Michael's Pub sounds like one of those trendy, toe tapping, ankle twisting, green beer drinking, thank God we Irish saved religion, we are right (All of us!) - Catholic and Church of England - about the good and evil of King Henry the Eighth, kind of bar. A place where we can claim our grandmother on our mothers side was 1/16^th Irish, are hearts go a-thump with the fervent love of fiddle music, cry when Irish pipes play eerily dissonant laments, and we have an unreasonable love of all things Gaelic.

Of course- Saints preserve us - if we hadn't seen Riverdance or had to admit to ourselves that the quirky hater of the See of Rome and Irish oft bald-diva renown - the Right Rev. O'Conner is, perhaps, a smidgen angelic and probably a-heap-o-nutty, we wouldn't drink ale at this dive or any it resembles. We would also have to admit the terrible truth that U2, a band we honestly like, is just mildly talented, with a very charismatic singer and a guitar player with a gift for memorably endless, though not tiring, repetitive riffs. Pubs are, for now and deservedly, cool.

Michael's Pub is not truly, after all the above, one of those places. It sits in a run down area the City Government has put on the back burner for so long that they invented an in-tray, in an office in which no one works. All letters, faxes, e-mails, phone calls, notices, crime reports, complaints, autopsy files, arrest warrants, law suits, tax assessments and anything else pertaining to the nine block square down by the Rivers edge is given to a person, to work on, that does not exist. It is a neighborhood inhabited by those that do not want to be noticed or found. A very interesting and convenient place, indeed. A place filled with vaguely Christian storefront-churches, here today - gone tomorrow soup kitchens, seedy Minus - AAA hotels, graffiti covered warehouses with doors that open to black cars, out of state trucks, shady shadow people, and lock up so fast that the dark interiors are never seen. The mostly unknown proprietors of said nondescript warehouse businesses are purveyors of most anything labeled, for legal purposes, contraband.

There is a Café, with a C rating from 1983. The rating was given because the plates and silverware didn't match, not because of cleanliness. The place is always spotless, but no one from downtown has been down here since the last inspection to see the new china and cutlery. An ex-cop, Johnny O'Shea, runs the Eatery. Of whom, 'tis said, got caught taking a bribe, did some time, learned a lot about cooking while in the joint, and came back to live in the environs of his old beat.

Old Johnny cooks wonderful food at a great price. He could care less about the conflicting and ridiculous maze of bureaucratic codes that infest the Health Departments of every City in the U.S. of A. Johnny, also, fences small stuff to those who need a little hand up, and equalizes situations, like when some hopped -up asshole decides a local homeless person has too many worldly possessions and not enough pain. Johnny, upon finding out about such deplorable actions, will extract the value of the stolen goods, with interest He will relocate the pain back onto the original owner and provide a slice of the best pie in the city to the injured party. He does this service free of charge. He sees it as a Christian community service and because, to him, it is recreation.

Michael, of Michael's Pub and Johnny, of Johnny's Cafe are good friends and have been for twenty years. When Johnny drove the beat in the then thriving area back in the early Eighties, Michael would keep him up on what was going on in the ten blocks. Between them a lot of bad guys fell without the muss and fuss involvement of liberal courts and unethical lawyers. The bad guys, that were left, did not like vigilantism, it was bad for business. They set up Johnny and put Michael in the hospital. When they could, Johnny and Michael, set it right. Life is, after all - long. Now, with those un-cooperative vermin eliminated, every thing in the nine blocks that now happened, Johnny and Michael got a piece. The Café and Bar sit strategically across the street from one another, between them, keeping what could be a terribly dangerous and grimy place into a, generally, quiet place to live. They even pay for an office in City Hall that ignores all that happens in their small part of the world.

They are also the owners of a large exterminator - pest control company and that is where our story really begins.

Sam Adams should not live here. He was a moderately successful Builder and all around good citizen. He played by the rules, fair or not. He was married and made two mistakes associated with the stupid but true phrase 'Location - Location - Location!'. He built five large houses in what should have been great areas but the large developer, who loaned Sam the building funds, stalled his adjacent projects and waited to force Sam into Bankruptcy. The Bastard picked up the foreclosed houses from his own bank at pennies on the dollar and finished his project. The second mistake believed was that there is a Justice System in the US that holds everyone equal under the law. Between arrogant and ignorant Judges, manipulative and unethical lawyers, Byzantine insurance companies, and an impatient and punitive IRS, the last of his money and dignity was stripped from him. Sam lost it all, in fact he now owed more than he had ever made in the whole of his life, including his will to play any longer in a rigged game.

