocktail, and a scotch, “he paused and turned to O’Malley who nodded, “and a scotch for the detective.  The middle shelf on the scotch, we don’t want him thinking we’re cheap but also don’t want to give him the idea that we’re glad he’s here.” Sal let out a hearty laugh

“Sure thing, darlin’,” Maria answered from behind the bar.

O’Malley smirked and took his fedora off, laying it on the table.  He personally wished that all the alien criminals in Boston operated like Sal.  He knew the rules; knew how to play the game.  There was a screwed-up kind of honor to how Sal operated, and O’Malley appreciated that.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Sal.”  O’Malley pulled his .45 from the holster and laid on the table next to his fedora.  “Word has it that you owe your brother Rizzo some serious money.  Like enough scratch to get you back in some shady business practices.”  O’Malley paused for a moment to gauge Sal’s reaction.

Sal crossed both sets of arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.  He had a slight scowl, clearly not happy that his finances were common knowledge.

“Human organ trafficking is good money.  We’ve got a diverse market here in Boston and plenty of carnivore species that fancy human meat.  With the economy looking the way it is, now would be a great time to get back in on the black market organ trade.”  O’Malley smirked, confident that he was on the right path.  He pulled three pictures, one of each of the victims, out of a coat pocket and threw them on the table.  “All you gotta do is tell me which of your boys have been cuttin’ folks open to get you product and I’m sure we can work with the DA to get you a reduced sentence, maybe even let you serve it out at the lovely house of yours up in Winchester.”

“You try fitting thirty-two pupae, two grown sons, and five concubines in a six-bedroom and it becomes a lot less lovely real quick, let me tell you,” Maria queued in as she made her way to the table, drinks in hand.  She placed the sifter of scotch in front of O’Malley and martini glass of pickled olives and live earthworms in front of Sal.  “I think I speak for all the concubines when I say that you guys can have him; frees up a ton of room in the house!” she laughed and made her back to the bar.

Sal chuckled and raised his glass full of horror to O’Malley.  “Salud,” he said before downing the worm cocktail in a single gulp.  O’Malley returned the toast and took a large gulp of his scotch.

“Well, you got me, detective,” Sal finally said after a few moments of silence.  “I am back in the human organ business and I’d be lying if I said that business wasn’t boomin’.”  He reached over to a pile of papers that Jones Jr. had been going through and started rifling through them.  Finding the one he wanted, he pulled it from the pile and handed it to O’Malley.

“What’s this?” O’Malley asked as he grabbed the paper.

“It’s an agreement between the city of Boston and Glorpfash Distributions LLC; a joint venture with my brother, Rizzo.”  Sal reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar.  He put in his mouth while striking a match with one of his other hands.  “Gives my organization exclusive rights on organs coming out of the city morgues that are marked for carnivore distribution.”  He lit the cigar and took a deep draw before blowing a cloud of smoke in O’Malley’s face.  “We’ve gone legit, you stooge.”

O’Malley cussed under his breath as he read the agreement, signed at the bottom by Mayor Walsh himself.  “This doesn’t mean your boys didn’t do this.”  O’Malley tossed the paper across the table.  “Maybe shipments were a little light this week or you were trying to make a few extra bucks.  Just cause you have a legit front doesn’t mean you’re not looking to fill up your stores through other means.”  O’Malley was reaching at this point; the second he saw that paper he knew that his hunch about Sal’s involvement was wrong.

“Listen, detective, you’ve got the wrong guy.”  Sal picked up the pictures of the victims and looked them over.  “This is some gruesome shit, O’Malley.  I hope you catch this sick bastard.”  Sal tossed the pictures back at O’Malley and took another puff on his cigar.  “Is there anything else, detective?”

O’Malley was beaten and he knew it.  With Sal out of the picture, he was back to square one on this case.  He grabbed his gun and holstered it before finishing off the scotch.  He placed the sifter back on the table and donned his fedora, lowering the front rim to hide his defeat.

“Thanks for the scotch, Sal.”  O’Malley stood up and pushed his chair in.  “And tell Tony I’m sorry about smashing his face in.”

