Free Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone by Christopher Andrews

baggy pants, who left all his cigarette butts in the open hallway and blared music at all hours, and who gave Cooper all those smug, challenging looks.
    That punk had given Cooper that same look just two days ago. But had it been more smug than usual that day? Had it been a touch mocking, as if he knew something that Cooper didn’t and thought it was goddamned funny?
    Well. That was the last time he’d give that look to Perry Cooper. The last time he’d give it to anyone .
    Cooper hit the stairs running, his fury building the closer he got to that piece of shit’s apartment. Oh, that Mexican thug had blown it this time. He had no idea how badly he had blown it — but he was about to find out!
    In the back of his mind, Cooper knew he should go get Dwayne, the stout retiree who worked security for the apartment complex. Cooper was the injured party (and it didn’t hurt that they were occasional drinking buddies), so Dwayne would take his side— hell, maybe Dwayne would even join him in confronting the asshole who did this!
    But no, Dwayne would want to fill out a form, take photos, call the police, drag the whole thing out.
    Cooper wanted satisfaction right now !
    Cooper’s feet pounded the second-story hallway, his upper lip peeled back from his teeth in what could have been a snarl or a vicious grin, but was in fact both.
    Reaching the punk’s apartment door, Cooper pounded on it with the flats of his hands, slapping the cheap material so hard it stung his palms. Oh, he was going to relish this! For the first time ever, Perry Cooper was thrilled to be paranorm—
    The door jerked open, and it took Cooper a moment to realize that his quarry stood before him. The punk’s expression was as smug as ever, irritated but full of confidence, but the rest didn’t fit at all. Neither the wife-beater nor the low-riding pants were in evidence today. No, today the punk was dressed in nice work attire, in slacks that fit right and a button-down dress shirt and a tasteful tie, loosened at the end of a long day. A nondescript name badge even adorned his left breast pocket. He looked, for all the world, like an enterprising young member of America’s law-abiding workforce.
    The whole unexpected package threatened to derail all of Cooper’s forward momentum, to grind his gears to a halt and bring forth an apology rather than threats.
    Then the punk blew it. His chest puffed out and he spat, “What the hell do you want, old man? You got a problem, pendejo ?”
    Cooper did not speak Spanish; he had only the vaguest idea of what “pendejo” meant. But he really didn’t care. The tone of voice was all that he heard, all that mattered to him. That was enough.
    Cooper took one step forward, putting his nose about an inch from the punk’s. The younger man blinked, startled by the surprising bravado, and retreated on impulse ... but he was too slow.
    Perry Cooper’s shield snapped on. It lifted him from the floor, cracking the doorframe out of shape as it forced all three sides away from him; the door itself wrenched at its hinges, nearly falling off.
    Cooper didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was the specific result he sought, and he got that in full glory: The punk barked in shock as the shield slammed him in the face and chest, bloodying his nose and busting his lips and knocking the breath from his lungs. While Cooper’s feet rose gently from the floor, the punk flew back as if he’d been struck by a bus — he sailed backward into his living room, his thighs striking a recliner and flipping him over onto his head.
    Cooper leaned forward, and his shield rolled him into the apartment. A standing rack of cubbyholes, filled with shoes and random clothing, toppled away from him as he passed it on his right, while the Sheetrock on his left cracked and split.
    The punk scrambled free of the recliner, shaking his head to clear it — Cooper enjoyed seeing how hard he’d rung the immature asshole’s bell. The punk