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Adventures In Living With The Mythical |
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A military veteran is adopted by a werewolf and brought into his pack. Insanity ensues. About "Life With A Werewolf" Life with a werewolf is a dramatic blog. As such the characters in this blog are not real but maybe loosely based on real people. The situations represented are not real but maybe loosely based on real things that have happened in my life. There are a multitude of ways to view life, this is simply one of the ways I have chosen to view mine. Updated Every Friday unless I can't or don't want to. |
| I wasn't the only one having a bad night that night. Crash was on his way from one emergency to another. The kind of night that is filled with excitement, but no fun. The exact type of night most of us think about when he think of what life is like for a cop – a night of stamping out fires and hoping none of them are just flaming bags of dog crap. His first emergency was relatively easy, though it got a bit bloody. Fortunately for the small community on the other side of the county, the ogres didn't make it into town. Crash said if they had it would have been a blood bath. But he won't go further than that. There are more dangerous mythical creatures out there. The types that would never live with humanity and sees us as basically food, an annoyance, or 'toys', creatures to be tortured and killed when bored. Think of it like a serial killer with a kitten type mentality. Perhaps that will give you a bit of a mental picture of what he was dealing with the ogres. He never told me what it was, but said he ended covered head to toe in “red goo.” There's a stream that runs through the county on the south side. At times it's small, other times it opens up wider, until it runs head long into another larger stream, which is part of a tributary system that feeds itself eventually into the Mississippi river a few states away. This stream is in a wooded area and is crystal clear. Crash said that even I could see clear to the bottom of it on a near moonless night. A coat of dead leaves cover the ground giving it the look of being shoved into one of the better slasher films from the eighties. He had stopped there on his way to another “stalk and check”, to check up on some other strange activity that had been anonymously reported. There was something different about his tranquil spot. The air felt energized somehow, as if he was standing near a power line. Even the trees, which were usually comforting, felt more like sinister sentinels. He walked towards the stream and stopped. Putting his nose to the ground, Crash brushed the leaves back. There beneath that blanket of leaves was a rune. It was thick, and held a dull light of its own, a soft sickly yellow glow. Apparently, it was part of a circle of runes that ran around the very stream Crash wanted to wash up in. He backed a single step and smacked into a solid wall of leaves, mud, and sticks. Crash leaped upwards, but was grabbed by the creature, who attempted to hurl him into the rune circle. If you learn nothing else from this little blog, learn this: never, EVER attempt to grab a werewolf. That is, unless you're a werewolf yourself. It will not workout for you. When this creature grabbed Crash, he lashed out with claws of his own, thrashing through mud, worms, leaves, sticks and other muck. He thrashed, snarled and fought, literally clawing his way through the mud mound until he was on the other side. Gasping for breath, he looked up, and saw twin eyes staring at him from the mud. Crash was fighting a creature he'd never fought before – a gollum. There was a hole in the center of the mud creature that glared down at him. Crash knew two things in that moment. First, that he had to avoid that circle at all costs. Second, was that somewhere out there, Kheid was up to something, and that it wasn't going to be good for any of us. *** The night at the house was one of those half moon kind of nights. The sort of night that felt waxing and waning, the kind that in my military days felt as if it was drawing itself out longer on purpose. The front lawn was covered in gnomes with red hats. There was no blue hatted gnomes left. None of the gnomes cheered my capture. They all glared at the both of us as I was walked down the stairs. “Alright,” Valyur snarled. The blue hatted gnome leader still held the gun on my back. “You bastards get back, or I'll blast a hole through his skull right here.” I heard a low threatening growl when he said that. I turned my head to see something I had never thought I would have. A smaller visage of a werewolf in sparkling white and gray fur, ceramic just like the rest of the gnomes. He had a collar on, with a bit in his mouth like he was a horse with a gnome seated on top of his shoulders. “Yeah, what he said,” the gnome growled. “His majesty wants him alive, you bastard.” “Mitch,” I said. “I never knew they could get you.” He turned he head down, his ears folded back. I looked at him riding high upon Mitch's shoulders. He was wearing a vest of some kind, with his beard braided into twin braids that hung almost to his knees. They rested on both sides of the werewolf's head he sat upon. “Yar! You bastard,” the gnome said as it grabbed his ear and wrenched it back. A whine escaped Mitch's throat as the gnome raised his head up to look at me. “What is your name,” I asked. “You don't get the pleasure of my name,” he snarled. “You're afraid to tell me?” That made the gnome sputter. “I fear no fleshpot!” “Then tell me your name.” He looked around at the others for a moment who all stared at him expectantly, then sat high and proud. “I'm Lavrishk, proud general of the one true Kheid's army. Tamer of the mighty werewolf.” And he grabbed Mitch's ear again and twisted it harder. “You're going to want to stop that,” I said. “Why's that,” he said, and twisted it one more time. A soft whine grew in pitch before leveling off. “Cause now, before the night's over, I'm going to kill you.” That caused a chorus of laughter. Valyur nudged me forward and forced me down the steps. Lavrishk kicked the sides of Mitch, and drove him forward with a growl. “I'd like to see you try, fleshpot. I'll have him naw your arms off and spank him with yer bones.” I remembered I still had my pistol, but, I didn't draw it. Something told me right then wasn't the time. “Tonight,” I shouted walking down the path that was set out before me. The path they cleared to the woods near our little home. “Tonight, you will all see what is inside a gnome. And I will show you all, what it takes to kill a...” A shot rang out. I felt it whizz by my head almost before I heard it. “Shut up,” Valur snarled. “And keep walking.” I expected there to be a bonfire of some kind, with gnomes dancing around it like a pagan ritual pulled straight from an Indiana Jones movie. Instead, there sat Kheid, upon a giant ceramic throne. The arm rests were made of skulls, and the back rest was built up as long bones which looked as if they were supposed to be femurs, but had been stretched and arched to make it into a more comfortable seat for 'his majesty.' “I told you I'd get you,” he said and smirked. The ground around him glowed in strange thick runes. “And...” he paused for a moment..... *** Crash leaped from tree to tree, trying to climb it. His only goal then was to get out of the woods. Flee the woods and race over to the next county, which was close. Get the assistance of the wolf next door, so to speak. Up he jumped, higher and higher. He leaped to one branch. Then to another. Then another. He was close to his goal. He could see the break in the woods in front of him. Just one more... He was hit with what felt like a wall of mud. The fall from the height and the added weight of mud knocked the wind out of him and dazed him. Crash stared up at the trees, as he was half dragged, half thrown into the rune circle. *** Kheid held up a single finger for a moment and smiled, “Now I have all of you. You shall join us and abandon that disgusting flesh for the proper ceramic you should have.” He leaped down from the throne. “And I know once you spend a little time as my subject like your friends,” he pointed to the edge of the clearing, and there they were. Zack, Kris, Sean. All of three of them standing there in ceramic, wearing red gnome hats, glaring at me as if waiting for something. “You will love it.” He grinned wickedly at me. “Still won't bring Faenie back, Falkurk.” There was a dangerous glint that entered his eye then. “Meaty one, I will make you pay for that!” |
