Barry Hannigan

He awoke to the sound of empty beer bottles falling onto the hard wood floor just in time to see a woman flee from his cluttered motel room with his wallet. He jumped out of bed realising too late that he was still drunk. He slipped on a bottle and fell into a few more, 'You f*****g w***e! I'll find you'. He clumsily rose to his feet, thinking better of giving chase. Instead he stumbled into the small bathroom and pulled the light chord. The bright fluorescent lights buzzed into life and blinded him momentarily. Whatever was in the toilet released a formidable stench when his urine touched it, he gagged against the smell, then threw up on it. The flush didn't work 'F*****g brilliant'. He sidestepped to the sink, put some toothpaste onto his brush and began the process of washing away whatever the night before had been. As he stared into his own deep blue eyes he felt a small amount of shame. The red marks in the corner of his eyes would reveal to anyone the sort of night he'd had. The blood shot nature of his sclera would show just how often this sort of night happened. His skin was brown and leathery, and his hair was short and receding, both coming together to portray a much older man than his 25 years of life. He was slim, toned and ripped with a sinewy style of muscle. Although his lifestyle wasn't much to be adored, his job meant that he was always training. A lot of climbing and running, and a lot more fighting than he'd like. He ran a finger down the 4 inch scar on his left pectoral, a near miss with a sword destined for his heart. He fingered the bullet wound on his right shoulder and tongued the scar on his top lip. He had grown to like and appreciate his scars. They told his story, the two years in the marines, two years as a mercenary in the middle east and three years spent as a treasure hunter with Mickey. But they also assured him that no matter how close death had been, some higher power had decided he was worth saving. It didn't stop him from being a depressed drunk, but it did keep him from killing himself. He spat out the tooth paste and ran the tap, the brown liquid that flowed from the faucet wasn't desirable. He turned of the tap and instead rinsed his mouth out with a half drunk beer that rested on the shelf above the sink. He meandered back into the decimated motel room and felt relieved he be leaving today, the slums of india were too hot and crowded for him. He gave his body a quick personal wash with some baby wipes, used a roll on deodorant and applied some after shave. Then he slipped on his kaki trousers, linen shirt and brown boots. He pulled his small bag from under the bed and checked his passport was there. It was, at least that prostitute hadn't taken that. He removed his gun from the bag and tucked it under the mattress, probably best not to take that through customs. He reached inside his pillow case… 'What the f**k'! Suddenly the grogginess of last nights drinking subsided, he pulled the handkerchief out and opened it up, it was gone. He rose and ran quickly from the room, if he was fast he could still catch her, he could still get the medallion back, maybe then Strange wouldn't….

Mickey rubbed his wrinkled eyes, the loud bang next door had woken him. No doubt Barry was awake and he'd fallen over, 'Drunk liability that kid', he uttered to himself still half asleep. Barry was a great fighter, gunman and an expert in street running. He even had an aptitude for archaeology. But his emotional issues and love of cheap booze and expensive w****s was beginning to create problems Mickey didn't want to deal with. As he rose from his bed his old bones creaked. This was his last job, a real money maker. Strange was volatile but he payed well for these paranormal trinkets. At least the kid had managed to get hold of it without pissing of the locals. There was a knock at the door, it was probably the kid ready to go. Mickey opened the wooden door and peered out, Barry lay at the end of the corridor, unconscious at the feet of the biggest man Mickey had ever seen. 'S**t'.

'Hello Mickey', a smaller man stood in front of him, a four foot indian man in a white suit.

'Thats an adorable little outfit Nadeen'. Nadeen was the gang lord of these parts and Mickey had crossed him before. He didn't want the medallion, he just wanted a little revenge. Mickeys previous visit to India had been particularly profitable, but at Nadeens expense. The small man smiled a crooked smile, the outline of his top lip lined with a pencil mustache. 

'Bull', he said in a heavy Indian accent 'Come over here would you'. The massive man lumbered over, Barry slung loosely over his left shoulder like small child. The last thing Mickey remembered was peering into the big mans eyes and feeling the stench of his breath over come his senses. With one big fist to the face it all went black.