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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. If this is your first time reading this...start here: https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1040400-Welcome-To-The-Pack My book, "Dreamers of The Sea" is available now on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0uz7xa3 |
| I took my neighbors warning with as much gravitas as was needed for such a situation. Which means of course I turned it into a joke. That’s all you can really do in these situations. You make them jokes. Beneath the dark humor is a layer of darker reality. An understanding of the harshness that can and perhaps will befall me and Crash himself. “I have to kill myself in three days or he’s going to murder everyone apparently,” I had told Crash who was seated at the kitchen table. “What’s for dinner?” Crash shrugged. “It’s Zack’s turn. He said he’s picking up pizza. Scratch, scratch, scratch. “Can I have your pistol?” “No. I’m going to give it to Zack.” He gave me the most pitiful face I’ve ever seen on a sentient creature. “You’re no fun.” I laughed. “Well, Zack will want it, besides you’ll probably be killed beside me.” Crash shrugged. “Are you kidding? I’m lighting the ceremonial torch.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “On yourself? And will you stop scratching, you’re making it worse!” He looked at me, his ears folded in discomfort and pain. “Ever have an itch so bad it physically hurt? Multiply that by a thousand. That’s what I feel right now.” I sighed and leaned against the sink. “What does your doc say?” “He came in, got a skin sample, then said to try, and I quote, ‘every soap known to man, I’m not even kidding. Use Dawn if you have to.’ End quote.” “But, you look nothing like an oil soaked baby penguin.” He gave me a puppy dog look, then lolled his tongue out for a second. “No, I’m cuter,” he replied. I gave him a smirk. “In a horrifying nightmare that would eat Freddy Kruger sort of way, yeah. Much cuter.” It went on like that for probably another fifteen minutes. Jokes and insults going back and forth until finally Crash, scratching a new spot on his arm, said “office got wind of Mitch a bit ago. They’re working on it they say.” I sighed, “what does that mean?” “Generally,” he grumbles, “that means I handle it. But given your situation. My situation and this whole damn town going to pot, not sure at this moment.” I sighed. “What will we do?” “What can we do?” Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch. “Can Vic, you know,” I began. Crash head tilted for a moment, until it finally dawned on him. “You mean, kick Mitch out of the brain of everyone in town? He’s good, but he’s not that good. He’d have glamor just about everyone, then mentally kick Mitch out one at a time. That would require a lot of willpower and strength, and Mitch will get tired of fighting and use one of his victims to just kill Vic.” “Or have Vic arrested,” I suggested. “Or dozen or so other ways of getting out of it.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “It wouldn’t work.” “Well, you have any idea what’s causing your itching? You’re bleeding all over the furniture.” He shrugged. “Were-mange?” He grinned at his own bad joke. “No clue.” He went from a snappy sardonic grin to pleading puppy dog eyes in about three seconds. “Could you please pick me up some…” I sighed. “Yes, I’ll get the dawn.” And death threats I thought. “Thanks! And a candy bar.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “Isn’t chocolate bad for dogs though,” I asked, then ducked as he threw a kitchen towel at me. “Okay, okay,” I chuckled, I’m going!” The town has a smallish grocery store, with a few isles that crowd in the necessities near some of the more profitable sugar products. It has all the feeling of a store that should be torn down and rebuilt but is reluctantly being kept open by its owners who hopes that the building will just one day rot into the ground so they don’t have to worry about it anymore. Some of the craters in the parking lot are larger than ones I’ve seen in warzones. The brick façade outside is more dingy gray than red with white mortar. But at least it doesn’t smell sour or stale, so the place has that going for it if nothing else. I squeezed down the cleaner isle and grabbed the big blue jug of Dawn. From there, I started looking at others, seeing if perhaps Borax or something else would be a good idea too. As I was searching, A kind old lady, one whom I’ve never seen before looked at me with a sweet smile. “Made your last plans, murder?” She asked, then moved on by the isle. “What,” I asked, turning towards her. “I’m gonna have fun dragging you and your pet dog outside,” another voice behind me said. I turned to look at a guy three times my size who had a sour disposition on his face. I clenched my fist, preparing for a