The Tale Of Mudgakee

It was a foggy night, not foggy in the sense the perspiration defied gravity and clung to invisible footholds in the air, but in the sense that the details of the night are hazy. It could be because of the pain, the agony or shock I went through, it could be because of the whole repressed memory thing, I probably woulda pissed myself if I had not “broken the seal” and relieved myself of that bulging pressure twenty minutes beforehand. Or it could be because I was staggering drunk, forget a straight line I was having trouble stumbling in one direction. Walking along the street in a fairly zigzagish pattern, I felt the miniscule hairs on the back of my neck rise up. BAC content aside I probably wouldn’t have noticed it anyway, the winds harsh, cold breath slapping me about and even penetrating my stupor enough to raise goose bumps, but it felt different, more persistent than your average case of the shivers, and, I don’t know now if this detail was added by my subconscious after the events of the night unfolded or not, but vaguely sinister.

I rub my neck and turn my head, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the swivel before they can focus clearly, and I can just make out a dark shape slowly shifting towards me. Despite my extreme inebriation I will never forget a single feature about that creature.

It seems to cling low to the ground, almost like a shadow, but this dark specter is under the sway of nothing solid, an independent and corporeal entity all of its own, its pace steady and gradual in its movement towards me, almost serpent like in the way it seems to slide towards me at first. Slowly this slither becomes the shake of bones as they pop against skin stretched taunt and patches of matted greasy fur failed to cover the wrinkled, dirty skin showing through. These patches appeared sporadically across the expanse of the haggard body, and where they did blisters accompanied, some ragged and raw, old half healed scars, others tiny bubbles of puss, oozing and ready to pop at the slightest provocation, developing new wounds.

Disgustingly thin, its ribs jutted out so badly I was struck dumbfounded that its flanks weren’t translucent and its shoulder bones seemed to hunch unnaturally above its head as it stalked towards me, or maybe its head just hung low to the dirt, like it was trying to keep its ear low to the ground, listening. One ear was half missing and a chunk of its nose along with it. Yellow teeth, some broken, gaped at me through an open mouth as it began to pant into the night air. The dog’s, if you could truly call it that, tongue lolled back and forth like an engorged, pink slug, waggling in a disgustingly mesmerizing sort of way, back and forth, back and forth. Black spots riddled its red and receding gums, completing the rainbow of degraded hygiene that was the things mouth. Two toes missing on the front right leg, overgrown and chipped nails, a vile smell that no doubt would have made me wretched without the sense dimming effects of the alcohol, it seemed to be a mix of all types of awful smells, like a dumpster that contained a communities collective dirty secrets and then been left to rot in the sun.

This dog was perhaps the most beat up thing I had ever seen in my life, but now its eyes, those eyes did not fit the rest of the picture. It was like a perfect, albeit grotesque, painting set on a perfect canvas put in a perfect frame but then whoever had set the frame tilted it slightly to the left. Every other feature was ragged or torn, nothing about this dog seemed to even show life about it. But those eyes were different. Those eyes had life…but that life was more insidious and horrible then the lack of life in its body. They pierced through me more viciously than the wind before them, an unflinching penetrating stare that didn’t quite show malice, but seemed to hint at it, as if it was making up its mind about that as it stalked towards me. And they were angry, much angrier than any natural animal, of low brain but high instinct, should ever be. They held me in place like the cobra to the snakes charmer, except for one simple difference. The cobra was the danger, swayed by the charmer. In this relationship I was neither the charmer nor the danger, I was the unwitting, fangless serpent, not swaying back and forth but instead rooted to spot.

Peripherally I could see the tongue still waggling back and forth. This enhanced the hypnotism, like a disgusting pendulum underneath the face of a clock, though no numbers showed on the face. Nothing at all showed on this face besides those eyes. And it went like this, eyes tongue eyes tongue. I could not escape them. If I hadn’t caught glimpse of the form before locking into its gaze, I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything besides those two haunting black orbs.

