Rick Steele Squid Hunter - Print

Rick Steele Squid Hunter - Print
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The world is in danger; civilization and mankind itself on the brink of destruction by a peril from the sea. Only one man can thwart the danger that lurks in the ocean depths. When a government military project to create the world’s first super battle-squid goes horribly wrong, Rick Steele and his trusty sidekick Ah Choo, assisted by Professor Von Hell-Sink and his tantalizing Teutonic assistant Helga Grosse-Brust, are all that stand between the killer squids and the extinction of man. As sultry Mexican news reporter Loida Enal works to uncover the story, Rick Steele takes on the squid menace. When the fate of humanity is on the line it’s time to call…RICK STEELE: Squid Hunter



Without waiting, Rick pulled the 9 MM Glock 19 from the holster at the small of his back and kicked the door open. The squid, one of the largest Humboldts he’d ever seen, was thrashing about the room and violently changing colors.

The squid backed up and stilled when Rick entered the room. Rick watched its funnel distend and heard a slight whooshing sound. A black substance flowed down the squid’s body.

Choo entered behind Rick, taking a position off to the side to black any exit by their quarry.

Rick laughed, “Doesn’t work so good out of water does it?”

Tentacles flapped on the cheap carpet of the hotel room. The squid turned its body to focus its large eye on Rick. The Chromatophores on its body blinked out a psychedelic pattern of different colored hues.

“Go ahead and flash, you’re all alone here, no killer-squid colleagues to bail out your Cephalopod ass. Blink out your last squid goodbye.” Rick held the Ruger in his right hand and the Glock in his left, as he kicked the door behind him closed. He turned to Choo, “Get some video for the Professor.”

The squid moved across the floor, slowly, pulling itself forward on its arms, the longer and wicked feeding tentacles ripping up the carpet in front of it.

Choo pulled out a small camera and began filming.

“Out of water, bad mistake,” Rick maintained his distance, letting the squid tire itself out. “Live fast, die young, isn’t that the squid morphology? Looks like you’ll be meeting your end a bit sooner my boneless friend.”

The squid lashed out with a tentacle, missing Rick, but cutting a velvet bullfighter painting on the wall nearly in half.

“Now that’s a damn shame,” Rick growled. “You’ll die for being a squid.  And for crimes against the art community.”

The squid charged, using its eight arms to thrust itself up from the carpet and toward Rick, its tentacles making a hissing sound as they cut through the air. Rick dodged one of the tentacles, but the other hit his arm, slashing his well-worn and cherished leather jacket.

The squid lashed out at Choo, but the nimble Korean threw the camera into the air with his left hand and ducked low, simultaneously pulling a machete from the scabbard on his back with his right hand and severing a tentacle in one savage blow. As he rose he slipped the machete back into the scabbard and caught the camera before it hit the floor.

“Nice,” Rick said, “maybe I should call you Machete.”

Choo gave a toothy grin, “Too late, Boss.”

The squid charged Rick and the Ruger roared twice, the heavy slugs throwing the squid back, the holes they created releasing more of the pungent ammonia smell into the room. The squid floundered, weakened now, but still dangerous with the long tentacles.

Rick lifted the Glock and aimed for the center of the squid body. “Calamari time, baby.” Eight nine-millimeter bullets nearly cut the squid in half at the posterior surface.

The squid’s tentacles and arms thrashed as it collapsed to the floor of the cheap flop-house room. Black liquid oozed from the squid’s wounds and pooled on the floor.

“Hey there, what the hell—” the desk clerk barged into the room and then staggered back at the sight of Rick Steele, a gun in each hand, standing over the body of a large Humboldt squid. “What’d you do, Mister? And what the hell is that,” he pointed a shaking finger, “that thing?”

Elderly occupants poked their heads around the door, murmuring among themselves.

Steele turned, holstering his weapons. “You never saw that come in here?”

“Hell no, ain’t allowed, not never. Management don’t allow no pets, or no cookin’ neither. No way.” He looked at the ripped carpet and the shredded velvet bullfighter painting, “Hey! Who’s gonna pay for that?”


Steele’s gray eyes glared and the desk clerk backed away. “Take it up with the City Boarding Commission. Explain to them why you’re renting rooms to squids.”

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