fight. “You’re gonna die screaming and cursing his name,” said a voice behind me. I turned again, and there was a teenager glaring at me from behind his very wide mother who apparently didn’t hear a thing. “Say your prayers, write your will, don’t try and stop me, because nothing will.” It was a good thing I didn’t have my gun on me then. I turned and grabbed the lapel of the guy who growled it, shoving him against the shelf. It rattled from our weight but didn’t topple over. A couple of items clattered to the ground from behind it. “What did you say,” I snarled. He held up his hands. “Look sir, I want no trouble,” he stammered. He looked to be about the skinniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Obvious meth head with short gray hair. I looked up into his wrinkled face, the sunken jaw with obvious rotted out teeth, and sighed dropping him. Yes, I could have turned him into hamburger, but it wouldn’t be worth the hip pain. A lot of fights just aren’t worth the hip pain. “Stupid nursery rhyme death threats,” I grumbled letting him go. He shuffled away from me quickly. By the time he got to the next isle, I was certain he’d already forgotten the encounter. These things seemed to go that way. I figured dumb, drugged and creepy wanted me scared, but didn’t want me arrested. After days of this madness, it was finally starting to work. The checkout counter was never a more welcome sight in my life. Of course, I expected a death threat of some kind. Was on edge for it. With fists clenched and eyes wild, I began putting my groceries on the belt. Waiting for something. “Find everything you’re looking for,” The girl asked. She had to have been just out of high school. I nodded. “Think so,” I mumbled, looking around. There are times when you need a kind smile and a good heart. I didn’t get any of the teenage angst or disconnected melodrama that you can expect at times from teenagers. Instead, this woman who couldn’t have been older than nineteen gave me the most sincere, caring smile I’ve ever got. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “Yeah,” I sighed, leaning against the check counter. Now it just holds the credit card reader, but that was the original purpose of it – to give you a place to write your checks. “It probably will,” I replied. “You just got to believe it,” she said sweetly. I nodded, and gave her the cash she asked for. I really was feeling better when she gave me the change, and in just as sweet of a voice said, “because we really do want you to enjoy your last two days on Earth.” I snarled a thanks at her, then grabbed my bags and left. You could say there was a bit of a mood about me when I got back. I set the bags on the counter, was prepared to begin slamming things around, until I saw Crash. Shawn was standing over him, a confused look in the surfer dude’s face. “I found him like this,” he muttered. “We got to, uh, I don’t know man. We got to do something.” There was a blood around him. He was half grumbling half whining in pain. “Let’s get him into the tub,” I said. “Then what,” Shawn asked. “We scrub,” I said. “And if you’re religious, pray.” |
| The cashier smiled oh so sweet at me as she told me “That will be eleven dollars and eighteen cents. Murderer.” I’ve grown used to the accusations by then so I simply swiped my card, smiled back, grabbed my bag and left. I tried not to make it obvious that I was carrying. These days I carry everywhere I go. When you get idle threats pumping gas, walking down the block, going into the Dollar General, you tend to make sure you’re protected. If I went to church, I’d even carry in there at this point. Not that I go out much anymore. What did I have in my bag? A couple things for the kitchen and doggy shampoo for Crash. Specifically stuff that was supposed to kill mange. We’d tried everything else and was growing a bit desperate. Soap and water came first. Then came changing laundry detergent. He sniffed around in his car, in his clothing, in the garage around the house. In the woods. Everywhere he could find, and couldn’t come up with much. There was a new strain of wolfsbane growing in the wooded area behind the house, but Crash didn’t give it much thought. “Wolfsbane doesn’t do much,” he grumbled. “I’d have to consume quite a bit of it for it to do any harm.” The blue flower was beautiful, but I was told “it is poisonous to you. Don’t mess with it without gloves.” We stood in the woods in the late evening as he pointed it out to me. He continued to itch, and pretty much was just a werewolf twenty-four seven now. His arms were in red patches, with ugly scraps of fur sticking out here and there. Some of it caked with blood. “Poison ivy. Gotcha,” I said. He gave me a glance that spoke of bemusement and exhaustion. “Not poison ivy. Wolf’s Bane. Poisonous, don’t mess with it.” I shrugged. “Poison Ivy. Gotcha.” This is the attitude