Now human beings are an interesting cross of two aspects. We are not completely creatures of higher reasoning, as much as we would like to pretend we are, and we are not creatures of complete instinct like most animals. We are a hybrid, a mix, some having more brains and others having more instincts. It all depends on genetics I guess. Now I don’t have much instincts, I know when I’m hungry, when I’m tired, and when I’m horny and that’s about in tune as I get with my Neanderthal predecessors. Now this dog was disgusting for sure, but it had made no aggressive move towards me, no running, no growl, just that steady pop in pop out of its shoulders as it slinked steadily towards me, and I was even an animal lover, dogs especially. Other than its eyes there was nothing even remotely intimidating about the dog, it looked like if it had tried to chase after me it would have collapsed from a heart attack midstride.

I was terrified.

I willed myself to turn, run, break away, do something, but I only managed one awkward half step back, still unable to pull my eyes away as it padded forward. As I managed my half hearted move the eyes seemed to flash with something, not amusement but a more macabre vision of it, a dark spot that was only a flicker, like the kind you sometimes see appear in an oval at the movie theatres
.
That was all the convincing my legs needed.

I don’t remember the pivot or the start of the run or even that moment I took to break eye contact. I just remember running as fast as I could, sprinting on wobbly, uncertain legs, gaining confidence and momentum as they went. It didn’t take long for them to begin burning like someone had thrown a match into the river of alcohol coursing through my veins. I ran towards the only source of light I saw, a street lamp that cast a comforting glow downwards.

At first I thought I had escaped, I heard no barking, no throaty growl, no panting behind me. I didn’t even hear the pad of soft paws against the road. I thought I was fine, the demented mutt well and far behind me. Then I heard it. A light scratching at first, lengthy nails rolling against black asphalt. I pumped my legs faster, but the scratching just grew closer, as though the increase of tempo in my running had been completely disregarded. The scratching neared and I began muttering prayers out loud and, for some strange reason, just hoping I can get to that light before it can get to me, and the scratching grew louder as though it meant to drown those prayers before they even left my lips, so they were never heard. I had just reached the outskirts of the light when I felt it then, a soft nudge along my left calf, its fur wasn’t as oily as I had thought, and was strangely soft, made me think of my beaten down Lazy Boy, a temptation that no one could refuse to sleep on. A pleasant feeling and memory before its teeth sunk into that very same calf, clamping down hard with unreasonable strength for such a ramshackle body.

I fell forward, hoping more than thinking my fall would yank the yellow decaying dentals out of its mouth or at least my leg. Instead I was jerked back by its force, finding myself instead flying backwards and then feeling my face smash against the pavement, rocks grinding along the side of my face. I tasted warm, metallic blood that filled my mouth alongside some fleshy thing that rolled around against the inside of my cheek. I’d been dragged down mid prayer. The fleshy thing was part of my tongue.

I kicked out with my right leg, but whiffed, and felt another painful drag back, pulling me away from the light, pulling me back into the dark. I could not go there. I kicked out again, and this time I felt connection and burning release from my leg. I had enough time to turn onto my back and scoot back twice before it leapt atop me, still unnaturally not making a sound, a silent predator, a silent struggle. I raised my arm up to cover my face, and it happily obliged to drive its teeth into that instead, whipping its head back and forth, I saw and felt a strip of skin on my right arm tear away like the cheese off of a hot pizza, revealing the messy, bloody meat beneath. I broke the silence with my screams.

Clutching the burning, bleeding agony that had once been my right forearm, I screamed again, forcing the base noise through a mouth half full with blood, barely noticing the tip of my tongue tumble out of my mouth, down my shirt, and onto the pavement below. I only managed to gradually shift my bulk a little more forward before dropping with a sob, tears stinging my eyes through the pain. I buried my head into my good arm.

And then I heard his voice. My senses were so overloaded in pain, a red tide washing over them, that I thought it had come from the mongrel at first, and thinking back on its eyes, I suppose it could have even been possible. But it wasn’t in this instance. Grunts and growls, both human and canine, filled the air, twisting about and engaging, separating, then joining again, both so guttural they became hard to distinguish from one another. I lifted my head and a scene so strange met me I thought for sure that I was delirious.

