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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 |
| One thing I’ve come to realize in my short time out of the military: job hunting sucks. Everyone. And I mean, EVERYONE thinks that you’re going to do something crazy. They hear all the time (or so they claim) of former soldiers and marines going crazy, PTSD, shooting up places. How? Where are they hearing this information? Every time I turn on the news (always by accident these days) I’m either hearing about Ukraine or Trump. A school shooting happens and no one seems to even care anymore. So where are they hearing about all of these people just going nuts? Things like this puzzle me. I feel a bit like the narrator at times in fight club, telling their boss that “you should be careful, cause this buttoned down psycho could go from office to office shooting down co-workers” in as deadpan of a voice as possible. “Or maybe you shouldn’t believe every piece of trash you pick up.” I know the movie was different, but that’s exactly what I’d say. The most that I’d likely do is to gun down people on GTA. Virtual lives pre-programmed into a video game to be ran over and shot over and over again. Only this time, there’s no Ryan Renolds character there to save everyone. So, I did happen to get a job. I worked there for about ten days officially. Well, take out the four days of training. The two days of the weekend cause, I wasn’t being paid for weekend work. So, I managed to get fired in four days. This is how it happened. I worked for a company we will call, in the interest of avoiding legalities and being sued by men with ties that are more expensive than my entire life, Brand X. Brand X is a mega-multinational, corporation with interests and organizations all over. They do almost a bit of everything, but some how manage to do nothing at all at the same time. It’s one of those corporations whose only function it ever seems to be is to spend money as fast as they possibly could with no regard for reason or cause. Companies like this can only exist in a land like America. A nation that prides itself on its own ability to stroke its own ego for ego stroking’s sake, and have built vast empires of vapidness towards it: the Facebooks, the TikToks. The relentlessly chasing your own tail for the sake of selfies and likes and hearts. Except one of those companies is actually Chinese. And the corporation I worked for was based out of Europe, not America. Brand X that I worked for was just a local branch for them. Go figure. My job title was something like “Regional Traffic Manager”. My unofficial title that I came up with was “go-fer”. “Hey army, go get us a round of coffee will you?” “Hey army, the board wants to see the results of the Johnson study. Go bring that in, please?” “Hey army, go down to Kinko’s and pick up the reports I dropped off.” To which, my official responses was “Hey Doug, your legs broken you can’t get your own coffee?” “Hey Amy, that study’s on the Intranet. Tell them to pull their heads out of their fourth point of contact and look for their damn selves.” “Hey Larry. I don’t know what reports you dropped off. I don’t know which Kinko’s you used, since the closest one is ninety minutes away. I don’t have the receipt you used to drop it off. So unless, you suddenly have gotten really good at Telepathy and told them I was coming with a complete mental photograph of me through the power of mental projection, You’d be literally wasting my entire afternoon.” To which Larry asked me if I’d ever consider trying some manners when working around the office. To which, I asked him if he’d ever try apologizing. Not to me, but to the plants in the office that’s working so very hard to replace the oxygen he’s stealing. I did get my ass chewed for that one. But it’s kind of hard to take an ass chewing seriously when the guy doing it a few minutes earlier was laughing his ass off to another manager as he described the story. This didn’t happen in front of me. But those office doors didn’t block as much sound out as they thought. The big event however that got me fired went a little something like this: It was the end of a long and TIRING day. It was only my third day there, but I was trying to help Linda (and all of these names are fake by the way), with preparations for their conference that was going to happen the next week. This conference was kind of a big deal for them. They were going to be trained in the latest techniques and gadgets and do-dads to do…well whatever it was that they actually did. I don’t know. It seemed like an excuse for them to gather together and drink and do bad karaoke, and I told them so. To which, they told me that I was already on thin ice so shut up and just do the damn job. When in the military, before you go ANYWHERE to do ANYTHING, you check, check, and check again. Why? Because there’s so much crap you have to take, that by the time the third check rolls around you’ll actually find everything you’re supposed to bring with you. So, that’s exactly what I did. Linda wanted to just shove everything in a van and leave it so I could drive it up the next week without her. She didn’t count on me pulling everything she had in the van back out and laying it out behind the van right in the parking lot. The look