that usually got me in trouble in the military. It was about then that whatever superior I was joking with would teach me in harsh detail the benefits of respecting authority. As they say used to say, there’s the smart, and the strong. I was always strong. I don’t play these games to be a jerk, I do it because my mind relies on associations. Associating the plant with poison ivy worked a lot better for me than trying to learn separately what it did and how it could harm you. “Whatever,” he snarled, and started scratching his arms again. We headed back towards the house, ignoring the encroaching plant. This was beginning to puzzle me, and when I started asking Crash about it, he snarled. “Don’t. I already know who it is.” “Kheid,” I snarled. Crash ear tipped me a smirk that made me feel as though I had just got the werewolf’s equivalent of ‘bless your heart’. “No. He’s in another county right now. Over ran a home.” “What?” “Yes,” Crash nodded. “Those poor people are gone.” When I asked Crash what happens when I lawn gnome gets inside, he gave it to me in vivid detail. At least there’s no blood involved. Life for the victims become a whole lot more…ceramic we’ll just say. I gave a shudder thinking about it. “You mean, when Kheid almost got inside, he was going to,” I asked, not finishing the sentence. “Yes,” Crash said. “You were almost gnomed.” The longer I live with Crash, the more I learn that it always pays to listen to your neighborhood werewolf. There’s a lot of crazy creatures out there that we don’t even know about some of them we don’t honestly even have myths for that these poor, overworked individuals keep at bay for us. We were no closer to an answer for him. I was so paranoid of outsiders at this point that I had nearly shot the poor mail lady. She at least didn’t call me a murderer, but did call me a psychopath. Guess I can’t blame her. But hey, she made an awful lot of noise with that mailbox when she dropped off the bills and that game for Zack. It isn’t completely my fault that I thought this sweet sixty something year old lady who was always kind to us was going to bomb the house, is it? “Arkansas,” Crash said, bringing me out of my memory. “Arkansas,” I asked, a little confused. “You mean an entire state of people want me dead?” “No,” Crash growled, that turned into a wolf like grumble as he started scratching at a spot on his leg. “Let’s get out of this forest first, please. I’m starting to get worse.” Seated at the kitchen table, with a complaining, grumbling werewolf who was scratching so much he was almost bleeding on the furniture, Crash asked me, “You remember when we went to Arkansas to get rescue your ex?” If you’re curious. It’s the “Saving Sarah” series chronicled on this blog. But to sum it up, Leeroy and Mitch were twin vampires with a taste for meth who had glamoured Sarah, my ex, into selling all of my stuff. Soon, she was running meth for them as well as being their food supply and all-around slave. Crash killed one, but the other got away. I looked over at Crash, and almost did his canine head tilt. “Leeroy?” “No! I killed Leeroy. His brother, Mitch.” “Huh. I thought the cartel had killed him,” I said. Crash shrugged. “Nah. Leeroy and Mitch was more into making their own instead of trying to buy it from someone else.” Yeah, that had been a whole thing too, now come to think of it. The vampire terror twins had a taste for poison after all, whether it was flooding the streets with meth or attempting to kill a certain werewolf. It was right about then that a thought occurred to me. “Could they make other people smoke meth? Under their influence,” I asked, thinking allowed. Then answered my own question. “They did it to Sarah already. So, how many people can they do that to?” “There was a vampire in a small town in France who controlled every citizen inside it for over fifty years,” Crash said. “From the youngest to the eldest. They all fed him, they all took care of him. They all gave a portion of their money and goods to him. He controlled their mayor, their every single thing. Nothing happened in the town without his say so.” “So, what happened,” I asked. Crash scratched at a new spot on his shoulder and shrugged. “We took care of it. The towns people weren’t happy.” I looked at him. “Why not?” “When you’re not alone with your thoughts in your own head for so long, you begin to grow comfortable with your visitor. This vampire was smart. He wasn’t a lord who went around punishing everyone. He made everyone happy in their subjugation. He was their friend who knew every thought, and when one had trouble made sure everyone else helped.” “How many was in that town,” I asked. Crash shrugged. “About four thousand. I heard it was a difficult operation, but the EU was happy to finally be rid of him.” Four thousand people. Mitch could easily glamour half that many I figured, with the