Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Slasher vs. Mafia: Three Serial Killers Walk Into a Bar | Part 1

Episode Date: January 28, 2026

Valentine's Day BOGO Special: Get a FREE 12oz bag of NoSleep Coffee when you buy a bag at NoSleepCoffee.com. Just use promo code VDAYBOGO at checkout. Don't wait! This offer ends February 13th. Listen to the full story today with a 7-DAY FREE TRIAL of ⁠⁠⁠⁠Dr. NoSleep Premium⁠⁠⁠⁠. You can cancel anytime. No commitment. Just go to ⁠⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠⁠⁠ to sign up. Huge thanks to BetterHelp for sponsoring the show: Sign up now and get 10% off at⁠⁠ betterhelp.com/dns⁠⁠. Author: Dave Kavanaugh * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #creepypasta #horrorstories #drnosleep #scarystories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Want to listen to the entire three serial killers walk into a bar story today? Start your seven-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium now, and listen to both parts back-to-back without waiting. Just go to Patreon.com slash DR No Sleep to sign up. You can cancel any time, no commitment. That's patreon.com slash DR No Sleep. Noises in the winter's night awoke the owner of the old pub. He sat up with a groan. An icy breeze rattled his bedroom windows, and from the city outside, distant sirens wailed.

Stifling a yawn, the middle-aged man reached for his bedside table to pick up his glasses, then switched on the police scanner he kept there. And what he heard on the encrypted channel was unexpected. But what shocked him into full awareness was the noise he heard next. Something was rattling downstairs. The front door of the pub. Someone was trying to get it open. If those wannabe gangster kiddos think they can break into my place, the barkeep grumbled,

flinging back the covers and standing. They've got another thing coming for him. Slighting his cold feet into slippers, he grabbed the loaded shotgun beside his bedroom door and moved as quickly and quietly as he could across the hall and down the stairs to the pub. The soft glow of the street lights shone through the frosted windows, and the string of Christmas lights above the bar twinkled green, orange and red. The barqueaths squinted down the barrel of his shotgun at the front door. When it was wrenched suddenly open from the outside, screws falling from the broken handle.

Swirls of wind-swept snowflakes streamed inside. The pub's closed, you muppets. You all got one chance to run along. I advise you to take it. Outside, in the blustery night, the shadows moved, and one figure came forward. Don't do it. You hear all those sirens? The city of is one big disaster zone tonight. Think about how long it'll take an ambulance to make its way here to Little Dublin if you're bleeding out in the street. The figure outside bent to fit its impossibly large form through the doorway. Coming to a stop inside the pub, it stretched upright, a monstrous silhouette with a huge head, almost reaching the ceiling beams. Then another figure crept inside, and then another. The three men stood there in a line amidst the tables.

icy air blowing in around them. Behind his shotgun, the pub owner held his breath. Shifting a few feet to his right, he elbowed a switch on the wall, and lights flickered on behind the bar. Blinking in the glare, he stared down the barrel at the trio of unexpected midnight visitors. And what a trio they were. Two of them were dressed in orange jumpsuits, and the other in a torn straight jacket. All three had multiple bloody wounds.

The man on the left was young, tall and wiry, with dark hair and dark eyes, and many scars on his hollow face. The man on the right was very old and short and fat, with a shiny bald head, beady eyes, and a curly white beard streaked down the front with dried blood. He was the one in the straight jacket, and the man in the center, the one who had broken the door and now stood towering over the two. He was a mountain of muscle, with hulking hands and a ginger beard and hair. His face was wide and wrinkled, like a pale gorilla, and his eyes were blue and sharp. Well then, you three aren't exactly the street bunks I was expected. Can you at least shut the door and freeze him of bullocks off? The giant man in the middle turned, reached outside, and swung the door closed,

