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When Ash's eyes were destroyed, the remaining damned shared her one way ticket to Hell.  These are the stories of the...
Last Day
Woody Harrelson
Hoby Gilman (1936 - 1990)
Written by Phil Gee
“Just a minute, Tony. I’ve almost got it…” Carl maneuvered the mouse
furiously over its tattered pad. He could see his boss was more impatient
then usual today. If he wanted Tony to believe him, Carl had better find
what he was looking for -- and fast.

“Carl, I mean it. This is the last time…”

“A ha!” Carl exclaimed triumphantly. “Look at THAT!”

With a sigh, Tony leaned over, noticing the incredibly wrinkled condition of
Carl’s white linen suit. “Did you sleep in that thing?”

Carl ignored him. “A reporter’s got no time to worry about his appearance
when the big story breaks, Chief. You know that.”

“Don’t call me Chief. That went out with Jimmy Olsen and twenty-five cent
comic books.”

Agitated, Carl fingered the computer monitor. “Tony, LOOK!”

Peering at the bright glass, Tony mumbled along as he read the obituary
notice. “Hoby Gilman…convicted killer…put to death today for murdering a
family of five in a Dallas suburb while they slept…long claimed to be a
member of the assassin team that killed John Kennedy…leaves behind no
family…” Tony slowly straightened his back. “I remember it well, Carl. 1990
wasn’t THAT long ago.”

Carl scrolled the obituary page further down, revealing a black and white
photograph of the subject in question: Hoby Gilman’s eye’s were harsh,
without mercy. One look at his face, and you knew the man was a stone cold

“Chief, that’s HIM!”

“I KNOW that’s him! And don’t call me CHIEF!”

“You don’t understand. I SAW him! Last night!”

Tony was sure of it now -- Carl HAD slept in his suit. Probably in the back
of his car while he sweated out the bourbon. “That’s impossibly, Carl. The
man’s dead and gone.”

“Chief…” Carl quickly adjusted his sentence. “…Tony, I was covering the
Kincaid story, just like you told me. Hanging out at the clubs along Hunt
Street. And…and…” he couldn’t get the words out of his throat.

Tony picked up the narrative. “And Hoby Gilman walked out of the bar, tipped
his hat to you, and said ’What a good day to be dead!’”.

Carl’s face sagged. “I followed him to a truck. He got in, started the
motor, and…”

“Asked you if you needed a lift to the funny farm!”

His voice was barely a whisper now. “He just…sort of…exploded…right there in
the cab…”

Tony shook his head. “Remember last year -- the museum exhibit you covered?
Where the five hundred year old mummy came to life?”

Carl tried to disappear into his chair.

“And the state senate race two years ago? You claimed one of the candidates
sold his soul to The Devil?”

Carl could say nothing.

“You’re a good reporter, Carl. And even worse, I LIKE you. But enough is
enough. The Kincaid story. On my desk. First thing tomorrow morning. No
demons. No vampires. Just the story.” He paused. “Do I make myself clear,
Night Stalker?”


Tony inhaled deeply, shook his head. “I’m glad you don’t believe in Santa
any more…” he muttered as he walked away.

Waiting until his boss was out of sight, Carl reached into his desk drawer
and pulled out a portable cassette recorder. Inserting a fresh tape, Carl
clicked the record button and began to dictate in a droll drone. “Chapter
thirteen. The sighting of Hoby Gilman, mass murderer and Kennedy assassin.
From my previous chapters, you get the feeling that Dallas is full of
mysterious and unexplained occurrences. Almost to the point of the profane
becoming the mundane. Yet this incident is perhaps the strangest one I’ve
come across…”