A man as filthy and dilapidated as the dog now did battle with it. I make no astute measurement of his size because he layered himself like an onion, shirt atop of shirt and pants atop of pants. On top of both these stretched a heavy, dirty brown jacket, and on top of his head a green hood, undoubtedly extending from one of his many layers. One hand was wrapped in what looked like discolored bandages, the other in a fingerless glove. The mystery vagrant is standing at an angle to me so I can only see a crooked nose and a wild, faded brown beard flecked with grey. Holding its ground opposite of him the filthy hound glares, bearing its rotten teeth, I’m no longer even worth a cursory glance as it directs full attention to the new comer breaching this dark night. From all around me a guttural warning emerges, echoing into the blackness that surrounds us, and it takes a moment for me to realize, in surprise, that offspring of a dog and the black plague is the one emitting it. Animals don’t growl at that which they hunt.

The homeless returns in like kind, his voice gravelly, before bellowing an insane, mocking laugh: “BahahahahAhahahah!” The laughter is cut short as the dog does not take his jibes in good humor, It leaps at him, jaws hanging open to bear down on him. The hobo ducks with speed defying his appearance and meets the monsters airborne charge with one of his own, tackling it around the middle for on tumble around before falling out of sight, the streetlight lamp casting its glow only so far. In the dark I hear meat packing thuds, scrabbling of claws, tearing cloth growls that come from full mouths, smacking sounds of limbs bashing off of pavement, and all the while staccato, rattling bursts of that crazy laugh.

Now perhaps those of you might consider me a coward, but face the apparent facts. The alcohol that wasn’t burned away by adrenaline still lingers in my brain, I’m injured, I am clearly no match for either combatant and would more than likely just get in the way, and just because the hoboic superman is fighting the canine Lex Luther doesn’t mean that, even if he should win, he won’t just strangle me where I lie. I use my one good arm to pick myself up, limping away as fast I can in a much more forward fashion.

I’m back at the door of my house a few streets away, still scrambling frightfully with my keys, when I hear a forlorn howl of pain followed by the victorious, blood curdling roar. “Mudgakeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!”

“Marty…how much did you say you drank last night?” I sigh and shake my head, waving a hand at him flippantly. I’d just finished telling my story to Paul, a good friend of mine who goes to med school and, although his expertise in his chosen profession is top notch, he isn’t much of a party guy.

“Not enough to hallucinate these puncture wounds,” I respond, nodding towards my leg as he finished rolling the rest of a bandage around it. When I came home the night before I’d emptied a bottle of peroxide on my injuries and pretty much hoped that would do the trick. Calling Paul this morning, I’d found out otherwise.

“You’re lucky I didn’t have to go in early today.” He hands me a bag filled with antiseptic and stacked bandages sitting tightly next to a fresh bottle of peroxide. “ Jesus, you’re lucky you didn’t die! This could get some serious infection. Change the dressing every few hours, don’t move around too much. You should really just go to a hospital.”

My head was shaking before the words even came out of his mouth, his concerned look at my injuries precipitating his words. “No thanks man, you know how I feel about those places. I’ll just lay at home and watch some old Wheel of Fortune re-runs or something.”

“You sure? They’d probably give you oxy cotton, vikatin at least.”

That stalls my stalwart refusal for a moment, but only a moment. “Still not worth it,” I say as I stand up and we walk through my kitchen and over to my door. Paul, good guy that he is, walks slowly so I can limp alongside him. “Besides it’s just a few holes, I don’t need no stinkin docta” I thumped my chest, “Me brave warrior.”

“Yeahhh. So how long did you cry for?”

“About a half an hour, after I was done screaming of course.”

Paul shakes his head with silent laughter as he opens the door and moves to leave. “You’re some kinda crazy Marty. I’ll get your mail for you.”

“Thanks man, appreciate it.” He walks outside so I turn back around and head for the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard as I go so I can pour myself a glass of ice tea. My movements are so slow the glass is only half full before Paul speaks to me, his voice odd and high:

“Marty?”

I turn my head sideways to make a crack about him still going through puberty, but the words are glued to the back of my throat and my body freezes in place. In front of me the glass overflows and spills onto the counter, but I don’t stop because I’m taking no notice. In Paul’s hand, on what looks like a circle of rusty coat wire, is a set of yellow, pointed, blood stained teeth.