gently shoving it in place on its damaged hinges. Better. So, three serial killers walk into a bar, into my bar, in the dead of night. It's like the start of a bad joke. He lowered the shotgun a few inches, though he kept his finger on the trigger as he looked over the intruders one by one. Your reputations proceed, you gentlemen, the twisted trinity of all saints' chapel, the three most feared and hated men in this old city of sinners. The three killers were silent, staring back at him. The barkeep aimed his gun at the old man with the bloody beard. First, there's the infamous Nicky Scarponado,

aka the Christmas cannibal. Next, he aimed at the wiry young man. And then we have the current celebrity, Mr. Jasper David Wraith himself, the sundown slasher. Finally, he aimed, but only with his eyes at the Ginger Giant. There's that handsome fella. Big trouble in little Dublin himself. Dermit McMura.

The bar keep lowered his shotgun and smiled. "'Sup, Derm? Come by for that pint, did you?' Dermott, Smashel McMurrow, marched forward, all eight feet ten inches of him, bent down, wrapped his arms around the barkeep, and lifted him right out of his slippers, and a back-cracking hug. "'Oh, there! I missed you, too, man, but my back is fragile these days. Lord knows I'm over the hill and tumbling down the other side fast!' Dermit lowered his old friend back to the floor, his blue eyes twinkling.

It's good to see you too, though I gotta say. The barkeep glanced around at the other two. Not sure I approve of your friends these days. Kind of seems like a rough crowd. Across the bar, the other two notorious killers appeared decidedly anxious. Jasper David Rath's eyes were darting left and right, no doubt assessing what he might use as a weapon. You can relax Mr. Rath.

We came with Dermit, so you're safe here, at the time being anyway." Turning, he leaned the shotgun upright behind the bar, then held up his empty hands. They call me young Fitz. I know. It's a bit silly these days, but old Fitz was my dad. May he rest in peace. And I'll always be young Fitz to the people of this borough. Now then, pull up some stools, will you?

Y'all look like you could use a drink. And I know I certainly could. Per David Wraith was still fighting, and in more ways than one. He was battling against the many pains in his body, especially his left arm, where a bullet had blasted through muscle and bone just above the elbow. The injury was sending jolts of pain up into his shoulder and back, and making his fingers numb. He was fighting the call of sleep, refusing to show any sign of fatigue. Truth be told, the battle he had waged in the halls of All Saints' Federal.

prison only hours before, had left Jasper Winded. And he was battling the desire to slip back into the glorious memory of that slaughter. After two years of captivity, he had broken free from his chains, armed himself with iron and steel, and struck down many in his righteous fury. He could still hear it in his mind, the delicious sound of his blades chopping through flesh, of warm blood splattering across brick walls and bodies thudding to the concrete floor, shaking himself from these musings, Jasper looked around the pub. The two killers who had shared his cell in all saints were sitting on stools at the bar. The towering smasher, Dermit McMurrah, and the cackling cannibal Santa Claus, Nikki Scarpenado. They had proven useful in the escape, sure, but now

they would probably just slow him down. Jasper felt the urge to lunge for that shotgun behind the bar and kill them now, along with the old bartender. Maybe then he could rest a little, clear his head and figure out his next step. Their host, this young Fitz character, filled two glasses of dark beer from a tap and handed them to smasher and Nikki, then looked up at Jasper. Not a beer drinker, Mr. Raith. Jasper stared at him, then slowly shook his head. What's your order then? Something festive. Hot cocoa with a candy cane, perhaps. Do you have Diet Pepsi? Fitz cracked a smile. and leaned down to a fridge under the bar.

Mmm, let's see. I got Coke zero. Would that be all right? I guess. Fitz added ice cubes to a glass, poured in half the Coke, and set both glass and can onto the bar. Jasper exhaled and climbed onto a stool,

trying not to wince as he set his left hand in his lap. Fitz poured himself a beer and took a long chug. Right done, he said, wiping foam from his mustache and adjusting his glasses. Here's what I know. Earlier this evening, or to be more accurate, yesterday evening, all hell broke out over at the football stadium. Some sort of bomb scare, which I'm guessing was just a distraction to keep the cops busy,

because the real shit was going down over at All Saints. From what I heard over the scanner, all out war erupted in All Saints. I figured it was just the gangs up to their usual infighting, not some elaborate escape plan. But here we are. Hunched on his stool. Smashers set down his glass, now empty and grunted.