| The thumping on the window grew to tapping. Tapping grew to a frantic, panicked pace. Tap. Tap. Taptap. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. I stepped towards the curtain and gripped it in my left hand. Holding my pistol in my right, I threw the curtain open, and pointed it at the figure in the window. A blue hatted gnome glared back at me through the glass. “Not me you fleshpot, I’m on yer side!” “Right? Cause I’ll be happier in ceramic.” My pistol didn’t waver. “No thank you.” “I don’t want you ceramic, you idjit! I don’t want you changed! I’m tryinta help you!” A rock smashed against the wall near him. It was a fake rock, the kind that one of those lawn gnomes are normally standing on. Behind the blue hat was a couple red hatted lawn gnomes with a catapult of some kind, loading it for another shot. I threw the window open and fired twice, nicking one gnome and hitting the string on the catapult, which sent the rock flying over the house. Then I looked down at the gnome, “You waiting for an invitation?!” He attempted to scramble, but I ended up helping him out, pulling him inside. The rickety box he had been standing on tottered then toppled as I slammed the window shut. The gnome in front of me had a blue hat, with faded blue paint that appeared almost more turquois now than actual blue. His beard was gloriously long with braids hanging from either side, and a single large braid with a thick brass ring in the center. “So, what’s your name,” I asked. “I’m Valyur, leader of the gnomes here. Or What’s left of’em,” he huffed. I am capable of keeping my mouth shut. In my minds eye I saw a familiar scene from an old Bruce Campbell film where he told the king there ‘Right now you’re the king of jack and shit, and jack left town.’ Knowing such a line wouldn’t help, I kept my mouth shut, and attempted suppress a smile. If Valyur saw it, he didn’t say anything. A couple of years ago, such a statement would have been too tempting for me not to say allowed, damn the consequences of saying it. In the grand scheme of things, I’d say I’m making progress. “There’s not many of my clan left,” he huffed, pacing around my room for a second. He stopped, then stared at the ceiling for a moment, his head tilted slightly in confusion. “So, this is how you fleshy ones live?” I nodded. “Yeah, climate controlled, fairly safe from bugs and such.” He shook his head. “There’s no sky. It’s so damn claustrophobic. Who cares if we’re warm, we don’t feel it anyhow. I cannot see what that other idjit sees in this. It’s unnatural for a gnome.” He left the room and headed towards the living room, with me following behind. “I did not want to involve you in our troubles, but it seems I have no other choice.” “That’s not a choice you made,” I said. “Kheid made that decision for you a long time ago.” “Yeah,” he said. “He picked a fight with you, and you and his clan have been warring ever since.” I smiled. There was no humor in my smile. Only a sad bitter anger that Valyur couldn’t understand. “I’ve not gone to war, yet. Up till now, I’ve only been defending myself.” “No,” he said. “I’ve seen you. You’ve been fighting for your king in your own way. But you’ve done so with one arm tied behind your back. It’s like you pull your punches.” I shrugged. “Neighbors get mad once you start making pipe bombs in your kitchen. They call the cops, there’s all those questions you have to answer…” “Well, your neighbors are gone now, most of’em anywho. Those left won’t remember much from this night. So, why aren’t you out there, tryin ton rescue your friends?” “Because I had a blue hatted gnome king tapping on my damn window like he’s Romeo come to talk to me about the sun and moon.” That did get a head tilt out of Valyur. “What?” “Nevermind,” I snarled. “How do we change them back. And better plan for all three, cause Zack ain’t made it home yet, so chances are he’s been turned too.” Valyur looked at my pistol. “You got one of those for me?” “I just have our back up,” I said. “Steel and such.” “Bring it to me,” Valyur said, and began drawing some symbols on the floor with his foot. They looked like a child’s approximation of runes. In my life, I had seen both cartoonish stuff that certain metal bands painted themselves with, and actual symbols used for religious things. These looked more like the cartoonish ones. I didn’t see much of a choice. Crash would be here in the thick of things if he could, but he already said he’d have his claws full on the other side of the county. The only other option was to try the “Home Alone” defense option again, but Crash has already said under no uncertain terms that if I tried that again, he’d give me the opportunity to see and count my every rib. Given how long it took him to get those windows and cabinets replaced, I don’t blame him. So, I went to the hallway and grabbed the pistol, setting it down in front of him. “There,” I said. He moved it to the circle of symbols and began chanting in some language I’d never heard before. Lights flickered, then flashed. And soon, the pistol was gnome sized, and ceramic. He picked it up and smiled. “Hey, hey! I’m finally packin heat.” “Yes,” I said, “now we need to discuss,” I began. Valyur turned the gun on me. “The plan…” I trailed off, shoving my pistol in its holster. For what it’s worth, I did see genuine sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you dunnot know what sort of power that Khied has tapped into. I’m forced to take some drastic measures, here.” “You’re not as sorry as I am,” I snarled and started walking towards the door, with Valyur training his pistol on me the entire way. “You’ll understand this later, lad. For now, just get your fleshy bottom outside.” “My ass isn’t that big,” I snarked as I neared the door. “It is from where I’m standin,” he said. I rolled my eyes, but didn’t say anything. Outside, there seemed to be a battle of some kind going on. A lot of shouts and snarls, gibberish in high pitched voices, and smashes that was occurring. I held my breath and placed my hand on the door handle. Taking a single moment, I pulled the door open and stepped outside. |
| This little adventure didn’t start with lawn gnomes lining the streets, with enchanted people dragging me out of my home kicking and screaming. It started with a near miss car accident. My poor Topaz almost ate it. I was coming to a stop at a busy intersection in a nearby town when I began to ease my foot on the break. The break felt like a sponge. I yanked on the parking brake as I watched the traffic ahead of me zip along through the intersection their greenlight bright and steady. I was near a Wal-Mart which was connected to a major highway. The kind of highway that people regularly go fifteen over without question and the cops don’t bother checking unless they want to write more speeding tickets that month. I felt like a baby turtle trying to get across the interstate in the middle of summer. The parking brake was ratcheted to its max, but it did nothing to slow me down. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I grumbled, as I yanked the wheel off the road, and began sliding the gear shift on my transmission down through the gears, trying to get the engine to help brake. Fifteen, Ten, Three miles and hour. My car rolled over the white line, the bumper easing into the divided highway, and rolled to a stop. I stared at twin semi-trucks as they approached. But thankfully they came to a soft stop for the red light which had begun shining bright for them. I feathered the throttle in first gear, easing it across the road towards the shoulder on the far side of the intersection, my hazards blinking. Thankfully it wasn’t a steep hill so I didn’t have to worry about it rolling backwards, but I still turned the wheels towards the side so if the car did roll, it would just roll into the ditch. Two thoughts ran through my mind. Neither is fit to print here. Then the third thought was of one ceramic little demon. A certain smiley pointed hat jerk hell-bent on world domination had officially made a serious attempt at murder. The game was afoot as someone once said. Thankfully, I had towing and rental on my car insurance. It took a couple of hours, but I got the car towed home and dropped in front of our garage. The parking brake had been disconnected. The brake hoses themselves had micro cuts. It was enough that brake fluid would weep through the hose, so a short trip into town would be fine, but the trip through would be deadly. One of those nicks had worn through just enough to bleed out. Either that, or that crazy pointed hatted psycho had a gnome waiting inside the car to cut the brake line as soon as I neared an intersection. Either could have been possible. The trip back to the house had been surreal. Gnomes of blue hats were on properties to the south side of our small town. Hiding in bushes, or pretending to water gardens. Each with a smile on their face. The gnomes with the red hats approached from the north and east. There was a lot more of them. Everyone of the red hatted gnomes wore a snarl and a pair of sunglasses. They were forming a battle ground with our eclectic home at the center. Each property seemed to be pushing in towards us in what I could only imagine was military maneuvers. It felt like we were sitting in the middle of a real-life game of Age of Empires, only this time there would be no save states or redos. Our home was the prize and combatants were gearing up to win at any cost. When I got home, Crash was finally awake. He hadn’t shifted into his night form yet. I’ve seen him stay werewolf days at a time when it got busy, just to avoid having to go back and forth. In his words “it starts to hurt after a while. Hurt a lot,” he told me one day when I asked why he was still more wolf than man. That was some time ago, though, with snow still on the