on her face as I placed tables, book bags, laptops (which seemed a bit dangerous to keep in a flimsy van, but what do I know?) and other paraphernalia out in the open in neat little rows and columns, by size and type. I could see by how her thrice dyed bleached curled hair was standing on end, she was angry with me. “What do you think you’re doing?!” She growled, clenching her fists. “Just put it in the van, don’t count it!” “I’m doing my job,” I calmly replied to her. “And you’re missing a laptop, a table, and about a dozen goody bags and manuals.” “I’m not….no I’m not,” she snarled. I waved my hand over the items. “Count it, then.” So, we did. And counted it again. Then a third time. Then we’re loading the van back up. And searching the building. And, well, you get the idea. After about six hours of this nonsense, we find the missing items. She never picked them up, apparently. She double counted a few things. This is why, in the army, we would check, check and recheck! Cause you never can tell how much you have when everything is in a pile. Yes, I came away from that situation looking like a hero. However, it was what happened next that made me the villain again. Brand X was in a large building in the middle of a city. The building itself was about six stories tall, complete with attached parking garage where all of this craziness happened. It was a gleaming massive glass structure, that was built with as little thought to design as possible. Another massive silver glassed tooth in the gaping maw that was the city life. I had done this entire insanity with Linda in the morning, was present for a two-hour meeting that could have been put on a post-it note honestly, and had to stay after. Cause of course, I’m the new guy. So, it ended up to me to assist with the final preparations for their conference presentations. Even though I wasn’t going to be presenting a single thing, and had no clue as to what we even did that warranted a company, let a lone a conference for it. I did the best I could, working the power point presentations up the way I used to assist my platoon leaders on occasion with their work. I was riding the elevator back down. It was night time. The sun had long since sunk below the horizon and drifted in its endless onward journey to warm the planet. I was riding the elevator down with someone who looked to be about fifteen years older than me, though the face didn’t register. I hurting. I was tired. I was contemplating quitting. I was going home in my crappy car. “You must be new here,” the gentlemen smiled. His hair on his head had fled his face, and the hair on the sides turned white from the fright of it. It was an old face that looked as if it was more used to frowning than smiling. “What gave it away,” I said with a tired sigh. “What do you think of this place, so far?” He asked. I didn’t think he was genuinely curious. Just expected the standard corporate answer. The ’30 second elevator pitch’ so to speak. So: I gave it to him. “I work for a bunch of people who at least have no clue as to what the company actually does or what their actual job is. At most who actually do know and actively avoid it and any real work. In an office that is outfitted with the cheapest pressboard furniture possible. IKEA looks like classic fine furniture compared to this place. The ninety-minute trek out here is a pain in the ass, that’s one way by the way, and hardly worth the trip, especially in a Mercury Topaz. And I still have no idea exactly what it is we really do here. I swear the CEO and entire corporate board must be sniffing paint thinner and glue up there all day to think that this company actually has a product or any actual value.” That was when Mr. ugly gave me his full name and job title: Brand X of America’s CEO. Ouch. Some choice words were said. He had apparently heard of me already. I was a trouble maker he said. I was worthless he said. “Rowing the wrong way” on the boat or something. I don’t know. It was a stupid analogy. All I knew is that my legs hurt. My hip was screaming at me. My back hurt. And I was tired of trying to focus on nine things at once in an office full of people who honestly shouldn’t be trusted running the subway in a Wal-Mart. In between his colorful description of my performance and my personality, I told him “Don’t worry about it. I quit anyway.” And walked out. “I’ll never work in that town again” is what he said to me as I left. “Yeah, well this town sucks anyway,” was my reply. Later that night I sat in the living room with Crash. I had a beer in my hand, and a tired hang-dog look on my face. He patted me on the shoulder. I drank. It’s what I did. I didn’t talk about my problems. It’s one of the complaints that my ex had from my marriage. Only, this time, I did. Other things began to spill out. The job. The way I felt worthless around the house. The way I felt worthless in life. As if I had been trained to deal with billion dollar situations, but not ten dollar ones. “The army gives you all of this expensive equipment. It’s signed to you, it’s in your name. It’s yours. You’re entrusted to make these decisions with this equipment and your squad’s lives. But here, in the regular world, I can’t even be trusted with ten dollar ones. No one wants my opinion on lunch, let alone to trust me