The spiral down was a bad one, depression, any and all drugs, and eventually homelessness. He finally stood up and gave a 'Grand Finger' to the machinations of the so called 'Legitimate World' and decided to do as well as he could in another. He picked himself up a bit and became a thug and petty criminal. He took dark and dirty work as a thief and high-jacker. His size and previously learned fighting skills allowed him to be a collector of debts and bodyguard-cum-bouncer. Michael and Johnny took a liking to him and looked after him. They paid for computer classes and turned Sam into a regular Geek. He became quite a skilled Hacker. He had successfully removed his presence from almost every database in the country; he was effectively invisible. Michael and Johnny also had become Phantoms at Sammy-boy's skilled hands. This new tool kept taps on people, places, and things and the bosses liked doing it in this hi-tech modern way, it cut expenses and legwork.

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon when Michael called Sam up and told him to come by for a pint. Sam didn't mind at all. His eyes were screen blurry and he needed a break and he had some good stuff on some local politicians and a Judge or two. Michael could find the information available to put to good use. He had told him, over the phone, about a railroad deal that didn't smell right.

When he got to the Pub he noticed that Johnny's Café was closed. He wondered if Johnny was okay. He usually closed a little bit later in the day. Sam's concerns were allayed when he saw Johnny sitting at the bar with a stack of his locally famous Burgers on the bar top.

"Bosses, I hope a couple of those are for me. I haven't eaten all day." Sam said as he sat down on a barstool and nodded yes to the dark brew Michael poured.

"Sammy, if you must eat them all, I will go across the street and grill up more for me and Mike. Don't you worry, you help yourself."

Sam smiled and did help himself while Michael tossed a plate down and the frosty pint next to it. Nothing was said as the three enjoyed the sound of rain, the Burgers and the ale. It was often like that. Sam had never trusted two people more in his whole life. He loved them both as the Uncles he never had and would do anything they asked of him. They saved him, nothing less, and he felt he owed them his allegiance and his affection. All was, after all, well in the world.

Then - a stranger walked in and sat brazenly on the stool right next to Sam. He was too tall and too lanky. His fingers were twice as long as his palms and his wild mop of fiery red hair and goatee was startling. The stranger wore a work uniform with a logo on the back 'AAA Exterminator and Pest Control Company'. Above his pocket full of pens and thin metal objects was the name Adam. Sam was disturbed by the fact that he sat right next to him in an empty bar and Johnny got up and sat at a table by himself. Michael brought over a bottle of some German beer, sat down a plate with a burger on it, nodded to the stranger, as if he knew him, and went to sit with Johnny.

"I did not know that." Sam responded.

"No, Sam, in fact you did know it. It was a big frustration to you to have to pay the bastards so much as a penny for the frauds they were. It made you mad as hell. You had to put the time in, build good credit, achieve the skills and know- how, pass a test, pay for a bond and a licensee, buy Workman's Compensation and Liability Insurance, even to be in business. While, any fly-by-night, termite outfit - sin-credentialed can send an unskilled Yahoo, not unlike me, out and write out a bullshit report about structural damage and get to do the work. Yea… come in, claim to find the problem, fix it, or if you fix it, we have the insulting authority and audacity to inspect your qualified work. It was bad enough being hung out to dry anytime something went wrong, huh? City and County building departments illegally restraining trade, extorting building fees ' Money for nothing'," He sang in a high pitched voice."… And usurping property rights… Architects charging outrages fees and taking no liability for the product they designed… Lawyers lobbying for laws that make the Builder responsible for everything-always and forever. Then, the very same son's of Satan filing frivolous lawsuits in courts, with judges that don't even know how to spell Business Law. Never you mind even know that a bi-lateral contract is not an ultimately negotiable instrument for a bastard who has already has got the work done and just doesn't want to pay the agreed on amount. Or, how about, the 123 different Agencies having the right to close your doors and look at your books on a whim? You handled all that in stride didn't you Sam? But it's the termite guy that really pissed you off. He's the one that you felt the most powerless against. Why lie about it, Sam?" Adam took a bite from his Burger and chewed very loudly.

"I'm not in that business any more…" Sam was steaming.

"Termite colonies are sealed and pretty small. They are productive for years…we show some Termite shit to a customer, from a long gone colony, and the check book comes out. Hell, it's become a consumer protection law. It's a conspiracy…ever wonder why?" He sipped his beer.