meth baking his brain. Our county had at least that many living in it. Two thousand willing souls, providing blood and money for the meth that they now all craved. That’s not mentioning the ones who already took meth. I shuddered at the thought. “I don’t think he’s got control of the county,” Crash said. “He doesn’t even have control of the town. But he’s got a foothold.” That statement stuck with me. He’s got a foothold. One crazy meth head vampire had control of dozens, potentially hundreds of people. “Can you uh…kick him out? Like the way you did with me?” Crash chuckled. “No, that would take an entire pack of werewolves.” He sighed, and scratched at his arm again. Blood began to well up from it, and I stood to grab a towel for him. “Not to mention this whole town would have to be suddenly very close to them, and well, no. It isn’t possible.” “So, what can we do,” I asked. He started to shrug. That’s when we heard the knock at the door. Gary was there, and he looked pissed. Those coke bottle frames looked as if they were about to catch our poor, battered front door on fire. I opened it slowly and smiled at him. “Gary! It’s a pleasant surprise! What brings you here?” “Can the sunshine, murderer,” he snarled. “Mitch,” I grumbled. More under my breath than anything else. Gary scratched at his arm and smiled, “finally you guessed it,” he said. “This vessel is here to deliver a message. You are to go into the town square in front of everyone at midnight three days from now and kill yourself. A single bullet to the head. Or I will kill one of these people. And I will keep killing them and delivering their corpse to your front steps until you finally get the gumption up to do what you should do.” What could I do? I smiled as sweet as I could at Gary and said, “thank you, but I already have a religion,” then closed the door. Hey, it works for the Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Who was that,” Crash asked. Scratch scratch scratch scratch. “Mitch,” I said. “I have to kill myself in three days or he’s going to murder everyone apparently. What’s for dinner?” |
| It was one of those exhausted, drained days. You know the kind, the ones where you feel as though you’re walking around in a thick fog of exhaustion and disappointment. As if every conversation and interaction you’re having is on a VHS tape being played back in slow motion. You really can’t write well on days like that. Your brain isn’t operating in any capacity that could be called “peak” or even “good.” Since I felt about as lively as one of the zombies that I partied with last year, I decided that perhaps some caffeine and sugar would be in order. This wasn’t a hangover, mind you. For those, I generally want carbs, grease, and of course, salt and liquid; all in great quantities. But I hadn’t had one of those in quite some time. Alcohol hadn’t touched my lips for weeks and to be honest, I didn’t miss it one bit. No, it wasn’t alcohol that had drained all the energy from me. It was a lively late night gaming session that, although felt as if it was needed at the time, as of right now just felt like someone had drained about two pints of blood out of me. No, for that particular exhaustion, caffeine and sugar was needed, and lots of it. Small towns can be nice for somethings. Varieties of businesses aren’t generally one of them. If you live in the standard small town in America, you have Fast-Food Row: A McDonalds, A Burger King, A Hardees or Carl’s Jr that’s perpetually dead and you wonder how they stay in business, and probably one of those dual drive through places like a Checkers or a Rally’s. There might be a tiny burger place like a White Castle or a Krystal’s. There will always be two requisite chicken places of some kind. KFC and something else like Church’s or Popeye’s. But we didn’t live a town big enough for a Fast-Food Row. We had a local restaurant, and that’s it. It wasn’t anything particularly special or noteworthy. Just a place that served basic American fare and grease of any shade of brown you wanted it in. What I was desiring was a coffee shop. A place where I could get a nice, tall, steaming cup of caffeinated sugar water that they called coffee and pay eight times the fair price for it. But to get to such a place would require a drive; one that was going to take me almost an hour in one direction. Not worth it for a single cup of Mochafrappinated sugar milk water. So, instead I went down to the local convenience store and bought a cup of their sugar burnt bean water. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t good. But at least it was coffee. And that’s what counted, especially in that moment. It was like any other chain convenience store in the Midwest. Bright lights, an isle of just candy bars, and useless overpriced gifts shoved away incase on your travels through the middle of nowhere you forgot to pick something up for that special someone. In the back was the coffee maker that I had come to see. A black and red beast that could produce sugared burnt bean water in copious amounts. As I brought my purchase up to the counter, one tired worker gave me a small polite smile. I recognized him immediately, and for the sake of this blog, he will be called “RJ”. Now, RJ is a nice guy, normally. We’ve talked a little. He’s told me about his kids. I’ve told him about, well, nothing really, just gave him a few funny stories from the service. And that was just about that. As I set my purchase down, he sighed and asked if that was all in a bored tone. I nodded, and passed over the four bills for the cup of joe. “That’s about twenty two cents in change, murderer.” Murderer. He denies it to this day, doesn’t remember saying it, but I distinctly remember him saying that exact word. “Excuse me,” I asked him, half shocked, half getting pissed. Inside my mind the old veteran was raging against the bars of his cage, raring to get out and show him what exactly a ‘murderer’ was. “I said that’s about twenty-two cents in change, sir,” RJ said, blinking. RJ is not a strong dude. He’s got more of a drunk dad bod than a fighter bod, with shaggy, greasy hair that said he didn’t get it cut or washed nearly enough. It would be a confrontation he’d regret is what I’m saying. He looked genuinely confused as to my reaction. “Is something wrong?” Now, being someone who served in the military, I had plenty of people call me plenty of different things before. These days most of what I get is “Thank you for your service,” to which my standard reply is “thank you for your support.” But, I’ve been called colorful things before. (I lost rank because of the outcome of one incident. Still don’t regret it.) However, this is the first time anyone had called me ‘murderer.’ He lifted his forearm and casually scratched at it while I answered him. “I thought you said something different.” Then I grabbed my coffee and began to leave. As I opened the door, I distinctly heard him say, “Have a nice day, murderer.” Three things ran through my mind at that moment. A, the coffee was scalding hot and could be used for a lot of fun things. B, jail is not nice in a small town, though I’ve probably been in worse. And C, It would take Crash a few hours to wake up and bail me out. The guy behind the counter must have seen my glare, because he about jumped out of his skin and practically leaped behind the counter, pretending to search for cigarettes or something. I just clenched one fist, tried not to clench the other holding the hot coffee, got back into my car and drove home. That could have turned this little post into a rant about veterans and their treatment. In fact, that’s the way things seemed to be heading until two days later when I stepped outside to take the garbage can to the road. Gary was outside. Gary if you remember, is our neighbor who likes to talk about cars. He’s a gearhead who enjoys old station wagons, sedans and average style “mom mobiles” from back in the day. He doesn’t really care about fancy Lamborghinis or BMWs. He’d actually rather talk about my Mercury Topaz for instance, or his Buick Estate station wagon. The grin on my face hid my inner cringe as the fear of a thirty-minute conversation about door seals on Buicks burned through my mind. However, Gary just smiled sweetly, his coke bottle glasses and halo of hair giving him an almost Mr. Magoo look that evening and said, “evening murderer.” The shock of his statement allowed him to get by me without me even summoning a response. Me. Rendered speechless. It does seem impossible, but it can happen. Having a neighbor, someone I enjoyed their company and looked up to calling me a murderer would be enough to do it. As he approached the corner, I ran up to him and grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. “What’d you say, Gary,” I asked. “What,” Gary asked. “I said, ‘Evening Jason’. What did you think I said?” I guess it was the look on my face that gave him some alarm. Or maybe the way I grabbed him and tried to spin him like a top. “I’m not sure,” I lied. “It sounded wrong though, so I had to clarify.” Gary idly scratched at his forearm. I turned and as I was walking away, I distinctly heard Gary say, “he’s coming, murderer.” “Who’s coming,” I snapped as I turned back around. Gary looked at me as if I grew three heads. “Who,” he asked. “That’s what I want to know,” I growled. “You’re not making any sense. You, okay?” “I’m,” I began then stopped. I ran a hand through my hair as I took a deep breath and tried again. “I could have sworn you said ‘he’s coming’. In fact, I know you said that.” Gary shook his head and clenched a fist. “I said no such thing. I was just out on my evening walk and saw you there, and wanted to talk to you about the new parts I found for my Buick