“Eh, he probably deserves it,” Sal said with a laugh.  “Gives me an excuse to cut their allowances since you roughed ‘em up so bad.  I should be thanking you.”

“In that case, my pleasure.”  O’Malley tipped his hat towards Maria.  She smiled and waved farewell with one hand while organizing the bar with the other three.

“Hey detective,” Sal yelled as O’Malley opened the door to leave.  “Bein’ the generous man I am, let me give you some advice.  You ain’t lookin’ for a pro.  You won’t find anyone with any of the syndicates out here that would be that sloppy.  That’s amateur work if I’ve ever seen it, like the way a junkie lookin’ for a fix doesn’t care that he robbed someone in front of a camera.  Whoever or whatever did that, is dangerous.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” O’Malley said as he stepped out the door.  He pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and made his way up the stairs and onto the street.  He lit his butt and took a big drag before blowing the cloud of smoke out his nose.

“Like a junkie, huh?”  O’Malley thought to himself aloud. 

As the words passed his lips, everything clicked into place for O’Malley.  The cigarette fell from his mouth and he rushed to his Corolla, sliding over the hood to the driver’s side, ignoring the parking ticket on the windshield.  He whipped open the door and jumped inside and started the car.

“Car, call Todd!” he yelled at the hand-free system.

“Calling Bob,” the Corolla replied in a monotone voice.

“Todd, you miserable, insufferable, piece of shit!” O’Malley screamed as he slammed the ‘End Call’ button.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the number for the alien archives.

“Boston Police Department, Alien Archives, this is Todd spea…” came Todd’s voice over the car speakers.

“Todd! It’s O’Malley!”

“What can I do for you, detective?” Todd sounded less than pleased to hear from O’Malley.

“I was looking at the case from the wrong side!” O’Malley admitted.  “It wasn’t human organ traffickers, it was a human organ consumer.  A carnivorous alien did this!”

“Let me pull up your case from this morning.”  Todd clicked away at the keyboard.  “That doesn’t narrow your list of suspects down, detective.  It actually makes your list much larger.  There are over a dozen different carnivorous species in greater Boston, and seven of them will eat human meat.”

“We’re looking for a species that meets a few requirements.” O’Malley pulled out his notepad and flipped to the page for this case.  “One, superstrength.  Two, human organ addictive tendencies. Three, access to industrial-strength lasers or high-energy weapons.  Lastly, ethanol-based saliva; the type that turns to vinegar when it is exposed to the Oxygen in the air.”

“Ok, give me a second.”  Todd’s end of the call went silent other than the sound of his fingers rapidly tapping away at a keyboard.  “We have one hit, detective: Reguloids.  Reguloids can get violently addicted to the chemicals in human kidneys.  The high usually lasts around 24 to 48 hours, at which point they become increasingly agitated and will display violent tendencies if they don’t get another fix.  There’s a Reguloid warren in Dorchester, home to thirteen of them, and the entire group works the docks at Conley Terminal, which is how they have access to industrial laser cutting tools.  Looking in the database they did get two new arrivals on last week’s shuttle.  Odds are one of those two is your perpetrator.”

“Todd, I couldn’t do this job without you.” O’Malley laid on the horn and waved for the car in front of him to move.  “Do me a favor, send this info over to the DA, and let them know that under the Alien Habitation and Enforcement Act of  2007 that I am authorized to use lethal force if necessary to prevent any further loss of human life.  After that, send the files on the two new Reguloids to my phone.”

“Understood, detective,” Todd said, and a moment later, “Be careful with this one; Reguloids can be incredibly dangerous.”

“Didn’t know you cared, Todd!”  O’Malley laughed and ended the call before Todd could refute.  He flipped the switch for his strobes and floored the accelerator, spinning the tires and sending the Corolla towards Conley Terminal, deep in Southie.