Fitz looked at him, and as Jasper watched, the enigmatic giant tilted his head side to side. His eyelids twitching, shoulders shrugging, throat grumbling. Uh-huh, said the bar keep, nodding along. I see. I'm amazed you three made it through all that and out in one piece. Jasper cocked an eyebrow, wondering what exactly the man could learn from watching Smashers' meaningless gestures.

And this, uh, vehicle you took here? It wasn't a cop car, was it? Nothing with a tracker? No, answered Jasper. We parked in the alley. But Fitz was still looking at Smasher, who again flinched and grumbled. The driver is tied up in the trunk. What the hell for?

At this, Jasper sat up sneering. The driver is none of your concern, he said sternly. I will deal with him. Now Fitz did look over Jasper, and so did Smash her. Only Nikki seemed unconcerned by the whole ordeal. The creepy little weirdo was hiccuping with glee as he took little sips of his beer, like a kid, excited at being given an adult beverage, never mind that Nikki was about a hundred years old.

You bought yourself your troubles to my pub, Mr. Wraith, said Fitz. That makes it my concern. And from what Dermit has told me, you three are now top of the hit list for the feds, the city police, and a dozen very dangerous gangs. That's a whole lot of trouble. Jasper wrinkled his upper lip.

What do you mean? What Dermott told you? Smasher hasn't said anything. He pretty much never does. Sure he does, said Fitz, raising his glass to take another long sip. Dermott and I go way back. We're like brothers.

As soon as he said these words, a look of regret passed over his face. Sorry, Durham. Didn't mean it like that. Smasher shrugged one giant's shoulder and slid his empty glass across the bar. Fitz took it and refilled it at the tap. I don't think the cops have made it public that any prisoners escaped the compound, he went on, addressing all three of them. No doubt, they're scared shitless of the public's reaction. But, rest assured, the news will leave.

leak by morning. At any location associated with you three, we'll be crawling with cops, crooks, and media, so you certainly can't stay here. Nicky sat down his glass, belched loudly, and giggled. There'll be an APB out for your getaway car, so that'll need to be stowed away a sap. I've got a garage nearby. Then in the morning, I'll have some friends come by and scrap it. By then, you'll need to be on your way. That means you too, I'm afraid. He added, looking at Smasher, whose expression darkened. Jasper looked up at the barkeep. I need a car, he said, putting all the conviction he could into his voice,

though Fitz looked unfazed. No, son, you need a couple dozen stitches, some extra strength Advil, and a few hours sleep. That's what I'll offer you, free of charge. But then you're gone, you got it. Jasper stared into the bubbles rising in his Coke Zero. His mouth, a tight line, and said nothing. Finishing his beer, Fitz, clapped his thigh, and straightened up. Right? I've got a first aid kit somewhere around here.

I'm going to take a leak. Find that. And then play doctor. He turned to go. Then spun back and reached for his shotgun. And I'll take that. Thank you very much. Jasper watched as the barkeep disappeared into a hallway in the back. And from the corner of his vision, he saw a smasher sigh and glomers. glance around the room. As soon as he was sure no eyes were on him, Jasper moved. In one swift and silent motion, he reached across the bar, snatched up a short kitchen knife that sat beside some limes on a cutting board, and pulling back his hand stowed the weapon out of sight beneath the

sleeve of his prison jumpsuit. Jasper felt much better with the cold metal against his skin, much safer, much more ready to face whatever came next. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify.

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Go to Shopify.com slash dns. That's shopify.com slash dns. Dermit felt his ribs creaked with each breath. His whole body ached. A half ton of sore muscles

and straining bones and the two pints in his stomach didn't help his mood as much as he had hoped. Setting down the glass, he laid his right hand on the bar and examined it in the light. It was a lethal weapon,

that hand, Each meaty finger like a sledgehammer when he needed it to be. And yet, his joints were so sore and swollen, and his skin still bore the red stains of battle. He closed his eyes. After decades of peace, he had done it again. He had seized a man's head in his hand and squeezed it, smashing it into ground meat and shattered bits of bone.