Estate. Then you had to go and get all weird. I’m going home.” I sighed, and shook my head, then turned to go back inside. As I walked away from my garbage can, I distinctly heard Gary say “murderer” again. Clenching a fist, I walked back inside. These are things that perhaps should be discussed with Crash. To tell the truth, I truly want to discuss them. However Crash has had a rough time of things as of late. Red splotches over his human skin, rough patches of fur when he shifts, like a dog ate up with mange. I’m just not certain what is causing those things in him. The hardest thing to do is to discuss something troubling like this with someone who is having far harsher troubles than yourself. Perhaps these are things I should just keep to myself for the moment. Afterall, it’s not like things are going to progress, is it? So, I get called a few things. Perhaps it’s just a summer blues thing? Perhaps something happened in the news and people are just taking it out on me because I served? I dunno, stranger things have happened. Hopefully things don’t get any worse. I’ll talk to Gary in a few days. I’m sure he’ll tell me what’s got him upset. That will at least give me a clue to this mystery. |
| It’s been a while, hasn’t it? These longer expeditions do take it out of me somewhat. Digging into information from my roommates, most of whom were understandably tight lipped. Zack’s description of events were, in a word: short. “I was tied to a chair and fed cold soup.” He said, and wouldn’t talk any more about things. It was a bit easier getting information out of Rodriguez pack however, which I was grateful for. The tension in the house felt like a windup toy wound too tight. If you keep cranking on that key, something or someone is likely to snap sooner or later. You must find a way to let that tension out. In the service a perfect way to let off a little bit of steam was with a prank war. After all, if they don’t prank you once in a while, are they really your friends? I, of course, have a couple of memories I could access for this. But, due to legal reasons, I won’t talk about it. In other words: “No sir, I still don’t know how your vehicle ended up parked like that. Or how the shaving cream got there.” Things started innocently enough. A little grocery run for a few necessities in the local dollar store. Shampoo, frozen pizza a couple of other things. I was just wandering through the store, glancing at this or that the way you do sometimes. That’s when I came across it: squeaky toys. Dog squeaky toys. All of them quite cheap. The dog food incident came up in my mind just then as I stared at it, and remembered something else he said when I discussed the possibility of getting a canine companion. “We already have a dog of sorts.” I suppose a werewolf could count in its own way as a family pet. And I did owe him for that dogfood thing after all. Luckily, he was at work that night, chasing down whatever it is that he was chasing for that week, so I had plenty of time. I attached a squeaky toy the arm inside the tank of his toilet, so whenever he flushed, a loud squeak would be heard. His seat, which he perpetually leaves down, I attached another small dowl rod to a squeaky bone. Then, I went into my room, giggling. Luckily, Zack was at work too, doing a late shift, so I was able to put a squeaky toy on his door. That was when Kris caught me. He didn’t say anything. Just giggled a bit, then grabbed the bag of squeaky toys from me and started going nuts. One attached to the trash can. One under the cushions of the couch. One under the gas pedal of Crash’s car. After all, when Crash is out “in uniform” as he calls it, he tends to not take his precious, beat-up Caddy. One under each tire of the Caddy. In every cabinet in the house, rigged so when you opened it, they squeaked and when you closed it, they squeaked. I’m still not sure how he did that one. Every surface, every angle, every possible thing in the house was booby trapped. It required two more trips to said store, which luckily the store manager was closing, and found it so funny she was even nice enough to dig out a huge box of the things from the back so we could outfit more. So, there you go Crash, that’s the other culprit. Our house looked as if the Home Alone kid did an eight ball and then went to town on the entire house. All of these tricks and traps are hard work, so I got about two hours of sleep before I heard the front door open and then the first victim, Crash, opened a cabinet door. Squeak! He grumbled. Closed the door. Squeak! Turned on the coffee maker. Squeak! Sat in his favorite chair in the kitchen. Squeak! With a screaming curse, he stood up, stomped to his bedroom, and slammed the door shut. Squeak! It grew quiet for a while. I was just about to drift off to sleep, until through my bedroom wall I heard another squeak and the roar of one, now