O’Malley flipped the strobes off as he pulled up to the gate for Conley Terminal at the end of East 1^st Street.  He rolled down his window and held his badge outside of the car so the security guard could see it.  A moment later, the gate rolled open and the guard ushered O’Malley to drive in.  He drove past the rows upon rows of containers until he found a lot in front of a warehouse.  He parked the Corolla and hopped out, slamming the door behind him.  He popped the trunk and peeked in at his arsenal of unique weapons, each one designed for dealing with extraterrestrial threats

Reguloids were one of the larger alien species on Earth.  Cavern dwellers on their own planet, they weren’t too dissimilar from terrestrial moles, assuming that moles were three meters tall and built like a sasquatch on steroids.  Their skin was also incredibly hardy, which meant firearms were essentially useless.  Luckily, O’Malley had just the tool in mind for dealing with this guy.  He pulled a black case about four feet long and six inches wide and deep out of his trunk and slung it over his shoulder.  He shut the trunk and made his way towards the cranes next to the warehouse.

Workers of all species looked to Conley Terminal for employment.  The relatively low gravity of Earth compared to a lot of planets meant that many species were suited for the sort of heavy, manual labor that was needed here.  Boston was also a progressive city and prided itself on its diverse multi-terrestrial workforce.  Businesses were incentivized to hire aliens in the form of tax breaks and government funding.

O’Malley recognized a Reguloid named Smitty wearing a yellow hard hat and a pair of jeans.  Like most of his kind, he wore a pair of thick goggles to protect his sensitive eyes from the glaring sun.  Smitty was one of the foremen here at Conley and the head of the Reguloid warren in Dorchester.

“Smitty, long time no see!” O’Malley greeted the ten-foot-tall alien and offered his hand.

“Jimmy O’Malley!” Smitty replied excitedly, grasping O’Malley’s hand and shaking it gently for a Reguloid.  “I can’t believe you’re still alive, you crazy little human!”

“Neither can I most days.” They both laughed at O’Malley’s reply like a pair of old friends.

“So, what brings you down to Conley today?  Chasing a nebula gas smuggling ring?  Intergalactic prostitution?  Tax evasion?”  Smitty had a hearty laugh at his own witticisms.

“I wish Smitty.  Got a serial killer on our hands.”  O’Malley pulled out his phone and pulled up pictures of two Reguloids, the new arrivals from last week.  “I got a few questions for a few of your boys, the two new guys that came in last week.”

Smitty leaned in looked at the pictures closely.  He blocked the sun out with one of his massive hands and gently positioned O’Malley’s phone in a way that he could make out the individuals in question clearly.

“Yeah, those two came in last week.  Seemed like good kids, hope they didn’t get mixed up anything too bad.”  He pointed to red-furred Reguloid working with a cutting torch.  “That’s Inglogferdurz,” he pointed to another Reguloid, this one with yellow fur sitting at a table with a lunchbox, “and that’s his brother Tim.”

Tim looked up from his lunchbox over at O’Malley and Smitty right as Smitty pointed at him.  In a panic, he flipped the table and bolted away towards the warehouse.

“HEY!” O’Malley yelled as he took off after Tim.  “POLICE! FREEZE!”

Tim ignored O’Malley’s call and kicked open a warehouse door on the nearest side of the building before ducking down and squeezing in.

O’Malley turned to Smitty: “Clear the yard!  Get your boys outta this area, pronto!”  He sprinted towards the warehouse as he heard Smitty yelling to his workers to clear the area.

At the Warehouse door, O’Malley stopped and pulled the black case from his shoulders.  He took off his jacket and hat and unbuckled the case before opening it ever so carefully.  Inside, cushioned by the velvet interiors of the case, was a metal baseball bat with the words “Big Papi” and the number 34 engraved on the side.  He carefully lifted it out of the case, donned a pair of batter’s gloves, and gripped the bat tightly with both hands.  After taking a deep breath he got his bearings and kicked the door open and charged into the dark warehouse.

The building was mostly empty, just a bunch of barrels and shelves along with a couple forklifts and stacks of empty pallets.  The light from outside barely made it into the building, and the few fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling lightly illuminated the floor.  Tim stood in the center of the warehouse, desperately looking around for an exit.  Unfortunately for him, the only door that was unlocked was the one that O’Malley just came through.