He sighed, the noise, like the wind outside, cold and hollow and full of regret. Opening his eyes, he glanced over at Nicky and saw that his cellmate of the past quarter century was tipping sideways on his stool, his eyelids fluttering sleepily. Turning and holding out his hand, Dermit caught the old man just before he toppled to the floor.

Bending with the ground, Dermit lifted Nicky into his arms and carried him to a padded bench in the corner of the pub. There were two folded, blankets there. Dermit laid him gently on the cushion, using one blanket as a pillow and tucking the other around the short-limbed, round-bellied fugitive. Nicky began to snore. Dermit straightened up, his spine popping, and looked out the frosted windows. The Ballygub Pub was just across the road from the bay, and through the snow in the air, he could just make out the red and blue glimmer

of police cars on the other side. Their lights reflect. acted weakly in the chilly water below. Sniffling, Dermott looked around the old pub, surprised by how little it had changed since he'd been locked up. Of course, like himself, it did have its signs of wear and tear, new stains on the hardwood floor, cobwebs above the dartboard, cracks in two of the windows. His stomach growled, and he headed to the bar to look for some pretzels or something.

When the framed, photographs along the far wall caught his eye, and he went there first. Crossing his arms to hug his massive hands around his torso, Dermott leaned and squinted at the photos, wishing he had his reading glasses. Some had been taken in the pub or out front. On birthdays and holidays and run-of-the-mill normal days, others showed various spots around the borough,

the steps of St. Holvards Cathedral, the club, the docks, and the people in these photos, All those faces, Dermit remembered many of them, some warmly, others. Others, he had crushed in his fists on that fateful day when he had given in to his wrath and brought down a criminal empire with his bare hands. His gaze flicked to a Polaroid of a few laughing young men, pints in hand. Young Fitz was there in his newsboy cap and Dermit himself.

Though the top half of his face was out of frame, that tend to be. to happen. And then there was. Feels like a whole other life, doesn't it? Mumbled Fitz's voice. Dermott turned to look at his old friend. Fitz was holding a bundle of folded clothes under one arm and a first-aid kid in the other. Dermott nodded.

Raising a giant finger, he pointed at a photo of a smiling wedding party. Dermott didn't recognize the bride, but the groom was young Fitz. Oh, yes. My jolly nuptials! Sorry you couldn't be there, Derm. I actually sent you a copy of this pick, but I'm guessing the prison never passed along any of my letters. Dermott shook his head.

Hmm, bastards. Anyway, the marriage didn't work out. But we got a beautiful boy out of it. Brian, and he's got a baby of his own now. If you can believe it. Darling, little Gracie. This pick here was the day she was born. God, look at that little angel.

Hmm, I gotta update these picks. Gracie's three now. Growing so fast. I'd babysitter sometimes here at the pub. Her mom's a nurse. Works a lot. And Brian's job takes him on the road. Oh, hey, I've got some picks in my phone if you.

He sniffed a laugh and set the clothes he was carrying onto an empty chair. Am I talking too much? Dermott's wide mouth curled into a soft smile. He shook his head, then pointed again at the wedding. picture and the other members of the Fitz family. Well, mom died in 05, aneurysm. And dad, faded pretty fast after that. Yeah, tough year. But Jenny's doing good. Married a nice lass. They live in California. One country. Keep asking me to visit, but the pub keeps busy, and there's Gracie. Dermott waited for more. He liked hearing about it, a family, a real family.

But Fitz went silent. His expression troubled. Derm, he finally said. Why did you break out of All Saints? Why tonight? After all these years. And why with these two? What's going on, man? Dermott looked over his shoulder, at Nicky, snoring on the bench, then sighed. As he conveyed his story to Fitz, in squints, scowls, and grunts, the bark he became more and more troubled. Wait, are you telling me that for the past 25 years you've been looking after the Christmas cannibal?

