Reginald was 57 years old. In his business that was way past retirement age. After decades in the business he knew he’d have to start training a replacement soon. For now, he still looked forward to heading out into the night despite the creaking of his joints and the tightness throughout his body from scar tissue.
He looked over the items spread out on the floor in front of him. He had to make sure he was fully prepared before he headed out for the evening. The Eagle Scout in him always urged him to “Be Prepared” and after that incident in ’97 he’d learned to trust his instincts.
He pulled his trousers on over the black compression pants he was already wearing. He also had a matching long-sleeved rash guard for a top. People thought he was a poseur when they saw him working out at the gym but he’d earned his 2nd degree black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu just over 3 months ago. 12 years of private lessons had been expensive but worth every penny in his line of work.
The trousers he wore had lots pockets. He could stuff a ton of gear in them and it would look like he was carrying no more than his smartphone, car keys, and a wallet. The knees and crotch were lined with flexible Kevlar inside; a feature that had come in handy more than once.
He shrugged into his shirt and buttoned it halfway, it too had a bunch of pockets for storing things. The elbows, torso, and collar were all lined with the same flexible Kevlar in his pants. The shirt could stop a bullet from a 9mm handgun.
Despite all the high-tech clothing he was wearing, his boots were a simple pair of military-issue lace-ups. They were light, kept his feet dry, and the steel toes were great for kicking in doors, or ribs, or faces. Reginald shoved a pair of tactical gloves into the waistband of his pants, for now.
He placed in his shirt 2 20 oz. cans of a popular energy drink (couldn’t risk falling asleep), a small first aid kit, 2 medium-sized tactical LED flashlights, his smartphone, a GPS, 4 peanut butter protein bars, 8 wooden tent stakes, 2 vials of holy water (he’d blessed it himself), 3 clips for his semi-automatic pistol (one with silver-tipped bullets), an extra crucifix, and 3 “ofuda” just in case he needed to ward off any spirits of Asian origin.
Once Reginald was sure everything was in its place and easily accessible Reginald moved on to filling his pants. He’d had a custom pocket sewn in for his pistol which was loaded with a round chambered, and the safety off. Two folding knives went into his waistband and a sheathed knife was tucked into the inside of his left boot. The sheath was lined with silver powder which would stick to the blade when it was drawn out. Two pairs of black, aircraft-grade aluminium nun-chucks went into pockets on both legs, a collapsible baton, and a tactical pen rounded out his gear. He could carry more gear, if needed, but tonight would be a light night. At least, he hoped it would.
Pulling on his gloves, he swiveled his head and cracked his neck a few times, smiled, and said to himself, “It’s monster hunting time!”