"I'm not in that business any more." Sam repeated trying to not flatten and bloody the redhead's nose for being a pain in the ass.

Adam took a bite of burger and there was silence for while. Sam looked back at his bosses for some assistance that apparently was not forthcoming. The two seemed in a deep and quiet conversation.

The silence stopped.

"Ants are a thing…they leave slime, a scent trail all over everything. Disgusting! They come in when it's too wet outside …they come in when it's too dry. Just like us. Do you know how many little critters live around your bed that can smell the increased CO2 output we let out when we fall asleep. They come out and feast on our blood. We don't feel the bite because they give us a little nerve deadener before the suck on us. Don't let the bedbugs bite, indeed! They live in every crack. Now, Cockroaches are the rulers. The Kings of survival, masters of living and they are everywhere and in everything …one female can lay 300,000 eggs in her short life. Damn, we don't have a chance. We control and exterminate nothing. St. Peter in Rome! Flies, misquotes, bedbugs, mites, lice, silverfish, fleas, worms, beetles, moths, we are never out of business." He turned to Sam and acted as if he were waiting for a response.

Sam took a deep draught from his mug. He looked at the man closely for the first time. He wasn't what he appeared. He looked back at Michael and Johnny.

"You either work for my bosses or you own the company and they work for you."

"Now rats and mice are interesting." Adam spoke as if Sam said nothing. "There is a lot of myths associated with them. A dirty rat is bad just like a dirty person. A clean rat is a pet, a clean person… well…you get the idea. Mice are everywhere and love to live where people live and do a good job of keeping out of the way. I don't like killing them. It's a personal thing."

"That's my new business." Sam smiled and took a bite of his burger.

Adam was taken aback. " I beg your pardon?"

"I work very hard on removing dirty rats." Sam saluted Adam with his mug.

"Droll, that’s wonderful. You'll need a sense of humor when we get a bit deeper in this conversation. Taking out the rats…good! 'TIS BECAUSE YOU ARE BIG MAN AND VIOLENT, is it? Served you well to this point, has it?"

There was dread in the unexpected volume of Adams voice that made Sam uncomfortable. He looked at the man again. He was wiry and seemed very assured for a guy that worked or owned a termite company.

"What makes you think that I would care about this conversation." Sam stood up, deciding that it was time to test this nut.

"Sit down and listen my boy." Johnny's hands were on Sam's shoulders. "This is important and trust us that we need you to listen." Johnny turned to Michael and said. "It's due time we close up and take this upstairs before our apprentice lets his instincts take over." He turned back to Sam who had sat down as asked.

"No, insult here, my boy…your instincts, as always, are impeccable."

Michael went to the front door and locked it tight. He then activated the sensor alarms.

Johnny said." Pick up those burgers. Micky's got a tap up stairs and maybe a spot of something stronger. We'll toast the Good Lord and thank him for our Blessings before His day is done.

Sam relaxed. It was clear that this was, after all a business meeting and a big one by all the ceremony. Johnny never invoked the Lord lest it was something he felt he couldn't handle himself. It's good to have a little heavenly help in tight spots. Sam wondered what was up.

As they walked up stairs. Sam said " Adam, I had a nest of mice home up under my dresser. It smelled - terrible-musty. I moved the whole lot into an empty cupboard in the hall."

"Damn decent of you. The smell that is piss and musk, rats do that. It's like saying 'How do you do! I'm so and so'- 'I'm a bad ass!' or 'Come up and see me big boy.' or just maybe a name. They felt comfortable with you and your dinning choices. They piss while they walk makes a trail to follow…like a road map with messages. "Here's the track- for the pack- don't look back- could be a trap…Burma Shave." Adam let out a loud guffaw. Everyone else just grinned.

Michael unlocked the door to his apartment and they all moved into the impeccably furnished digs and found places to sit down. Johnny got up and went to the kitchen and put the gathered burgers from downstairs on a plate and poured everyone a beer.

Sam noted that all the furnishing was a foot away from the wall and a red laser beam ran from one corner to another. It was funny that Sam didn't notice it before. Perhaps the system wasn't on. I felt a tickle in his head. It felt as if something was amiss.

Adam continued. "Forgive my outburst. I was trying to make a point. Let's get back to termites." He took a mug from Johnny, sipped, and put the mug down on a coaster Michael had provided everyone.