And that now you've, what, joined forces with the sundown slasher in order to get that Nicky Scarponado out of prison? All because you think the nurses were poisoning him. Dermond, buddy. The old man is, I mean, Jesus, Durham. He killed. And eight, children, I'm not saying he deserves to be put down. And obviously, he's not right in the head. But that's my point.

You can't just let him out. And you can't watch him 24-7. If anything happens. Fitz exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Look, that big old heart of yours is in the right place, but... What a mess. And you're bleeding from a dozen different wounds, by the way. He held up his first aid kid.

Want me to start with you? Dermott shook his head. Aren't you in pain? Dermott closed his eyes. Yes. Fitzside. Guess I'll work on Wraith first. Kids lost a lot of blood.

He clapped Dermott on the arm, then turned, and left him there, staring at the wall of pictures. All those little windows to the past, each image, a wellspring of fresh heartache, sorrow, and shame. The highway. Police lieutenant Harlan Slager climbed from the driver's seat. seat of his sleek black muscle car and knelt in the snow. Sucking on a vape pen, he looked up at the silhouette of All Saints' prison beyond the forest, then down, squinting at the tire marks that ran from the tree line and up the embankment onto the highway. Fresh snow was covering them fast, and soon, they'd be gone altogether.

Slager had to act fast if he wanted to locate the fugitives before anyone else. The feds had fancier toys to do that than the Grim Bay Police Department. But Harlan Slager was a hunter, and tonight he was on the brow. Any thoughts, Lieutenant? Asked a cop over his shoulder, a lady cop. A concept Slager didn't approve of, and knew on the force. He blew a cloud of blue raspberry menthol vapor into the night air. Then stood.

Slager's high and tight military haircut, like his handlebar mustache, was waxed and combed stiff. Not even in the blustery wind could move one hair from its place. We got any footage from these traffic cams? No, sir, sorry. When the power was cut to the prison, it took these out too. Yeah, I bet it did. Slager sucked on the vape. His gaze drifted up to the nearest exit sign.

He grinned. Turning, he nodded down the empty highway. Obviously, the fugitives have fled the city, he said. They're speeding north as we speak, probably hoping to make it to Canada. Get on the horn with the state troopers. Have him shut down the highway and check every vehicle, thoroughly. The newbie cop shifted on her feet.

Of course, sir, but shouldn't we also look elsewhere? Slager turned his dark eyes on her. The fuck you say to me? She shivered and began to walk away. Oh, uh, nothing, sir. Just, I'll make the call right away. The lieutenant watched her hurry away, slipping in the snow. An undercover cop car rolled slowly toward him.

The driver rolled down his window and blipped the siren. Howdy, boss? He called out, sipping on a paper cup of coffee behind the wheel. Evening deputy, Skillet, said Slager. His eye still on the female newbie. Crazy all night, said Skillet. Is it true about the massacre and all saints? About our guys?

The lieutenant nodded. Damn. And the one's responsible? Got any leads? Slager pointed with his vape pen at the exit sign. Little Dublin? What makes you think they went that way? Just a hunch.

Ha, everybody knows Arland Slager's hunches got more truth to him than most men's facts. Laughed skillet, down on the last of his coffee, and tossing the empty cup out the car window. Want me to check it out then? Slager nodded. If I find them three, do I call it in, or... Slager turned to him. You call me. Right, sure thing, Lieutenant.

Deputy Skillet set his right hand across his chest and tapped his palm against his collarbone. Slager returned this secret salute, then clamped his teeth upon the vape pen as he took in another lungful of the sugary sweet poison. He had visited the prison himself and gone into the stinking hallways below the St. Mark's wing. He had seen the bodies of his criminal fraternity brethren

in their prison jumpsuits. They hadn't just been killed. They had been butchered, sliced into pieces by a blade, a blade wielded by a practiced hand, an expert killer, someone who, before the night was over, would meet their match in Harlan Slager.

