Hellboy: Odd Jobs by Christopher Golden, Mike Mignola Page B

on Christopher Street, hell, it's the Halloween Parade every day.
    Where I'm heading this time, though, I don't know the neighborhood all that well. Alphabet City, which from what the papers and politicos say is going through urban renewal, and to me looks maybe like Alphabet City itself never got the notice. The buildings are in sad shape, just inside of code, and it's nowhere I'd want to live.
    It is, however, not unlike a lot of the places where I end up doing my work.
    This isn't work, though. This is personal.
    I'm a clothes-on-my-back sort of guy, don't have much that I really call my own. My friends, they're my most precious possessions
    and I don't really like calling them that, but you get what I'm saying. When it comes to gifts from friends, I take those to heart. Like my pistol, the one Commander Freedom gave me.
    I'm not a gun guy, but in my line of work, it's a necessary tool. And the pistol, it's as fine a piece of work as you're likely to ever come across. Wood inlaid handle, custom machined cylinder, tailored trigger tension, a custom job all the way. Freedom himself taught me how to cast the bullets for the thing, seeing as how the caliber is unique and you can't just walk into your local ammo shop and pick up a hundred rounds.
    Back at the Bureau, I've got a space set up just for casting the bullets. There are plenty of folks there who'd do it for me, of course, and sometimes Dr. Manning or someone will even say that I should leave it to the support-services people.
    "You've got more important things to do, Hellboy," they tell me.
    Yeah, and maybe it's true. But I like taking care of the pistol, I like settling down and melting the lead and mixing the powder and filling the casings. It's a Zen thing in a way, and it's how I honor Commander Freedom.
    So when I lost the gun, I was pretty damn pissed off.
    What happened was this.
    A week ago, Saturday, I'm in the City, going to hit Pegasus Books up on the high West Side. Just shopping, looking for collectibles and rare firsts, like that. Gorgeous day, one of those New York City days where the air is clean and clear, and the sun is just warm enough you don't even hesitate about not bringing your jacket.
    Course, I'm wearing my jacket, because I use it to cover the pistol.
    Cutting through Central Park, and I get a little hungry, so I grab myself a vendor's hot dog and a bottle of Dr.
    Brown's Cel-Ray, settle in on a bench. Sunlight is actually dappling through the leaves, casting hot spots on the paved path and moving pedestrians. There's enough of a breeze that I can hear the branches moving gently in the park behind me.
    I'm enjoying the day.
    Then I hear this snapping, the sound of a leaf breaking.
    I turn, and there's this rat.
    Now, a New York City rat is not to be mistaken for any other member of the rattus norvegicus, and if you've seen one you know what I'm talking about. I personally know what I'm talking about, because in my line of work, I've seen a mother-lode of rats. Trust me on this. I know rats.
    This rat, he's a big black one, almost two feet long, and easily fifteen pounds, a little monster. Beady black eyes looking at me, and it's not quite intelligence I'm seeing, but almost impatience. Like he's waiting for me to finish eating so he can have the crumbs.
    I stare at the rat, the rat stares at me, and then I hear more of that leaf snapping, and sure enough, here comes another one. This rat, he's a little smaller than the other, and he settles in beside the first one, giving me the same look.
    And then comes another, and then another, and suddenly I've got fifteen-odd rats all looking at me, and it's like they're all saying, "C'mon, get on with it."
    It's hard to eat when you've got fifteen rats staring at you, I tell you that much.
    Fine, I figure, and I chuck what's left of the dog over my shoulder, get up, continue heading across the park.
    I'm halfway to the bookstore when I realize, hey, my right side is feeling a little light.
    And that's