ground and a different kind of mischief in the woods. That afternoon, he greeted me with a yawn, and a full coffee cup. “More investigations,” he grumbled. “Got some strange activity south of the county.” “Exactly opposite this house,” I said. “Convenient.” “Yeah,” Crash replied, then yawned and stretched. “Larry should swing by for some checks tonight.” “By checks you mean crapping on the front lawn again and then not paying attention to the lawn gnomes everywhere?” I was very annoyed at Larry. The only ‘assistance’ that stone dragon’s given me since we met Khied was to bomb the front yard doggie style, then leave. It wasn’t even keeping the gnomes away; it was just getting annoying dealing with his rock-hard chocolate logs everywhere. Crash growled for a moment, then looked out the window to the yard. “I’ve talked to him about that. He says he’s got his claws full with some other stuff. Our land is at the bottom of the list, but it’s on it. He said he’d do what he could, but it would be better to ‘either give the human to the lawn gnomes or just start smashing them.’” “Dragons can be jerks,” I said, looking out the window. A red hatted lawn gnome had appeared near the garage and was mooning me. “I’ve advised the guys,” Crash started, a half yawn escaping him that turned into a full body stretch complete with a reach to the ceiling. “I’ve already advised the guys to stay inside. I’m telling you the same thing. Don’t go out. Just lock the door and let this play out. Larry will be by eventually to end things.” I rolled my eyes. “So, dial 9-1-1 and wait for the cops to come by while the little ceramic murderers attempt to murder us all in our sleep?” “You’re at the bottom of the list, but you’re still on it,” Crash said. “I got more of this ogre thing to deal with.” He did explain to me what the ogre thing was. There’s not a way I can dress the story up enough to make it fit to put here. Crash’s job at times is more dangerous than others, and in this case a community was at stake. If you remember the adventure I printed a while back about Crash fighting that minotaur who’d gone crazy, that’s a Sesame Street episode compared to the Ogre thing. It’d make Clive Barker turn green. “Zack’s at work, Sean and Kris are both at work and I’m the only here today,” I said. Crash nodded. “Yeah, none of them were happy. But things should be safe until nightfall. By then everyone will be inside playing video games or something.” I yawned. His dang yawns were becoming contagious. “I’ll escort them home if need be, but I don’t think they’ll want me to.” “Might work, but you know Zack,” he said. “I’ll try to twist his arm, give him the old ‘werewolf’s orders’ and all that, but you know he hates that sort of thing.” He poured himself a bowl of Reese’s Puffs, and sat down. “Ah, more dog food,” I smirked. He grinned, “careful, or I will swap it for real dogfood and not tell you.” “But,” I said, “I thought it was dogfood! I mean, you’re eating it, right?” We went back and forth like that over his cereal while Crash fired off a few texts to the other guys. Zack was angry, but said he’d text me when he got off. Sean and Kris said they’d watch each other and to not worry, that they’d go somewhere else that night. Don’t worry. Right. Zack was an hour late for texting me. Sean and Kris weren’t texting me, but I wasn’t worried about them. They were more than likely staying the night at a friend’s place, I didn’t have to go searching for them, now did I? Zack was the missing one after all. The one that I hadn’t heard from yet. After the second hour I called his work, but they said his shift had left over an hour ago and that Zack had left with them. “No sign of’em sorry,” the harried shift manager told me right before hanging up. My heart in my throat, I went to my room and grabbed my pistol. Two full magazines, and one in the pistol. That left me with about 45 rounds. There was already more than double that of lawn gnomes in the neighborhood. But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. No car, no way to search other than rubberized troop movers, my own two feet in other words, I slid my pistol into my holster, and headed for the door, but never made it outside. Two ceramic statues were on the front step, Sean and Kris. Both looked very pissed at me. “Shit,” I growled, “sorry guys, but you can’t come in.” And I slammed the door shut. Zack was out there somewhere. Crash was on the opposite side of the county. And here I was, trapped in my own home, with two friends now statues looking very pissed at me. Crash doesn’t carry a phone with him in wolf form. Many times, there’d be no where for him to hold it, his claw would go through the screen anyway, and the phone isn’t designed with werewolves in mind, so he’d either be able to listen, or talk, but not both at the same time. So, I called his work and left a message. “Wait for Larry”, they said. Right. Where was Zack? There was a thump at the front door. I swallowed hard and slid a chair beneath it. Another thump at the front then one at the back. A tap on the glass near my bedroom window. I was trapped inside my own house. Whichever faction had gotten to the house first, red or blue, it didn’t matter. It wanted me outside. It wanted me ceramic. It wanted me dead. |
| I suppose I only have myself to blame for what happened. When you’re young, it’s easy to push yourself beyond your limits. If you’re in the military in any capacity, it’s a regular requirement. They want to see you pressed to your capabilities and beyond. How much more do you actually have when your body is at that point of one hundred percent, all-in? The only way to know is to go there regularly. When you’re down range somewhere, there may come a point that you have to dig deep inside yourself and pull out things you didn’t even know existed to accomplish the mission and get yourself and everyone home. How will you know how to get to that point if you don’t practice getting there? But as you get older, you begin to forget your age. It may be jumping to snag something off the top shelf, climbing behind the washer like you used to do when you were a kid to grab a sock, or just jogging down the street and back like you may have done in high school. You feel okay when things start out, your body feels fine and reports no problems: until you try it. Then it goes from no issues to broke in a blink, and you’re left on the ground clutching something that didn’t hurt while your brain screams at you “Dummy! Why did you try this?!” Last week I felt okay. My hip was just fine. I used to run four to six miles almost daily just for fun. It was a relaxing way to get out of the house that didn’t include finding a bottle of “forget-it” juice. And yes, I was getting a little bit annoyed watching Crash and Elouise out running off on their own and while I was cooped up in the house. Crash and Elouise are jogging partners. Crash will come out of the house, and start moving his considerable weight with her by his side, and they’ll go on long, slow runs just jawing and running. The kind of thing that I used to enjoy and now miss, terribly. So, I was determined to join Crash one day on a run. I wasn’t going to stick around for the whole run, after all, they go eighteen miles (damn mythicals and their supercharged biological systems), but I figured, a mile and a half would be just enough. When I brought the idea up to Crash his response was to laugh then say, “no.” “Come on! I won’t be a third wheel, I promise. I’m not going to interrupt you and your girlfriend,” I said. I tried giving Crash big pleading, puppy dog like eyes. He just rolled his. He was in his human form at that moment, shorts and a tang top, ready to hit the road on their morning run. “First, the answer is still no. Second, we’re not dating. Just friends.” “Sure,” I said with a wink. Crash looked to the ceiling with a ‘Lord, Grant me strength,’ look. “Answer is still no. Guys and girls can be just-friends, you know.” I patted his back, “sure they can buddy.” He grumbled then stepped out the door. The way it played out in my brain, they would make it to the stop sign, I’d catch up, we’d have a small conversation like I used to do, as I jogged about a half a mile, then turned around and went home. It wasn’t going to be that far. Besides, I felt good! I felt as though I could have made it the whole eighteen miles with them on that day. So, Crash stepped out the door to join Ellouise, I waited about five or ten seconds for them to get going, then opened the door as they neared the stop sign. They jogged their usual pace and I followed, making it much farther, Crash said later, than he ever figured I would have. It was about the second stop sign before my knee, hip, and back all started singing the exact same song: “STOP! IN THE NAME OF LOVE!” By the time I hit the ground, I had made it exactly a tenth of a mile. The ground rushed up as a cry escaped my mouth and stumbled. My leg was limp, with pins and needles running through the parts that wasn’t screaming in pain. Nothing in the leg was responding to my commands. It was like it was dead. “Come here,” Crash growled, then picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. “And shut up, you’re making a spectacle.” “Ow, bless