Jasper Winst as Fitz supplied the alcohol pad to his wounded left arm. When did you say you got shot? Asked the barkeep, seated on the stool beside him. Tonight, Jasper answered through gritted teeth. A couple hours ago. Well then, how the hell is this already puckered and healing? Jasper leaned his head back, exhaling.

He had stripped off his blood-soaked jumpsuit. The pub was chilly, but the cold felt good on his bruised ribs and spine. In the prison, he finally said, as the bark he wrapped his arm in gauze. A doctor has been giving me an experimental serum of augmented stem cells that can regenerate damage. tissues. Good Lord. Of course they did, said Fitz, rolling his eyes. Sure, you don't want something for the pain? Jasper shook his head. All right then. And here, I got you some clothes. They're my sons, but he's not as tall as you. They'll fit a lot better than Dermott's, though. He glanced over at where the huge man sat beside the sleeping Nikki. Dermott had changed into

sweatpants that reached to his calves and a bathrobe. stretched to its limit over his wide back. Sniffing a laugh, Fitz set a pair of old khakis and a grim bay hammerhead sweatshirt on the bar in front of Jasper. Oh, and one other thing! Jasper checked the offered clothes for any itchy tags, which irritated him to no end, then pulled on the garments while Fitz walked around the bar

and started rummaging through the cabinets. After a minute, the bar keeps set out a single packaged, putting cup on a plate, then stabbed a used birthday candle into its foil top. The candle was pink and shaped like a half-melted number three. Jasper stared down at the plate suspiciously, as Fitz pulled out a lighter and lit the candle. Tadda! He pushed the plate across the bar. Jasper narrowed his eyes. What is this? Fitz crossed his arms. What is it? It's a birthday cake, obviously. Or the best I could do on short notice. When Jasper said nothing, the bar key leaned forward. It is after midnight, Mr.

Rayth. So, it is December 20th. Second shortest day of the year, and if your Wikipedia page is right, your birthday, it's the big three-o for you, right? Jasper blinked and glared down at the flickering candle. Wikipedia page. Reaching out his right hand, he pinched the fiery wick between his thumb and forefinger. supposed to make a wish and blow and deny, it don't it matter. He plucked out the candle, tore off the pudding's foil wrapping, and set a spoon beside the plate. Bon Appetit. On my Wikipedia page, said Jasper, still staring at the plate.

What does it say about my family? Huh, don't remember. I'm just good with dates. Jasper's gaze snapped up to the barkeep's face, and the Christmas lights twinkled in the killer's eyes. like oily drops of paint on a black pool. He leaned in. And do you believe, young Mr. Fitz, that by lighting a candle and giving me pudding,

you actually increase the likelihood that you will survive this night? Fitz stared back, unfazed. As your plan to cut my throat with the parry knife you took from my cutting board and slipped into your pants' pocket? Jasper's eyelids twitched, and his upper lip curled.

Ain't my first time being threatened. As for my chances of making it through tonight, I'd say they're at 50-50. He grabbed up the first aid kit. Your turn, Durham, he called. He walked around the bar, but stopped, sighed, and turned back to the young man slouched on the stool. You want to know why I lit a candle on a pudding cup for you, Jasper? It's because I've known many a killer in my time. I've had to pull the trigger myself when there was no other option.

And you know the thing that they've all had in common. Jasper said nothing. Deep down, they're all just scared little boys, like the rest of us. Jasper swallowed. I'm not. Suit yourself. But I still wouldn't let that pudding go to waste. It's butterscotch.

With a wink, Fitz walked off to tend to Dermit's wounds. And Jasper was left alone at the bar. He picked up the spoon, dipped it slowly into the pudding. and tasted it. It was too sweet. But it was also the first birthday treat that anyone had ever given to him. In his 30 years of life, the bells over at St. Hallvards rang five times to mark the morning hour. Fitz blinked drowsily and finished texting his final message to a colleague over at the docks. Thank God for the early hours of Longshoremen. Otherwise, he wouldn't have come up with a plan in time. Not that it would be easy to pull this off, with or without assistance.

