Frankie Palodona, my guide, was something straight out of a Sopranos episode. The guy’s hair was dripping with greasy product. He was big, I mean not fat big, more like big all over. Frankie is absurdly cliché. His state issued shirt was even open, exposing his gaudy gold chain with nasty little chest hairs curling over it.

     Besides his obvious lack of good taste, I respected him on some level. I had just met the man, and although being a New York Italian, he has only made a few rough comments about me. He only noticed my "cans" once or twice.  Which all in all was pretty respectable for a man of his tastes.

     “Hey-yo Joey, open Block C for me and my fancy little companion, would ya?” He bellowed into the intercom hanging from the bared entrance.

     I heard the swiveling sound of the camera swinging around to get a better look at me and suppressed a groan. Apparently, Frankie noticed and turned his fat head to smile at me with his false teeth, “Ah, no worries. Joey’s a good ole boy down from da Bronx.” He laughed as the gate clanked and rattled open.

     I cleared my throat and tried once again what I’ve been trying to do for fifteen minutes, “Mr. Palodona, you were saying something about the higher levels of paranormals being kept under ground?”

     “Ya know,” he started walking past numerous cells, swinging his retractable badge, “Them vamps and stuff. Those freaks that need to be away from day light and such. All though them baby vamps still are up here in Block C, they don’t fry like the big boys.”

     I kept a safe distance from his wavering Aqua Blue aftershave as I trailed behind him, “Vamps and stuff…could you elaborate, Mr. Palodona?”

     Frankie paused at cell C-41990 and banged his nightstick against the bars, “Hey-yo! Get back in yo bed, freak! Lights out in five.”

     A loud guttural noise vibrated the bars on the cell, as I heard the squeaking bed springs giving away as someone, rather large, laid on it.

     Frankie gave one last rapt of his stick against the bars. “Miss…what was it?”

     “Morrigan. Rory Morrigan.”

     “Uh, yeah. Miss Morrigan, ya be really wantin’ to ask Dr. Connor about all the particulars.” He nodded to end my questions.

     I nodded in return and looked at my clipboard, “That would be Dr. Shane Connor, correct?”

     We passed through another set of gates and security accessed points, “Yep, that be the head honcho.”

***

My name is Rory Morrigan and I am the highest ranked paranormal experts in the world. Basically, I’m it when someone needs answers. That’s why I flew half way across the world to some po-dunk village that masked an the largest amounts of contains paranormal creatures. Smack dap in the middle of Ireland, which took me a long horrible day to get to here was, Paranormal Research Prison Facility, or PRPF.

     Most of the world’s population of the “people” were safe and lived quietly among the rest of us, unknowing. There are a few, a nasty dangerous few, who have threatened humanity or been all out insane or blood crazed. Those few are trapped, studied, and contained in super secretive max security prisons that most of the world has no idea about.

     For the past seven years, my team and I, have been trying to keep it that way. Some of the newly elected UN leaders want to exterminate them all and “Let God sort them out.” My team and I believe most are victims of misunderstanding and prejudice. We aren’t mistaken though. We know, from first hand experience, that a lot of them really are dangerous, murderous, and blood crazed. We don’t fight for them, we fight for the others.

     My team thinks Dr. Connors asked us to come to PRPF to help us. I’m still skeptical. We’ll see though…