your heart, you felt left out, didn’t ya,” Ellouise said. “I guess,” I said watching the asphalt move beneath Crash’s feet. “I just wanted to be normal for a morning.” Crash set me down on the step, and looked me in the eye, patting my shoulder. “But, you’re not,” he said with as much sincerity as he could. Then he and Ellouise headed back down the road continuing their jog. A few hours later, the leg throbbed, but less so. The hip throbs worse. The numbness and tingling shoot down my legs, both the good and the bad one, were worse. I probably won’t feel that good again for a number of weeks. What stung more than my leg, my hip or my back was to have Crash look me in the face and say that. I’m not normal. After a few minutes, I hobbled inside and just laid in my bed, staring at the Tuscan countryside mural on my wall, wishing that I was on those sandy beaches somewhere. Walking. Not paying any attention or having any care for anything. Not having to be in a world where I wasn’t normal. It took some time for him to return and pop his human head into my room. Sweat glistened off his brow, his hair was matted on his head. My mind flashed to a simpler time, when I was sprinting up the hill with another friend of mine in the service for fun, just racing to get to the top first. Friendly insults and names were thrown out at each other as the pavement pounded beneath my feet, the wind filled my lungs and I felt alive. Instead of like the half-baked zombie I feel like regularly. “You feeling okay,” Crash asked, bringing me back to reality. He only got a shrug in return. “You got to remember; you have a new normal now. That car accident changed everything about you. You can’t run for long periods like that. You can’t do a lot of the things you used to.” “I guess that’s what you meant by me not being normal?” I tried to hold back the bite of bitterness I felt when I said that. I wasn’t entirely successful. “Heh,” he chuckled nervously, then smirked, “I just meant you were never normal. I told you I’m a werewolf, remember? We met on that college campus and you kept hanging around me anyway. Well, till you dropped out, that is. Normal people don’t do that.” I smiled back, “I suppose that’s true. Normal people try to finish school.” “You’re still a good man, Jason. Normal is over-rated.” I stared back at the Tuscan countryside, gritting my teeth. My hip, my leg, my back they all throbbed at once in sequence as if to amplify the point. “You know,” I said, “it wasn’t even about trying to stay up with you and Ellouise. It wasn’t about being apart of your conversation. Life for me is a constant reminder that I’m different. That I used to be better than I am now. That I’m no longer whole. Sometimes, it’s just good to have a reminder of a time when I was better.” Crash grabbed my foot and shook it for a moment. “You were drunk all the time, too,” he said. I rolled my eyes and he just smirked. “It’s true. You were drunk so much and you ignored Sarah so many days.” “If this is you trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a horrible job,” I grumbled. “I’m just saying. I got an earful from her and you, then. You barely drink anymore. You help out so much more now instead of just running out the door with a ‘back later’ and disappearing. One time you were gone for almost three days. Even I was searching for you.” I nodded. “Friend made had home-made whiskey. It was A LOT stronger than he claimed. Was better that you didn’t find me.” He looked away, for a moment as silence filled the room. “I’m just saying,” he said, “You weren’t ‘better’ then. You could run farther, yes. But you weren’t better.” “I guess,” I said. “I just wish I could do normal things. It would help me keep some of my dignity.” Crash gave me a sad smile. “Trust me, you have far more dignity now than when you could have made that entire run with us.” That evening was supposed to be my turn to cook. Crash took over, giving us some monstrosity of a concoction that he swore up and down was Cajun. When I suggested we take some to Ellouise for testing though, he declined. Zack brought a plate into my room for me. Kris and Sean brought up my laundry, though I refused to let them help fold it. I’ll handle my own underwear, thank you. I had to use a cane for a total of one day. It’s still by my bed right now. A reminder that I’m not as young as I used to be. In your head you’re eternally eighteen years old. Capable of anything. But the reality is, you’re not. Your body has aged, it has a new set of limitations that even in those times that you feel the best you have to listen to. Otherwise, you’re just going to pay for it later. I suppose it’s not undignified to know your new limitations, to not press them in order to push some imaginary envelope. You can’t work out your way through an injury like mine. You can’t clean living your way back to being eighteen. This is what they truly mean when they say you can’t go home again. But it doesn’t stop the longing. The part of your soul that wishes you could make that jump you used to. To make that jog, to play basketball with your friends till dark. To reach for that intangible thing that was so easy to hold on to. It’s hard to say goodbye to who you were. |
| Sasquatch. The mythological beast of America. The creature that supposedly lives in the woods, often alone, who is mostly humanoid and covered head to toe in fur. This beast has large red eyes and sharp teeth in a mouth that if you look at it, is almost muzzle like. Sasquatch has been the subject of many documentaries and supposed “sightings” which are about as believable as all the “Elvis” sightings in the eighties and nineties. Now, this isn’t the same as Crash, who is a werewolf, a mythological creature that definitely does exist and time from time protects the citizens of our town and county from other creatures that definitely does exist. Sasquatch is pure fiction. Brought about, according to Crash, by a heavy dose of moonshine and a werewolf playing a prank. While I was away braving the streets of Nashville and trying not to die on the highway, Crash was back here busy with another problem. Someone in the town had been watching far too much History Channel. This person, who shall go by the name of “Bob” for legal reasons, began to be convinced that it was aliens who built the pyramids and that Sasquatch was real. Bob is a recently laid off engineer. Not the helpful kind that will explain how to better secure your wifi or assist you in finding the source of your vacuum leak in your car engine. Bob is the type of engineer with a God complex. The ones who are convinced everyone who doesn’t understand his technobabble is a drooling troglodyte only good for serving him fries at a drive thru. This is the type of person who began to believe in Sasquatch, and was going to prove his existence to everyone else. I still don’t know how the whole “glamor” or whatever the effect is called that myth creatures use to blend in. Apparently the crazier the things someone believes the easier it is for them to see. Or something. I’m honestly not sure at all and still get confused about the explanation, especially when Crash begins to bring in Calculus into it. I’m starting to believe he doesn’t know himself and is just doing that to mess with me. Now, Bob, who isn’t all that athletic or outdoorsy, figured the easiest way for him to catch Sasquatch on camera was to set up trail cameras all through the woods, right outside Crash’s place. Bob, being the out of shape, pasty skinned, skinny, ‘genius’ that he is, decided that since Sasquatch is mainly a night creature. So of course the best course of action would be to post the trail cameras in the woods near town during the day and wait. Crash for his part didn’t do anything. He sat on the back porch sipping a cup of coffee and watched Bob work in the trees. Occasionally he watched him through a pair of binoculars, but that was about it during the day. That evening though, Crash did pay a visit to the local thrift shop and purchased a few stuffed animals. Then Crash went home, shifted into his ‘night uniform’ so to speak, and had Zack snip the tags off the animals and attach them to Crash with glue. “Worth the pain,” Crash said with a smirk when he recounted this story. “Did hurt a bit when I pulled all the tags off.” The cameras it worked of an infrared light that it used to catch game and other things. This light acted as a motion detector, and turned the camera on to record whenever the beam sensed something near. Hunters and farmers use it for various functions around town. But for Crash these things light up with an “off-reddish” glow. So, this genius had lit up the woods for Crash like a Christmas light display on cocaine, and thought he was going to catch himself a glimpse of Sasquatch. On night one, all he had gotten was a few blurry images of fuzzy elbows, knees and feet, all complete with the tag of a stuffed bear attached to it. Bob wasn’t sure what he had on camera. But he was pretty certain it was ordered off of Amazon. Sean, it seems, is a devious guy at times. It was his idea to get close to Bob and set up the next prank. Bob was back in the local hardware store, talking to the guy behind the counter, who had this