Stowing his phone in his back pocket, he walked back downstairs and into the pub. Jasper was now the one napping on a bench by the windows. Nicky Scarpenado was awake and sitting on the floor beneath the table, giggling like some demented child. The old maniac's eyes glinted in the shadows, like a cat's eyes. And Dermit? Dermit was slumped forward in a chair beside. side Nikki's table, chin in his hands, head bobbing as he tried to stay awake.

Fitz moved behind the bar, grabbing a Tupperware container of soup from the mini-fridge, and popped it into the microwave. As the soup heated up, Fitz pushed his glasses up his nose and whistled a quick note. Dermott looked back. Fitz cocked his head to indicate he should come over. Rising with a groan, Dermit walked over to the bar, scratching at one shoulder, where the itchy bathrobe was stretched thin over his bulging bruised muscles. You're still hanging in there? asked Fitz quietly. Dermott nodded, because I've just made some arrangements. The microwave beeped. Fitz retrieved the soup and poured it into what thermos while he spoke, low and fast. I got a hold of Karakilene at the docks. She's got a slow boat about

to ship off to Galway. They were going to leave Christmas Eve, but I've just convinced her to send it off at first light instead, since this mess with the prison break will make for a lot of chaos in the days to come. He set the thermos on the bar and set a banana beside it. There'll be a storage container on that ship waiting for you. It's nothing comfy, I'm afraid. But it'll have food, water, and a bucket with a lid, just enough to get to Ireland. Dermott's brow furrowed.

And by the time you arrive, I'll have set something up for you. Work in the countryside, probably. Somewhere safe where you can hide and... Fitz flinched and sucked in a breath. Derm, you can't stay here, and you can't take him with you. Fitz turned to watch the little figure of the cannibal under the table, who was now gazing up at the Christmas lights above the bar and licking his lips.

Dermit's whole face screwed up, tangled emotions, playing out in his deep wrinkles. Listen to me, said Fritz. But then he went quiet, trying to think how best to word his appeal. Fitts thought he could guess the way Dermit saw things, even if Dermit couldn't. If someone like Niki Scarpenado could be proven worthy of love and of care, then maybe Dermit, too, was not beyond hope. Was that it? Derm, what you've done for your cellmate all these years,

it's beautiful, and it gave you purpose too. But that fellow under the table is very old and very ill and very dangerous. He's not your responsibility. And you owe it to yourself to get out to start over. You're, you're not like them, Derm. You never were. Twisted Trinity, my ass. Dermit hung his head, face twitching with indecision.

Fitz leaned back. You got about an hour. And then, Doc 17, they'll be expecting you. Scooping up the thermos, banana, and a water bottle. Fitz turned to walk out from around the bar, but found himself face to face with Jasper Dene. David Wraith. Jesus!

Fitt's panted, coming to a sudden stop. About gave me a heart attack! Where are you going? Asked Jasper, looking down at the things that the barkeep was holding. To the getaway car you parked in my alley? Or did it not occur to you that the man you tied up in the trunk might be peckish? Not to mention cold. He tried to march forward again, but Jasper stood his ground.

I told you, the driver is none of your concern. Fitz sighed. Well, Dermit told me that your driver is older and looked unwell last night. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to check on him. Jasper did step aside this time, but added, then I'm going with you. At this, Dermit released a snarling growl and marched over. There wasn't a chance in hell that he'd let Fitz out of his sight with the sundown slasher for a companion.