“Listen, Tim, I just want to talk,” O’Malley said as he edged closer to the agitated Reguloid.  As he got closer, he started to see the telltale signs of withdrawal on Tim’s face.  His yellow fur was standing on end and sweat was building up anywhere skin was exposed.  His entire body had a slight shiver and tremor too it.

“Shit of cow, cop!” Tim yelled back, his accent thick and very alien.  “Tim know wut happen to Alien wut kill yuman!  Antennae for antennae as dey say!  You here to kill Tim!”  He raised up in a threatening manner taking a step towards O’Malley.

O’Malley swung the bat in a full circle in his hand.

One, O’Malley counted to himself

“Listen, kid, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”  O’Malley began to circle towards Tim’s left side, keeping himself in between Tim and the exit.  “I’d much rather take you downtown and we can discuss this like civilized sapient beings.”

Tim paused for a second, seeming to consider O’Malley’s offer.  After a moment he began to shake his head in disagreement.

“No, it too late, Tim feels need to eat again!”  He looked up at O’Malley and began to drool slightly, the scent of vinegar filling the air.  “Maybe I eat you and solve both problems!”

With that, negotiations were over.  Tim charged at O’Malley, five hundred pounds of muscle and rage heading full speed towards O’Malley’s lithe frame.  Tim lunged at O’Malley with both arms, claws at the edge of all four fingers fully extended.  O’Malley rolled to his side out of the lunge and wildly swung the bat, bringing it around another full circle.

Two.

Tim turned and swung wildly at O’Malley, each time only catching air in his grip.  O’Malley was spry for his age and dodged every swing easily.  Tim would swing high; O’Malley would dodge low.  Tim went high, O’Malley would backstep out of reach.  Another big two-handed lunge had O’Malley sidestepping out of reach and countering with another wild swing of his bat, this one just over Tim’s head and pulling O’Malley in a full circle again.  He regained his footing and swung the bat in another full circle in his hands.

Three and four.

O’Malley decided it was time to go on the offensive.  Between his military service when he was younger and years working the tough streets of Boston, O’Malley was fairly adept at hand to hand combat.  He gripped the bat with his left hand and lashed out at Tim with a series of kicks followed by jabs with his right hand.  Tim blocked all of O’Malley attacks effortlessly, swatting the punches and kicks to the side.  O’Malley knew he couldn’t do any real damage with these strikes, rather he was trying to move Tim into just the right position.  As O’Malley quickly gazed to his left to see where the door was, he misplaced his footing and caught his heel on a loose pallet.  Before he could regain his balance, Tim caught O’Malley square in the chest with a punch, sending the detective tumbling backward head over heels.  He rolled himself onto his knees and spun the bat in another full circle.

Five.

O’Malley tried to stand but the pain in his chest was overwhelming.  Every time he tried to breathe there was agonizing pain and his mouth was filled with the iron taste of blood.  He coughed and cried out in pain, spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor.

“Why you bring toy to fight?” Tim asked as he closed in on O’Malley for the kill.  “You not hit Tim even one time with toy!”  He snickered and licked his lips, the vinegar stench overwhelming.

O’Malley held his hand out in front of him, hoping Tim would delay a second before devouring him.  “If you give me a sec before eating me, I’ll tell you all about my toy here.”

Tim glared at O’Malley from behind his goggles as he considered it.

“Ok, but you make talk fast.  Tim is hungry for human beans!” He bared his jagged teeth in a sick smile.

“Alright, I’ll tell you.”  O’Malley pulled a cigarette from his pocket and popped it in his mouth with his left hand, his right hand gripping the bat firmly.  “A friend made this for me.  A space dwarf blacksmith, believe it or not.  He even engraved the name number of greatest Red Sox player of the 2000s on it.”  He pointed to the Big Papi engraving on the side.

“Coolest part,” O’Malley continued.  “He made it from Pulsar Star Metal.  Not sure if you are aware but Pulsar Star Metal has some cool properties.  For example, Pulsar Star Metal can store rotational energy”

“Is this all?”  Tim asked, growing impatient.  “I kill you now.”

“Hold on a sec, you’ll get your chance.”  O’Malley pulled his lighter out and lit his cigarette.  He took a deep pull and blew a cloud of smoke out, blood dripping out of his mouth at the same time.  “This is where it gets really interesting so pay attention.