bemused look on his face. “I’m telling you,” Bob said, “I’m going to catch him on camera. I know what I saw! I know what’s in those woods!” “Yeah, sure,” the old guy behind the counter said. “I have aliens come in twice a week looking for plutonium 358 for their space modulator.” Bob scrunched his face and snarled, “I’ll show you,” he snapped and then grabbed a bag of things off the counter. Sean followed him to the parking lot and asked. “Dude, what are you trying to get,” he asked, then peered around as if looking for onlookers. “You’re trying to sneak a shot of something special aren’t you?” According to Sean, he first thought the guy was going for emphatic proof of a werewolf. Instead, Bob scrunched in the back of his Tesla, throwing things around and snarled, “Don’t you start either. I know what I saw!” “Me too, man,” Sean said. “I didn’t know what it was. I just know that it was dark. And furry.” Bob’s eyes grew wide and he turned to Sean. “Not furry, hairy,” he whispered. There was a crazed look in his eyes. “That thing is out there. I know it. Sasquatch.” It was at this point that Sean couldn’t help himself, he said. With ideas like this, I may invite him to my next family reunion. Sean gasped and held his hand to his mouth like a shocked southern belle. “You’re hunting him too?” “Finally, someone who knows!” There was literal tears in Bob’s eyes. “I don’t know who pranked me and wrecked all my trail cams, but I have more. And those were easy to fix. I’m going to get Sasquatch on film. And it might just be tonight.” Bob lifted a box. Sean said it took great effort not to begin giggling. Bob was going to catch Crash on film with a drone. Not only was it a drone, but it was one of the loudest drones on the market. He was going to try to catch a creature on camera with some of the sharpest hearing in the world with a flying camera that sounded like two hornets’ nests having an all-out war. “Dude, here’s what you do,” Sean said. “You’re going to need some pigs blood. You can get it from the butcher’s. Smear your legs with it. Then rub mud over that. Afterwards, you stand in the woods, like this,” and he squatted down, “and give your best injured pig squeal. Sasquatch won’t be able to resist. He’ll come running thinking it’s an easy dinner, and you’ll catch him on your camera!” I really wish I had been there when Sean convinced him to squat down in the parking lot and give a couple of practice squeals with him. Sean said a couple cars did slow down and take a look, but none were brave enough to stop and ask what was happening. “I’m telling you dude, it will work, I promise,” Sean told Bob with a heavy hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t a bag and a stick shouting “kaluka ku”, but I still count this as a successful snipe hunt. “Do you know how much it hurts,” Crash said when he was recounting the tale, “to be in mid shift and to bust out laughing? That poor idiot was out there, shouting ‘Squee! Squee!’ as loud as he could, that trail camera buzzing all over woods.” “So, he caught nothing,” I said. “Oh, he caught something,” Crash replied. “Laryngitis and a cold. He’s lucky he didn’t get pneumonia.” “Surely after about a half hour, he figured it out and went home,” I asked. “Nope,” Crash said. “Despite multiple complaints, dodging the local constable who begged me to tell him to shut it down, Bob sat out there all night. Shouting ‘Squee!’ until his voice was gone.” “Well,” I said, “at least that taught him a lesson.” “Oh no,” Crash said. “One of the guys who believe that they already know everything. He just thought that he came at it from the wrong direction. He tried something else the next night.” Apparently, after spending all night in the woods, getting sick, and catching nothing but a few fines for being a public nuisance, Bob decided he’d had enough and was going to science the problem into submission. So first, let’s analyze the issue. The “deep woods” Bob was searching was a small patch of trees on the edge of town that allows Crash to move around the community without being seen. It’s not exactly deep, and can barely be called the ‘woods.’ At some points you can literally see houses from one side to the other. If sasquatch did exist, he wouldn’t live in such conditions. Hell, anything wilder than a squirrel wasn’t likely to choose the location. Of course, you can’t tell that to a true believer and a conspiracy nut with no family, no real friends, and literally nothing else to do with their life than to catch this beast on camera. Bob set up Trail cameras on literally every tree. Some cameras were set up on top of others watching each other, so if something tried the trick the previous night they would still be caught on camera. He had a dummy set out with his old clothing, smeared in mud and blood, playing a loop of an actual injured pig squeal. Several flood lights were set up on motion sensors, so if anything larger than a cat passed by it, the flood lights would kick on, the cameras would kick on, and he’d have it on video. Bob was ready. Crash was on the other side of the county, dealing with that whole ogre thing that I can’t talk about yet. So, he didn’t see it. But was told later that every five minutes or so, it was Flash! Flash! Flash! And of course the Squee! Squee! Squee! On repeat. More fines. More complaints. Threats of arrest. And an entire night of nothing. Bob, the genius “I know everything, don’t tell me anything” had set up the lights wrong. Every time a strong breeze blew through, a large leaf close to the system would blow by, and set off the lights. At this point, I think even the animals of the woods were ready to revolt against Bob. “Finally,” Crash said, “the complaints reached my desk.” “So,” I asked, “what did you do?” Crash smirked. “I dealt with it.” For legal reasons I am not allowed to divulge what exactly occurred or what was said. The record is officially sealed. Bob has put his house up for sale and is searching for a job out of state as of right now. The hunt for Sasquatch is over. If you tour a certain house for sale in our neighborhood you may find black fur stuck in a broken board or two in the walls or a strange claw mark here or there around the door frames, in the floors and walls. Don’t ask too many questions. And don’t wonder why it’s so cheap. |
Hey everyone, it's Crash. Jason says hi, he'll have an update on Friday. He wanted to make it about Nashville drivers and wanted to call it 'Crashville', but I told him that wouldn't be a good idea. This is late. I know. I hear that from my bosses all the time about my paperwork. I've been wearing fur for the last few nights. It's going to be another night or two like that before I'm done. The house is starting to look like it has black carpet. I'll be happy to spend a few days in skin, let me tell you. The adventure? Well, I'll let Jason tell you about that. Sometimes you humans get too nosey, I'll tell you that. Anyway, have a good time everyone. Jason will tell you what's happening. I have to shift for my shift. Busy season is early. Peace, love and flea bugs, Crash |
| My recent bout in Facebook jail had me wondering about Crash and the other mythicals. Do they have their own social media platform? Is there one exclusively for those monsters and creatures that goes bump in the night? I wonder what it would look like. My mind pictures a Facebook clone, with an endless scroll of memes and joke videos about humans. Crash of course had different ideas. “Of course we have our own social media,” he smirked. “Why do you think we scent mark everything?” There was other jokes, but they all pretty much fell along these lines. He’s called it everything from ‘Full Moon Fever’ to ‘peebook’, which got a giggle out of me, I must admit. “If we did have our own platform, it probably would be just us complaining about each other, to be fair,” Crash said. “You humans are like puppies. We can’t stay mad at you for long.” That sort of stopped the conversation. I still don’t know what that actually meant, and I’m sort of afraid to ask. I’m sure there’s a Discord server or Telegram group out there for the mythical kind. One that would probably avoid me, even to this day. More than likely due to not wanting their drama being plastered all over this blog. Cause, you know I’d do it. And I know you’d be as interested as I am in it. There’s just a strange sense of drama and comedy to reading about vampires arguing over who’s turn it was to have the Johnsons over for dinner, or a troll family complaining about the minotaur couple next door spending too long on their garden at night. That’s half the fun of this blog, after all. I understand it actually doesn’t have much to do with me. I’m not even the star of it, really. Which gives me the freedom to post about the random and weird things that I see out and about. Random things like, Elouise and her new walking partner, Gary. Elouise does enjoy fitness and outdoors, I’ll give her that. I can’t really go that far anymore, especially as far as those two are capable of going. I’ve gotten up to around the block though, so that is technically progress. Even though some days it feels like I’m progressing backwards. But Elouise in the morning walks with Gary, chatting it up about just anything that really comes to mind. There must be some sort of southern specialty to just have conversations about almost nothing. I don’t know how one could do it. I hope trouble isn’t on the horizon, but I have noticed a couple things happening. First, yard sale season is upon us. More and more people in the neighborhood are showing up with lawn gnomes. I’m not sure what to say about that. It’s started on opposite sides of the town, with one side blue hatted gnomes and the other red hatted gnomes. I’m almost reminded of the old tactical war games people used to play on the NES. I’ve got a trip I’m taking next week, so I’m glad I won’t be around for whatever hits the fan. Hopefully whatever happens will be done by the time I get back. But what are the chances of something major happening in this town without me getting dragged into it? There’s also something else. Crash got a formal letter. Labeled from The Rodriguez Clan. He’s set it on the mantle and refuses to open it. I’m not forcing him to do it, either. Certain wounds you don’t walk over. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready. If he’s ever ready. I’ll be there for him when that happens. It’s about all I can really do for this, I think. Speaking of, yes, I’m taking a trip next week. The first official vacation I’ve had in quite a long time. In my marriage most of my vacations were spent swimming in the bottom of a bottle. That’s not exactly a good way to spend one. You forget most of it or end up sick for it. Sarah I’m sure has more than one story about it she could tell about me being ill from alcohol instead of taking her somewhere. Speaking of Sarah, her dad says she’s talking about doing the AA thing or rehab right now. Hasn’t done it yet, but is talking about it. Which is stellar news. Her talking about it means she’s thinking about it more and more. That means sooner than later she’ll be getting the treatment she needs. Not a long one this week, and I apologize for that. Things have been mostly quiet, a rare calm around here. Zack, Sean and Kris are all doing just fine. Not a lot they’d want me to discuss on this blog, but they do tell me to tell everyone “hey,” so, “hey” from the gang. Crash has agreed to type one up in my absence. That is the one thing I’m afraid of. Crash is going to be doing a blog post. I have seen his spelling. I apologize in advance. He won’t tell me what it is, but only says “if I can get the time, they’ll enjoy it.” So, that could mean either the intricacies of werewolf scent marking, how to best stalk your prey under the new moon, or a random rant on why they don’t make controllers more durable. I have no idea what it’s going to be. But good luck. I hope everyone has a good one. If you see me wandering around, just give me a nod, I’ll know what you mean, and nod at you back. And Crash, try not to put in too many comma splices please. I do that enough as it is. |
| Sometimes life is not laid out so neatly. We go through our individual adventures; we suffer through paying bills and doing laundry as we struggle to get to the day or two we’ve set aside for our respite. The things we know we deserve at the end of a long, hard work week. Sometimes though, those things we deserve just aren’t what we thought they would be. For me, that respite used to be alcohol. It was my poison of choice that had become my personal reward for not killing anyone on my job, even though at times I may have felt that they deserved it. But the problem with choosing such a thing is that it has its own teeth. The reward becomes a punishment of sorts, a means of hurting yourself for your own survival, as strange as that sounds. It no longer is the treat for doing a job well done, for existing and living in this plane of existence. It slowly usurps you from your own personal throne and becomes your king. It’s that way with any addiction, though. Whether it be food, porn, drugs, alcohol. They become your lord and leader. You become their willing servant, struggling at the foot of a beast that quite literally does not care about you. It cannot. Because it is little more than a ball of pain, doubt, anguish, anger, and good feelings brought on by chemical bliss: whether from the drugs and alcohol or from your own dopamine levels spiking to as you feed The Beast. The hardest thing for someone who has struggled to the other side of such a creature, who has usurped their own throne and tossed aside the addiction king, is to witness someone else you cared for, or have cared for in the past, go through the same thing. Sarah was a love. She wasn’t the love of my life by any stretch of the imagination, and that was half the reason we split. But I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t a love. I cared for that woman in a way I hadn’t for a lot of people. Same for her. She cared for me. A pain of a thousand mistakes and fights still sit between us like an ocean. Still waters on top, but death lies beneath the placid surface. We’re Facebook friends. Acquaintance buddies. The same type of individuals who can love and meet and greet each other over awkward chats and gentle touches of ‘good to hear from you’ and ‘glad you made it’ and ‘we should meet for coffee one day’, though neither of us ever actually want to. Thing is, though, if anyone deserves to struggle, it’s Sarah. I don’t mean that in a mean way. I mean that in an honest, sincere, wish she had never gone through any pain way. She spent months living with another being inside her head. Feeding off of her. Using her as food, bait, drug mule, whatever they wanted out of her. Live through that for a while and tell me if you don’t come away with a few problems afterwards. But on the other side of the coin, if anyone ever deserves to NOT struggle, it’s Sarah. She spent years married to me, then spent all that time being enslaved to a pair of creatures doing lord knows what to her. Things I’m honestly too afraid to ask about. When you’re in that sort of situation, you’re going to come back with a few scars. But those scars shouldn’t conquer you after you have survived. Because, after all, you were strong enough to survive. The Beast may have supplanted you on your throne in life. But you were strong enough to take that throne back. Whatever mistakes and pains you’ve had in your life because of what was controlling you, you still have that. How do you get that through to someone who has started down a spiral, one that you, yourself have fallen down a time or two? That’s the dilemma that’s faced me in our last conversation. I won’t detail everything, but I know her father is worried about her. She does seem a bit more haggard than she used to. Speech is slurred, glazed over, that sort of thing too. All the classic signs I know and have come to hate. It would be better if it was Kheid. If Mitch the vampire had made his way down there again. If The Nobility was behind it. If, if, if. A creature with nasty power and a devious mind. A monster of a person with venom in their bite and death in their breath. A creature I could easily defeat for her with a John Wayne smirk and a Robert Downy Jr one liner. But it’s one thing to have an enemy you can physically fight. A beast with fangs and claws, with muscle, will and determination. That’s easy enough for anyone. It’s another thing when you’re fighting yourself. You find the punches you’ve been throwing is at bare concrete. The pain you feel is from your own mind: from mistakes that creep up inside and tells you how horrible of a person you are because of decisions you made way back when. Because you didn’t know the things you believe you should have known or did the things you should have done. The poison as I’ve grown to call it. Make no mistakes, it is a poison. It twists your mind into thinking darker things about yourself. It twists your personality into a more inward, darker, meaner creature. One unrecognizable by friends and family. One unrecognizable by the world. A self-hating thing that only seeks its own destruction. A mission that The Beast may succeed in if you’re not careful. I’ve made my life these past several years into being the person that sticks their noses in other people’s business. I solve many situations or at least attempt to solve situations of others who cross my path. I do so with, well, bluntness. Stupidity. A loud mouth. Lots of luck. And on occasion, bullets. But this is one situation that I simply cannot fix on my own. I do know the day is coming though. I’ve told Sarah this. She was mad at me. Mainly for pointing out her drinking. We were on a zoom call together, catching up a bit. Her idea. One born by two new friends she made: Jack Daniels and his buddy, Lord Calvert. “Who the hell are you to judge me,” she slurred. It’s best to not engage drunks. I’ve never done what’s best. Her eyes were floating, they were so glazed over. Red. Speech was dragging one word into another. Who the hell was I, indeed? “I’m an alcoholic, that’s who,” I snapped at her. “Remember? I was sober I think one day of our entire marriage. And baby, it wasn’t our wedding night.” “You’re nobody, that’s who,” she spat. “No, I’m the drunk that was your husband. I’m the alcoholic that knows why you drink, the one who is smart enough to know