Fitz might have been touched if he wasn't feeling so stressed. Well, we can't all go out, he said. And we can't risk Arpanado there sneaking out either, so? Fitz looked at Jasper, whose right hand hovered just outside the pocket of his khakis. Then he looked over at Dermit, who squeezed one giant hand into a giant fist, knuckles cracking. Cool yourselves, boys, said Fitz. We're all tired in Ency, but it ain't worth killing each other over this. Despite his warning, neither the slasher nor the smasher backed down for another long.

long moment. Then Dermott sighed and turned around. He knelt on the ground beside Nikki's table and pointed his 12-inch index finger in warning. Stay. Under the table, the giggling stopped abruptly, and Nikki nodded. Fitz shook his head, grumbling to himself. But he grabbed a blanket from the bench, then reached behind the bar, snatching his old newsboy cap from where it hung on the mounted fire extinguisher. He pulled it on. They closed the pub door tight behind them, and Dermott shoved aboard across the frame to keep it from being opened from the inside.

Then Fitz turned and led the way toward the alley. The pre-dawn weather was frigid, and the street was empty, except for the swirling of snowflakes and the sound of wind and the bay lapping against the embankment across the road. Feet crunching into the snow, they walked around the corner into the alley, and approached the black car parked there. Already, the car's roof and trunk were buried in a few inches of white, and sticks and clumps

of frozen mud stuck out from the wheel wells, remnants of their recent escape from the prison grounds and through the woods to the highway. Handing the little meal he had brought to Dermit, Fitz took the car keys from Jasper, activated the flashlight feature on his phone, and leaned down to unlock the trunk. Keep your eyes peeled for trouble, he said. Jasper crossed his arms and glowered, but he turned to look up and down the alley. It took fits a moment to get the icy lock turned. Then he slowly opened the trunk, careful not to let too much snow fall into it.

Hello there, he said softly to the man curled up inside. Your name's Charlie, right? Hey, you awake there, Charles? The man, who was black with short white hair and dressed in a suit and tie, was on his side, facing away from them, with bungee cords, wrapped tightly around his ankles, chest, and arms. Fitz shook the man by the shoulder. Nothing. Leaning further inside, he turned the body onto its back

and held up his phone's light at the face, which had duct tape over the mouth. The eyes were half open, pupils dilated. Every muscle was rigid, and the skin was bluish-gray. Fitz exhaled. Damn. He checked for a pulse at the neck just to be sure, then leaned out again.

Dermit was watching him expectantly, and when Fitz looked up and shook his head, Dermott's eyes went wide. Fitz looked over at Jasper, but he was staring down at the far end of the alley, where a car with its headlights dimmed had just pulled into view. Mr. Wraith, said Fitz. I'm sorry to tell you that your driver is dead. Jasper blinked.

He turned his head to Fitz. What? Charlie. He's dead. Has been for at least an hour. Cardiac arrest, probably. Of course, I can't be sure. Jasper shook his head. What are you? No. He turned to the trunk and leaned inside to check for himself. Fitz backed up beside Dermit, watching as Jasper poked the body, then shook it softly, then shook violently.

He's gone. Impossible. Here. Fitz held up his phone. Look closer if you don't believe. believe. No! Jasper brought back a fist, then drove it down into the trunk. There was a thud of his punch against the corpse and a crack of bone. Hey now, none of that, said Fitz. But Jasper spun around and smacked the phone from his hand. He cannot be dead. Fitz cursed, watching as his phone fell into the snow at their feet. Beside him, Dermit growled at Jasper. He can't have

died. Jasper screamed even louder this time. Because I told her he was okay. I told her. Get down, Jasper. She said that, that she and I, that we had a chance of, but only if, if, if Charlie was okay. And she'll think I did it. She'll blame me. She'll blame me, but I didn't do it. I didn't do this. He was alive. Quiet, down. This can't be how it ends. This can't be. From the road at the end of the alley, through the tinted glass of his driver's side window, a police officer watched as the three figures in the shadows argued beside the parked getaway car. Grinning, Officer Skillet brought his phone up to his ear. Hey, Lieutenant, guess what I found?

Yep, I got him in my sights right now. The twisted Trinity and the unholy flesh. Uh-huh. By the time the sun is up, we will have our vengeance. Round up the boys and get them all down here. We've got us some skinning to do. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe

and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one. Thank you.