"We could just as easily pound on the wood but the customer wouldn't pay. We do use those microwave devices, they work great, but then we would have to be damn sure to show the customer blown up bodies of termites after we dig out the colony. You see there ain't many. If we don't show pulp we don't get no money, and your right to think that the guys and gals we send are not that well trained. So how we fund …."

"Fund?" Sam asked with renewed interest,

"I told you he was sharp." Johnny says to Adam.

"The tenting is the thing…big money. Stupid really, people are gullible and will believe what you want them to believe. Big flurry, lots-o-work and time - kills everything, including the crickets and spiders that do a better job of pest control than we ever could. See, if you think on it, the colonies are sealed in because the very air dries out the little water bags, no gas is gonna permeate into the wood. But it is a grand thing to watch. In no time at all the critters will be back, suck your blood, eat your grease, invade your walls, get in your oatmeal and flour, setting up housekeeping like nothing ever happened. We get the big check and all is right in the world." Adam took a bite of burger.

"Let's get back to the funding thing." Sam says.

"Fleas are bad…worth tenting or getting rid of your pets. You wake up with a hacking cough or a stuffy nose and you head to the doctor and he tests you for allergies that you probably wouldn't have 'cept for fleas. Filthy mouthed little buggers. They bite you and your healthy, already taxed to the limit from mold in the air conditioners in your office and car, body and it's sent into chaos. Dust, mold, fungus is in the world if you live where they are you are used to it. Your body's immune system can handle it. Stick these world traveling bugs with different filth in their mouth and all that is natural around you starts to make you sick." Adam smiles and sips his ale. Lifting his finger to make a point and it disappeared in a bang and puff of smoke. The mirror behind the bar explodes in a cloud of shards. Adam yipped and gripped his hand and fell to the floor.

Another yellow sizzling beam just misses Sam's head as he ducked. He rolled to the floor,  without thinking he pulled out his 38 and fired into a corner. A small cry of pain shrieked out. Johnny and Michael fell on Adam and pushed him toward a door. Michael threw Sam a new weapon, sleek and dangerous looking. The gun was transparent but handled like a revolver. He fired all around the apartment without hesitation. Sam was reacting to shadows, firing into corners and looking after ghosts. He followed the men and they all collapsed into a small stainless steel room as the door slid shut. Michael stood and pushed a button just over a panel. A loud whoomp could be heard in the room beyond the door. Johnny was looking after Adam who seemed to be fine in spite of his smoking hand. There was no appearance of blood. He turned it several times; it unscrewed at the wrist and came off. He stuffed it in his Pants pocket.

"Always the same hand - the little bastards." He turned to Sam and patted him on the back. " Good job. How long you been eating Johnny's burgers?"

It was Johnny that answered." Less than six months…'twas why we called you to him. He senses them."

"Saints be praised we will live another day because of him." Michael chimed. "Let's test our luck and see if it's safe now. We need go have a look."

He pushed another button and the door slid open. The room was as they had left it. Except for a rich cooked meat smell and small pillars of smoke and steam rising up behind chairs and tables. Johnny went behind the sofa and lifted up what looked like a rat dressed in army gear. He placed the smoking carcass on the table. Sam sat down at the table. It took a while for Sam to wrap his mind around what lay charred on the tabletop. It was wrong. It was the general size of a rat -furred - tailed - but its head was covered with a helmet and it was wearing trousers. It had hind legs, booted feet, and four arms and hands. Hands are what they were, down to three fingers and opposing thumbs on both sides of each hand. One hand held what seemed to be a pistol.

"What am I looking at here? Did that thing fire on us?" Sam asked.

Michael snapped open a laptop and typed in a code.

"Purge Squad…must have felt Sam was 'clear' on them."

"They were after killing you. Sammy boy." Adam grinned. " Second time I've had my hand shot out. I have a snuffer in it that lets me know when they are about…must have found a way to block the signal. I should have been warned. I'll get the tech department on it. Look like rats don't they? They ain't rats…rats, these lot breed for food and cover… for food and diversions. The rodents are their cattle, good protein. We don't pay attention - always been rats and they use their genetically altered fleas to wear down our immune systems. Long term plan …smart really!"

Michael's cell phone rang.

"Yes, good. We will stay put. Call me with the clear code." He turned to his comrades. " Warehouse across the street. Ten dead…Speneitti's crew. I know it was too quiet."

Blasts and pops were heard across the street then a queer silence. The phone rang again. Michael answered.

"Thirty…no thirty one. Possible two escaped. We'll look."