with the upkeep on a simple company truck, or work around dangerous things, like house painting equipment. It seems all I’m good for is sweeping parking lots or being the damn Wal-Mart door greeter.” “Oh, come on,” Crash said with his trade mark smirk. “You’d make a great door greeter.” I rolled my eyes. “Sure. I would. Welcome to Wal-Mart. Go fuck yourself.” I sighed. “See there,” he said, “You have it down already.” I tried to growl at him, but couldn’t help it. I was already smiling. “When you’re ready, you’ll find something. Something will work out. Until then, why not work on yourself?” He said. I mean, why not work on me? He has a point. I will never be perfect, but it doesn’t mean I can’t fix a few things in my life. Of course, I have a few issues that I’ve been ignoring. Every alcoholic does. That’s the real difference between an alcoholic and a drunk after all. An alcoholic knows they have problems they’re running from. A drunk does too, they just never admit it. It’s time I began to work some of these things out. It’s time I began to repair a few things in my life. It’s time I stitched myself back together emotionally, if I can’t do it physically. It’s time for me to learn how to be me again. |
| One thing that Crash seems to dodge is my requests to hear some music. After all, if werewolves exist, there has to be a separate culture for them, right? They didn't just spring up out of the ground, like weeds after a summer rain. They must have at one point at least had their own distinct group or clan or whatever, with their own distinct history, and distinct culture. Culture always involves things like art, music and legends. But why would Crash be so dodgy on this? I mean, he's not exactly subtle with his whole "werewolf" thing. He has a T-shirt that actually says on it "werewolves do it wild" with a picture of a wolf on it jumping through the shirt. He has a "werewolf" mix on his Spotify account. Actions like this aren't those of a mythical creature in hiding. So, why then won't he talk about this part of the culture? The first conclusions anyone can jump to are the horrifying ones. Maybe the culture revolved around hunting and killing people? Maybe they were the mythical beasts that our cavemen ancestors were afraid of. These were the creatures they built fires at night to protect themselves from, not ancient jungle cats or other things. But if these were the creatures that went bump in the night to our ancient ancestors and they hunted in packs, wouldn't we have quite a different culture than we do now? After all, we'd be terrified of other ethnic groups and cultures. it would be so much different than today, a time were we're trained as a people by our news and media to be terrified of other ethnic groups and cultures. Seriously though there would be more evidence of entire civilizations disappearing. I don't mean the Inca drifting into the woods disappearing. I mean, the whole entire "we've all died and here are the teeth and claw marks" version of disappearing. Plus, humanity would actually have heavier mightier weapons than they had before. Which means that werewolves must have always been among us, right? Like in our culture. In and amongst our people. So does that mean werewolves have always been here? Werewolves were always just one random family amongst us? And doing what, exactly? The most I can gather from Crash's actual job is that he is a regulator or cop of some kind for...something. I'm still unsure of just what he does. And having known his werewolf side now for a few months, I'm of the opinion that I am not sure of how much I want to know. There was that whole lawn gnome thing. That should have killed me. My body and soul should currently be possessed by those damned gnomes and they should be running amuck in this house and in the whole damn neighborhood right now. Why aren't they? Why aren't I? How did Crash know just what to do? I assumed that knowing a werewolf didn't automatically mean he'd know about every mythical being out there. After all, just because you know one person who came from Japan doesn't mean you have a connection to everyone who lives on those islands. Having someone of a different race and culture in your family or friendship circle doesn't mean you know everyone of that race or culture or that they do. That would be more than just a little presumptuous. So, then that must mean his job had something to do with that knowledge. Cause after all, he called that gnome out by name. Then there was the whole doctor vampire thing. Then, well, I guess that brings me back around to music. Cause I'm not trying to dig into his past. I'm not trying to dig into his job and stick my nose where it doesn't belong. I just want to know more about his culture. About the whole werewolf thing and those people. But how, exactly, do I do that when I keep getting jokes and nonsense? Music is an easy way to learn about someone's culture. It's generally tied to religious rites and ceremonies, to historical events and figures, to important things for a people to pass on from one to the other. Music is one of those pieces of culture that is imperative to that culture. Each people have their own way of interpreting its use and importance. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. But when I ask for Crash for werewolf music, I don't expect to hear a lot of Ozzy Osbourne, or eccentric country folk artists or strange goth rock from the nineties and early 00s. But that's what I get - just the stuff that he's been listening to ever since I met him. Perhaps I'm just pushing this thing a bit too hard. Crash will open up in his own time. Just because I WANT to know more about his culture and species doesn't mean I'm ENTITLED to know more. That's a clear line of distinction not many people draw these days. These jokes he's been playing on me could be Crash's way of telling me to back off and he'll tell me in his own time. If that time ever comes. Or he could not actually have any separate culture and is just messing with me. You know. Either or. |