that the reason why you’re drinking, is not. Your. Fault.” She stared down for a moment, instead of at the camera. At the screen. At me. “I know,” I continued, “one day it will happen. You’re going to be cleaned up. Smiling. You’ll hold up your six month sober medallion to me.” She chuffed. “That’ll be the day.” “It will,” I said. “It will be the day, I say congratulations. The day I will tell you two words you never heard me say at all during our entire marriage. Until then.” And then I signed off. It hasn’t made an effect. Not yet. There is two stages I’ve found that must occur before someone is ready to free themselves of The Beast. That first stage is admitting that there is in fact, a Beast. The second stage? Actually seeking help. Without those two stages, no amount of interventions, no amount of arm twisting or handholding makes much of a difference. The first two steps in dethroning The Beast is admitting there is one, and seeking help in getting them abdicated. I have faith in Sarah, though. It will happen. May not be next week. Next month. Or even this year. But soon, she’ll see it. She’ll tear down The Beast out of his throne, and kick it out of her kingdom. She’ll send that creature away in the paupers rags it came in. When that day finally comes, I’ll tell her those two words that I owe her. I’ll even give her four more: I’m proud of you. Cause on that day, I truly, truly will be. I know the price of that revolution. The pain and struggle of it. I know the anguish it can carry with it. But I also know, that beneath all of the grit, all of the pain and anguish, is a prize that truly makes the fight worth it. The prize is yourself, your true self. Sarah will get there, I know. I have faith in her. |
| Sometimes we all need a little adult supervision. Whether we’re standing on a rolling chair to reach that item on the top shelf, racing through the house with our birthday suit flapping in the breeze so we can grab that pair of underwear and towel we forgot for the shower, or something else, we need that person there to tell us “Hey! Not smart!” Usually, for me, it’s Crash who fills that roll. I try doing something incredibly dumb, and he’ll place a heavy hand on my shoulder and say ‘dummy, you’re gonna get yourself killed.’ However, this time it wasn’t me, it was Crash. And amazingly he didn’t hurt himself, even though he tried to blow himself up. It started a couple weeks back. Crash was on day shift after the whole Rougarou business. After a major incident like that, you know the kind that normally pulls me in to some crazy adventure that gets blabbed about on here, he’s put on day shifts to handle paperwork, destress, that sort of thing. Apparently, there was some incident that no one ever really talks about but in hushed tones of a werewolf working too long and going feral. Crash had decided, in his infinite wisdom, to burn a brush pile. It had become more brush than pile with weeds growing through the middle, a ring of dead leaves around it, and enough dead limbs and twigs to hide a good portion of the trees from visibility. The first step of course was to kill the weeds that grew in the middle. And naturally, you’d use the old, varnished gasoline to do it. After all, it isn’t like it’s going to blow up now, is it? He doesn’t say exactly how much he used, but will still chuckle and say “don’t worry, it was only a few gallons.” He figured there was rain coming, so in two weeks’ time, he’d just come and burn it. The gas should be gone by then, right? Right…. Unbeknownst to Crash, there was a mole tunnel right beneath the brush pile. The gasoline pooled inside the tunnels, becoming a natural pipe bomb. It stayed through rain and shine, waiting, like a lingering demon, to unleash its hellish might from just one foolish man, or werewolf’s, spark. Crash began transitioning back to nights after a couple weeks. There was only one or two nights left, and he decided that burning that brush pile would be a good way to spend the evening. So, as the sun began to dip, Crash shifted, grabbed a lighter, and went outside. He began his prep work, grabbing a fire extinguisher, a couple of water buckets, the works. He didn’t get a water hose though, cause it wasn’t like it was going to be a big fire. I was inside, working on another story that would be summarily rejected by another magazine, when I heard it: Boom! Zack was asleep by then, and he could sleep through almost anything. Sean was still at work, and Kris beat me outside by about 3 seconds. When we both arrived, we could see a raging fire that reached to the heavens. It looked as if we were giving a Viking funeral to a forgotten king. A very crispy werewolf stood in front of it, an embarrassed grin on his face and ears, holding an empty water bucket. “Well, I got the brush pile lit,” he said and grinned. Now, Crash wasn’t completely stupid. After all, he did have buckets of water and a fire extinguisher nearby. A water hose was soon hooked up as well, and Kris and me spent the better part of the next hour evening wetting down the surrounding area to ensure the fire didn’t spread and become our neighbors problem instead of just ours. The mole hole provided just the right amount of air and compression to make a decent sized fire bomb. It was a miracle none of us were out there with him. A miracle that in the two weeks’ time that gasoline sat, we didn’t have an errant spark from one of our other neighbors, or something else to set it off without us being out there to watch it. A miracle that Crash was alive. His only protection being his very species. It was also a miracle that we didn’t kill him. “You moron,” Kris shouted at him after hearing about the gasoline. The fire in his eyes rivaled the fire at its hottest and highest point. “You could have killed yourself!” “What,” Crash said with a soft smile. “I was protected. I ducked.” I knew better than to interrupt Kris in a rant like this. And did he ever go off. Crash stood there with his soft sheepish smile, taking everything Kris gave him. He called Crash irresponsible, dumb, called the move childish. I never stopped him and Crash took it because we both knew that he was right. What Crash had done was all of those things. “You realize you almost killed yourself?! What do you have to say for yourself, huh? For what you did?!” Kris stood at the edge of the fire that had now burnt itself down, raging as hard as the flames had, heaving, clenching his fists. Crash looked at him, still with that sheepish grin on his werewolf muzzle and ears and said, “I used no more than five gallons! I promise.” Before Kris could literally skin Crash alive, I pulled him back and patted him on the shoulder. “I got this,” I told him, and began to lead him back inside. “You handle him then,” Kris snarled, then walked back inside, still understandably very upset. I stood with Crash for a while, watching the fire, helping him tend to it. After a while, I looked at him, and sighed, “you scared him you know. And me.” “I was being careful,” Crash said, “I lit it like I was lighting a bomb.” I smirked, “Apt phrasing.” He blinked. “I just never figured that would happen.” Which makes sense. We never figure that when we’re grabbing that quick item from the top shelf the rolling chair will shift and spit out from beneath us, leaving only the counter to catch our chin on the way down. That when we’re sprinting back to our bedroom, our neighbors will pick that moment to knock on the door, or that we could slip in water, and hurt ourselves when we’re most vulnerable. That the gasoline we figured would have been gone and killed the weeds would still be around, pooled, ready to explode. But it happens. The counter almost breaks our neck. The neighbors screech, laugh, then snap photos as we blush like a kid at a recital, trying to cover up the goods. The gasoline ignites like a fireball from a movie set. We’re left hurt, bleeding, embarrassed, and usually, none the wiser for our injuries. Everyone needs a little adult supervision at times. Someone to step back, tell them, “No dummy, that’s not going to work. You’re going to kill yourself.” It’s at these moments though you find out just how much people care about you. It’s in relation to how upset they get. If all they do is laugh and ask you to take photos next time, re-evaluate your friendship. I think Zack though summed it up best when he asked “what did you learn,” in a sing song voice later on. Crash laughed and said something like “that varnished gas lingers.” He did apologize though at least. Promised us all that he’d be more careful. But I guess it shows in some ways why we get along so well. We’re both the right level of crazy and stupid. He attempted to blow himself up in a fire. I attempted to get two vicious proven blood thirsty killers mad at me so they’ll chase me. Zack, Sean and Kris? Well, I promised them I’d keep their dumbest moments off of here. And I’ll continue to do so, as long as the payment comes through. The results of all of this is that the house still smells like singed fur almost a week later. Crash laughs every time he talks about it, but promises to be safer. And that I’m analyzing my own actions. I’m not always the safest at times. But I wouldn’t have poured gasoline on weeds to kill them. I’m too paranoid for that. Cause knowing my luck, some hapless soul would have walked by and flicked a cigarette into the brush pile, even though it was piled at the furthest point from anything on our property. Crash promised to be safer. I perhaps should take his lead and try to be safer as well. After all, I only have one life to live, and no one can age backwards. This pain in my joints does wake me up on occasion at nights now. It would be nice to see eighty and not need a wheel chair. But we’ll see. Knowing my luck, I’ll be in a wheel chair, in a nursing home next to Crash, who will be stuck in his werewolf form for some reason, peeing in one bag and drinking from another. All while nurses check our pulses every three hours and tell us things in singsong voices as if we’re mentally handicap instead of just physically. But we’ll see. It’s best not to plan that far ahead in the future. After all, when we make plans, God, the universe, or whoever, sends us fireballs. |