Sam was already looking around the room tilting his head this way and that as if he were a bird. He threw the dead 'things' over toward the table as he discovered them. "Microwave?" He said rhetorically. He picked up what seemed a small rifle. He pointed it at a vase. It exploded in a cloud. He looked down at an air-conditioning vent in the floor. Another beam seared his cheek causing him to yell in pain. He fired at the vent and heard a satisfying yelp. A small section had been cut out; "They came up through here."

He worried the small wound on his cheek. Johnny came over and sprayed something that cooled the wound.

"That’s not a working vent - they must have reattached from the other building. Stupid of me." Michael walked over and looked up at the vent." Any more in there, Sammy? By the by, that was my sainted mothers vase."

"Sorry!' Sam said.

"Think nothing of it. I hated it."

Sam just looked at Michael then closed his eyes. "Yeah, one - old-real old. He's smart and really hates me. Why?"

Adam laughed." You ate a lot of his great-grandchildren! You are tuned into his DNA. Wouldn't that piss you off? It fuses with ours; it's why they can't win out right. The invasion was always going to be slow and determined. We found them out after the First war. The soldiers in the trenches ate them thinking they were rats. When that happened everything changed. We knew about them and went to war. Their nerve neurons tie right into ours like it was made to. We get ESP they get killed."

"The burgers?" he looked down at the charred burgers smoking on the table.

Johnny piled the dead bodies in a plastic bag and tossed them into Michael's freezer. We eat them and some of us just sense when they are around. Others like you can hear their thoughts. Not in words …they don't think like we do. It's like you get them and their intentions. That's you my boy, best we have seen in years.

"What are they?" Sam yelled.

"Aliens…the real aliens. Demons…the real Demons. Jinn… the real Jinn. They have been here for thousands of years. They whisper in our sleeping ears. Mayhem and nastiness is their modus - operandi, getting us to do horrible things. Man, the little geniuses use everything, religion, politics, family problems, you name it. The little shits are a real pain in the ass." Adam nodded to Michael for beers around.

"Let's sit down and have a drink." Johnny sat at the table.

"Sam, have you thought about India and the love of rats. It was the first place. They landed there, whispering about how the rats were dead reincarnated relatives. They helped foster certain Religious dogma. When Christianity understood the idea of demonic sleep suggestion, they already introduced the European plague, through fleas - their favorite. Paris, Prague, Moscow, Venice, Rome. Flu in New York, San Francisco, The Nazis found them out blamed and moved the Jews into a closed Warsaw. Africa - Aids…Yugoslavia -whispers and lies. Thus… The Ancient League of International Exterminators. The most secret of secret societies."

"Funding!" Sam smiled.

The cell phone rang again. Johnny answered it from the tabletop. "Yeah, Right." He took a deep draught of beer and asked Mike for another. " …New landings, last night, outside Kankakee. They figure about ten Battalions. They went Internet last year, Sam. We got a heads up from you on that phony rail improvement contract you sniffed out. I guess it was a big nasty battle hard to hide from the public the cover story was a gangland war. The only thing good was they went subterranean, It's in their furry heathen nature. We were ready, but it was a blood bath and we don't know how many more are coming."

"Sammy, do you know where the Good Lord cast out the Demons into the pigs? Pigs love these things better than truffles. He ordered the little Demons to talk, they said they were Legion and he made the lot of them run mad into a herd of pigs. The poor victim had nothing but good nights after that. " Adam smiled. " That happened in Ireland, you know? 'Tis why the monks saved the faith on that emerald isle. The little bastards got even and took to ruining the potato crops and sending the faithful to New York and worse misery for the evil whispers about devils a-coming."

"Now you're pulling my leg." Sam grinned.

A 'copter throbbed overhead and the men looked carefully out the window. The black suited and helmeted people exited the building and the 'copter hovered over the building and was taking fire. A dish revealed itself under the ship and another whoomp was heard that pushed a lot of air.

"When you hear of some nasty business going on somewhere in the world you can bet these are behind it." Johnny barked like a curse.

" Well, here's the thing, your size don't matter, your brain and reflexes are needed. We need you to take over as the Leagues top IT guy. We think you can hack them because you feel them. Pays 150,000 a year and expenses. You get to be right with exterminators and you will get a new identity. And all the burgers you can eat." Adam looked at Sam closely with a perfectly straight face.

"They don't taste like chicken!" Sam said.

"…But good huh? "

"Boss, can you try them with a little bit of BBQ sauce on a wheat bun?"

Johnny laughed and patted Sam's back. "You can have them any way you want my boy. Welcome to the League."

END

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