| Ever seen a werewolf get sick? I mean really ill. Gut wrenching, puking and shitting in just about any available corner ill? It's not a pretty site. Their skin doesn't just get white with a pale greenish color like ours does. It seems to grow silver. A faint shade of silver, pale, and of course the weakness that always comes with being sick as your body fights off whatever toxins or viruses and bacteria that's infected it. We suffered about three days of this. Crash puking after eating almost anything. Then stumbling to work at night afterwards. Only to stumble back into work during the day time, and well, crash. He was sleeping a heck of a lot longer than normal even for him. It was so long, that the rest of us got together and planned a little intervention on him. Shawn is a man of few words. He'd rather coast through life than interrupt it in any capacity. In fact, you could easily see him at home on a beach somewhere sporting a dark tan and a surf board, proclaiming to you the beautiful effects of weed when combined with the wonderful music of Phish. When Shawn gets ready to confront you about something. You know it's gone far out of control. "I just think, dude that you should get it checked. I've never seen you like this." Shawn's face was a look of concern. That was abnormal enough. It wasn't that Shawn didn't care. He was just sort of like Bo Sheep from the old Garfield cartoon. A more dude version of the dude from The Big Lebowski. He helped in his own way, but knew that many times the best way to help someone was to listen or just stay out of their way. I suspected, but never confronted that he usually just didn't have the words of wisdom we all feel we have. Those special nuggets of information we "bless" each other with that seems to just make things worse. The modern equivalent of telling a new widow that "time heals all wounds" or a fresh divorcee' that there were "plenty of fish in the sea." He wasn't broken like most of society into thinking that his special brand of knowledge was warranted or desired. That's what I think, anyway. Who knows? He could just be painfully shy. So when Shawn's ready to talk to you about something, it's serious. And Crash took it as seriously as one could expect. "Why's everyone so down about it? It's not like I'm dying," Crash said moments before he wretched again, this time in the trashcan he held between his legs. It would have been fitting to have rain that day. For it to be pissing down outside, wash the world in the grey tone that Crash was taking on. Instead, it was sunny, with birds chirping sweetly outside. Proving once again that nature is an asshole and has no sense of humor. As Crash retched in the trashcan, Kris responded with, to his credit, with as much care, concern, and compassion as he could muster. Absolutely more than anyone expected out of him, to be honest. "I swear if you die because you're refusing to take care of yourself, I'm gonna kill you!" he snapped. "Get your big ass over to the phone and call Vic!" A look came over crash that seemed foreign upon his being. Was that look fear? "No hospitals." He mumbled. "It'll pass. It's just," he started then dry heaved. "It's just a small thing. It's going." That was when Zack came back into the room. I hadn't noticed him leave to be honest, and was surprised when he came back into the room strode forward and shoved a phone into Crash's hand. Crash made a face, but put the cell to his ear and began to talk. "Tell him if he refuses to go to Vic, I'll tie his ass up and dump him on his office door. Again." Then walked out of the room. I looked at Crash. "Zack said," He hung up the phone. "I heard what he said," he sighed. Staring down into it. I've never seen Crash afraid of, well, anything really. Not for himself, anyway. "Thanks guys," he mumbled finally, handing me back the phone. "Well, if you don't make that appointment," I began again. "I heard what he said," he grumbled back at me. "Yes, but he'll tie you up you see and," Crash gave me a playful shove. There wasn't much strength in it. "I can rest about four hours. Then Vic will see me." I nodded. I wasn't sure who this "Vic" character was. But it wasn't long before I found out. Zack had work. Shawn and Kris both had a job to get to, somewhere. Though Kris volunteered to call out. He stood near the back door, uniformed shirt in hand. "It's alright, I got it." I responded. After all, what other response could I give? Walk away? Give him up for dead or let someone else take Crash in? After everything he did for me? No. There was plenty