slightly annoyed werewolf. I laid in bed, trying to silently giggle to myself. I knew that Kris was upstairs with Shawn trying to do the same. Then Zack came home. Squeak went the cabinet door. Squeak! Crash exited his room. A few stomps later, and it grew quiet. Finally, I stood and began walking to the kitchen with trepidation. And was pelted with a high-speed squeaky bone. Kris and Shawn upstairs cried out as Crash invaded, throwing Squeaky bones and other dog toys at them. Then it was on. Turning, I saw a giggling Zack, who reared back and threw another bone, which smacked me in the face. I threw it back at him and dove for cover behind a recliner. Zack is a great gamer, but a bad throw thankfully, and in his attempts to pelt me with the squeaking balls and bones of death and destruction just gave me more ammunition. I was tossing the balls and bones back at Zack who was hiding behind the couch. I heard a tumble downstairs followed by loud squeaks. “Eww! You don’t have to lick them,” Kris cried as he ran for cover to the bathroom. Shawn followed close behind, with Crash tumbling after like an over grown dog. Unfortunately, Shawn got locked out of Kris’ sanctuary, who with a shout of “not cool dude!” began to run for his life wearing nothing but board shorts and a terrified grin of one who had no idea of what he was just dragged into. An armload of ammunition. A target in front of me and turmoil behind me. I knew when it was time to get moving. Popping up, I threw two hard throws at Zack, forcing his head down. Then running, I began to make my way towards the front door. Splat! A squeaky ball splashed off my face and landed on the floor. Turning, Crash was grinning behind me still in werewolf form. “Eww dude! That’s like being licked by you,” I cried. He only replied by turning his head like a silly over grown dog, grinning with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. I jumped back and threw a bone at him as hard as I could. With speed he rarely demonstrated to me, he dove forward, caught the bone in his mouth, spit it into his hand then pitched it back at me, splatting me in the chest. My jaw must have been open, because he splatted a bone against my forehead next. And Zack, seeing an opportunity, threw a wet one at my back. I don’t know if he picked one of the wet ones Crash was throwing up, or if he started licking them himself. I don’t really want to think about it. “Aah,” I shouted, diving for the doorway to the dining room. “Help, Kris!” “Save yourself,” He shouted back from behind the door of the bathroom. Crash was quick enough to cut off my escape. Zack was behind me now at a distance even he couldn’t miss me from. It was over. I curled up into a ball as I was peppered with squeaky toys. “Alright! I shouted, “Alright! I give! You win! Enough! Cease! Desist! Uncle! Uncle fuzzies bunny numpkins!” Crash and Zack paused at that one. “What?” They asked each other in unison. “Did get you to stop,” I said from the floor. Then I was pelted once more by each of them. Crash broke into the bathroom next. I didn’t see, but I heard Kris shout “Eww! Don’t lick them!” Then cried an unholy high-pitched scream as Crash began to pelt him with squeaky toys. “Now we’re even,” he said. Zack laughed behind me. “That backfired,” he said. I gave him a grin and shrugged. Crash grinned back. He didn’t have to wink or nod, but I knew he knew what I was doing with all of those squeaky toys. For less than seventy bucks me and Kris did what hours of therapy wouldn’t have been able to. We found a way to let off some of that stress and steam. To unwind the spring a bit, so to speak. Not every major issue needs to be discussed on a comfy couch with a Doctor Phil. Sometimes the best therapy is to grab a water gun, hand your spouse one, and tell them they have a ten second head start. To hide squeaky balls around the bedroom of your best friend. To do the funny things to each other that for some might seem mean spirited at a glance. And to get those funny things in return. As long as everyone knows when to quit, it’s the best therapy. Shawn entered a few minutes after the fire stopped. “Is it safe to come back in, dude,” he asked, looking at me. “Come here,” Kris shouted, picking up some squeaky toys, “You were supposed to defend me,” and began chasing him around the house and up the stairs, throwing squeaky toys at him, shouting “come back here you coward!” Crash patted me on the back afterwards. “That was fun,” he said. “No more squeaky toys.” I nodded. “No more.” “Disarm the house, please.” He replied. To which I nodded. After all, it was the least I could do, so that’s what I did. But he never did say anything about disarming the garage. Hey, I could always blame his car on Kheid. After all, that lawn gnome loves messing with vehicles for some reason. |
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