| It had been several days since the entire incident had happened with Marissa and Tarissa, the ‘twin’ rougarous. They had left the county is all I knew. Crash was attempting to track them, but movements outside of his control tend to get shifted to the back burner, so he wasn’t getting a lot of updates. All he knows is that Garrett wasn’t with them. At this point, we’re not sure if that’s better or worse. I hadn’t figured on seeing Elouise again for some time. If I did, I thought it would be pretty much like Gary. See her in the street going for a jog or walk. She’d wave and maybe stop to have a conversation. Instead, she’s been fairly active with Crash and I. We don’t see her every day or anything, but I’ll get a phone call, usually on a weekend or something and she’ll ask if me and Crash wants to hang. It’s strange but nice to have a myth friend who hangs out and doesn’t want anything out of me than friendship. This was one of those weekends. We sat on her property in cheap plastic chairs that looked as if they came from a Dollar General clearance sale. Each one of us had a drink in our hands, though mine was non-alcoholic. The sun dipped low enough to silhouette her neighbors house. We watched the sunlight drift and the chocolate brown furred back of our neighbor as he continued weeding. He gave us a polite wave occasionally, but didn’t seem to mind our staring that much. His cow-like tail hung out in a curl behind him through a homemade hole in his old jeans. “He don’t mind us watching, huh,” Elouise said. I shrugged. “That’s the Henderson’s for ya. They’re friendly enough. Always outside. Don’t mind everyone watching. Well, everything.” She arched an eyebrow at me. “Really?” Crash chuckled. “I had to talk to them a couple times about keeping the drapes closed when they decided to get frisky.” Elouise laughed for a good while. “Is all minotaurs like that? I’ve never lived near one.” I gave a shrug, while Crash answered. “Yes and no. They enjoy sunlight, being outside, and attention. It’s part of their whole religion kind of. They worship the Earth and Gaya, the ‘Mother Spirit’ as they call her. They do so by trying to be outside as much as possible doing things like this.” “Why hadn’t you wrote about’em in your blog,” Elouise asked. “Well,” I said, “that whole shutting the curtains thing is the freakiest thing they’ve ever done. They’re just as normal as anyone. Like our post office, for example. All of them are just humans. No drama or excitement in regular mail delivery by relatively happy people.” “I guess,” Elouise said. “I suppose it’s difficult to get across sometimes that us, ‘mythicals’ as you started calling us are usually just normal people for the most part.” I smiled. “I’ve even had mythicals come up to me who’d never met a vampire before and asked me, ‘are vampires actually meth heads?’” “People are dumb,” Elouise said. I shrugged. “They can be, sometimes. But I think most of us humans have a level of naivete built into us.” Crash rolled his eyes. “Here we go.” “I’m serious,” I said. “Why do you think regular humans don’t ever see Charles’ and Nancy’s tails? Why do they see you running around the woods, Crash, and think ‘deer’ or ‘dog’. Remember the fun you had last year teasing the dog catcher?” That happened when I was posting the letter that I had gotten about Kheid. It was a humorous little anecdote, but felt a little too Loony Tunes for me to actually post it here. If you guys want it though, I’ll get it up. “You know, you slipped under the radar,” Crash said to Elouise, trying to derail my rant. Which I understood. Cause I had developed a whole TED Talk, complete with charts and figures. I suppose the power point presentation I had started was a little bit too far for everyone. “I couldn’t exactly follow protocol,” Elouise said. “Besides, everything worked out, didn’t it?” “Yes,” Crash said. “But we’re dangerously close to a Doveland scenario.” “Doveland,” I asked. Crash nodded. “It was a town in Wisconsin. Very friendly to us types, so a lot of us started moving there. The locals felt safer with us, and even began having discounts to attract weres of any kind. ‘Ten percent off your bill for showing us your ears’, that sort of thing. The town population grew to being half mythicals, even. Then trouble started. Needless to say, the entire thing was covered up, and now the records report the town as not existing.” “Trouble,” I asked. “A small war,” Elouise said. “Ended up being between us and the humans. Everyone lost. But rumor has it, that it wasn’t originally us and humans. It was the werewolves, and those damn cats.” “They started it,” Crash grumbled, but didn’t say more. “So, if we get anymore mythicals, what will happen,” I asked. “If someone tries to come in under the radar, I’ll have to run them out. If anyone else tries coming here legal they’re gonna be denied,” Crash took a pull from his can after that. It was a cheap skunk beer, the kind that has a flavor of piss and vinegar. The one that alcoholics and those of us recovering know the smell of well. “Well,” I said, “it’s got to be better than the dog catcher.” Crash grinned. “What, I was just getting a little revenge for all us dogs out there.” “Crash,” I said, “you tree’d him. You had him on the highest branch on the tree, calling for help.” Elouise blanched. “You didn’t.” “They did talk to me about that,” Crash said. “Crash,” I replied, “your boss laughed for three minutes and told you, and I quote, ‘next time get it on camera.’” “Still counts as talking,” Crash said. Elouise chuckled an agreement. “I would too.” I shook my head, “poor man’s gonna need therapy.” “He already needed therapy,” Crash said, then took another pull from his beer. We sat in her backyard, watching the sun set as our conversation wound around several strange things. Elouise talked about getting a job of some kind. The prelude I guess to her job in the grocery store. That made me feel a little guilty for a bit. After all, I still don’t have a job and don’t have any desire for one after the last fiasco I attempted at working. But still, money is tight, as it is for everyone. Doesn’t help when the price of your staples has tripled and the annual increase on your government stipend doesn’t bother even attempting to touch it. Times are tough all over though, so it wouldn’t do me any good to complain, I suppose. Still, a job of some kind is something that I do kick around the idea of now and again. But about the only thing I’m really good at it seems is working with mythicals and causing trouble. I figure the thing I could be good at is podcasting. My mouth runs on its own at times, much to the detriment of all of my roomies. But, where in our strange eclectic house could I podcast? What would I even talk about? Every podcast has to have a focus of some kind, and I don’t think anyone wants to hear one of my endless ramblings. That night ended with everyone saying goodnight, friendship hugs, and us going our separate ways. The thought of some sort of fulfillment in my life like a job of some kind did come up. But where in the world could I get a job causing trouble? I’ve always been afraid of becoming a Howard Stern type, someone who pisses people off for fun and money. If I piss someone off, it’s because they deserve it. That’s what this past adventure has taught me. That time I hid that speaker in my uncle’s house for example, I did because instead of talking about family and memories over the holidays, they’d rather complain about politics and whine about which side I’m on, and blah, blah, blah. Forgive me for wanting to spend time with loved ones reminiscing and attempting to grow closer, geez! I’m not a perfect person, far from it. But the more of these adventures Crash brings me on, ropes me in with, or I just stick my nose into, the more I’m learning that, although I’m not a nice person, I’m a good person. And there is a distinct difference between being nice and being good. The job thing may never happen for me again. I’ll just keep writing. Keep trying to sell my writing. Keep helping Crash, and keep trying to do the right thing. Even if that right thing means jumping on tables and trying to start fights. |
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