“The average batter releases roughly two hundred joules of energy when the bat makes contact with the ball.  Not a ton of energy, but enough to send a little ball flying through the air.”  O’Malley put both hands on the grip of the bat.  “Pulsar Star Metal stores rotational energy at an exponential rate.  In other words, I wasn’t missing you; I was powering up my bat while positioning myself to make sure I was to the south of you.” 

Tim cocked his large head, clearly confused.

“Do you know what 200 to the fifth power is, Tim?” O’Malley asked with a smirk

Tim shook his head.  “Tim not know.”

“Me neither!” O’Malley yelled as he stepped his left foot forward, pulled the bat back over his right shoulder, and swung with all of his might up at Tim’s midsection.  

When the bat made contact, the blast evaporated Tim from the knees up and blew out the entire northern wall of the warehouse.  From the warehouse all the way to the Boston Main Channel a few hundred yards away, the explosion obliterated everything that was caught in its path.  A trail of flame and debris a hundred meters wide cut the Conley Terminal’s container lot in half and sent one crane to a watery grave in the harbor.  The blast was so strong that a passenger plane across the channel at Logan had to delay its takeoff due to the extreme wind pressure and people down the street eating at Sullivan’s were knocked out of their chairs and left with a ringing sound in their ears.

A crowd began to grow next to the entrance of the warehouse.  Smitty had called the police and the sounds of sirens were growing in the background.  Human and alien alike were whispering back and forth, wondering what happened to cause such a blast.

A few moments later, the door opened and fell off its hinges.  O’Malley stepped out of the door, covered from head to toe in the purple-colored viscera that was once the Reguloid named Tim.  A lit cigarette hung out of his mouth and he held his bat in his right hand, dragging it across the pavement with each step.  Trails of his own dried blood were under his nose and ears.  With his left arm, he cradled his very broken ribs.  He stopped a few steps from the warehouse and slowly reached down to the ground and picked up his fedora, putting it on over his violet soaked hair.  He painstakingly grabbed his jacket and the bat case and stood up slowly, his ribs screaming in pain with every motion.  As he finished standing up, the remaining portion of the warehouse collapsed on top of itself, throwing a cloud of dust into the air that covered O’Malley with soot which stuck to him due to the adhesive nature of Reguloid blood.  Seemingly unfazed, he slowly turned and made his way towards his Corolla.

“Holy shit, O’Malley, are you ok?” Smitty asked.  It’s hard to read Reguloid faces, but it was pretty clear that Smitty was amazed to see O’Malley alive after that blast.

“Yep,” O’Malley answered his voice wheezing.  “Sorry about the warehouse.  Real shame about the kid too.  I gave him every chance to turn himself in.”  O’Malley coughed and choked before spitting out about a liter of blood.

“O’Malley, I think you need a doctor,” Smitty said.  “I’m no expert on humans, but I’m pretty sure you’re gonna die if you don’t get to the hospital.”

“Yeah, probably.”  O’Malley looked himself over.  “On the plus side, I only seem to be hurt on the inside.” Spike of pain shot through him as he started to laugh at his own joke, laughter turning to a sob. “Fuck; why do I do this every time?”

“You want me to call you an ambulance or something?” Smitty asked.  He motioned to one of the other Reguloids to make the call.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”  O’Malley rounded the corner of the remains of the warehouse and promptly dropped the bat, its case, and his jacket.  From the looks of it, part of the warehouse had fallen directly on his Corolla, crushing it.  He dropped to the ground and took a drag from his butt.

“Well, shit,” he said to no one in particular.  “The rest of my cigarettes were in there.”

O’Malley dropped to the curb, gently placing the bat on the ground while he sat on the pavement.  He glanced down the road at the procession of emergency vehicles made their way towards the wrecked warehouse, sirens wailing and lights flashing.  His body was screaming in pain with each breath and he struggled to hold himself upright. Eventually he surrendered to the pain and leaned back until he was lying on the ground, staring up at the blue sky above him.

“Another fun day in the Hub of the Universe,” O’Malley said to no one in particular.