of people out there to give up on. And God knows, I've definitely given up on plenty of people in my life. But this wasn't going to be one of them. Not someone who literally dragged me out of a grave of my own making. That's what loyalty really is. Not giving up on someone even when they've given up on themselves. Not walking away and letting them make a mistake despite how desperately they want to make it. Fighting for them after they've given up fighting for themselves. Loyalty is painful though. You can ask anyone who served or anyone in an emergency service field. Any cop, fire fighter, EMT or doctor. They'll tell you. It's very painful and will exact a price upon you. I'm used to this pain being emotional. Friendships lost. Relationships damaged. The people you've rescued turning on you in their grief and pain and repaying your efforts with venom and spite. I never expected it to be physical. "I don't care if you are a damn werewolf," I grumbled as I half carried, half dragged Crash to my car. "You're going on a diet." He was trying to help, though at this point, and with the lack of fluids he's had, he was fading fast. Each step was a mere tiny shove against the approaching ground, not actual help. Each step was a throb, a stab of pain that shot up from my ankle, to my hip through my back. Like someone was skewering me alive slowly from the side. The pain jolted through me with stride after stride, but we made it, and I was able to click his seatbelt in place. The drive to this mysterious 'Vic's" was a bit more than a let down. Turns out 'Vic' is short for 'Victor', a doctor in the next town over, who had a nice practice. The building was brick, pushed back into a small clutch of trees that gave it a homey sort of feel. The curtains in the windows was your traditional vertical blinds that seems to be given to every doctors office by law. I wasn't sure what to expect when I stepped inside. But what I got was a waiting room three fourths empty. The few that were there was unrecognizable to me, save for the woman I had purchased the lawn gnome from a few weeks back. She gave me a nervous glance, then looked down, playing on her phone desperately as if she made eye contact again, she might spontaneously explode. The rest of the room was typical doctors office affair. Steel chairs with sturdy fabric set in neat rows focusing their attention on a television that was quietly playing an afternoon day time drama of some kind. One of the cheap soap operas that broadcast television likes so much: 'The Young and Restless Guiding Light to the General Hospital' or something like that. I didn't catch the name. A window with safety glass stood off to one side of the room. Behind it was a middle aged woman furiously typing away at a computer of some kind. "How can I help you hon," she said without looking up. "Well," I began, "my friend you see is very sick outside, and I need some help getting him in," There was an expectation of getting something like "he needs a hospital" or something when we got here. Flashing lights, sirens, maybe an ambulance. Instead, she looked up at me from her computer screen, blond hair tied back in a bun of some kind, then looked back down. "Oh, the Loup Garu" she said. "Vic will grab him in a second. Just have a seat, please." So, I sat. Waiting. My foot upon my leg, phone in my hand, endlessly scrolling through social media crap. Not really paying attention to much of what the world had going on around it. The scenes on the television washed over me without sticking in my head anytime my eyes wandered up to it. Why do people keep putting TVs in waiting rooms? It's like bothering with the ancient magazines that some of them still have. That's another thing: why bother with traditional magazines anymore? Bah, I could go on for hours, but I digress. It felt like an eternity, but in reality, I was only waiting about twenty minutes. When you're stuck in stasis waiting for any news about a loved one, someone you care about, time just drags slower. Part of you wants to start beating on the doors shouting "What's taking you so long, damn it! Just fix him!" But doing this, just wouldn't help. If there's one thing I'm good at: it's waiting. Anyone from a military background becomes great at waiting. When you're forced to show up at 4:30 in the morning for a battalion run that will happen at 6, you get good at waiting. When you're 99th in line to grab your gear so you can deploy, you get good at waiting. When you've just got back from leave after Christmas and the entire brigade does a drug test at the same time, you get REALLY good at waiting. And holding in piss until you have to do it on command. So, I waited until I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. The owner of that hand was thin and tall. There was a danger behind the eyes that screamed at me to watch him with every fiber of my being. Those types of eyes that you commonly see on serial killers and madmen. He had thin brownish blond hair and blue eyes. If he smiled and a camera caught him just right, about a million teenaged hearts would break all at the same time and desperately pour out their undying love toward him. "Come with me please," the man said. "You must be Vic," I said as I stood up. "You are correct, I am doctor Victor Hammerstein," he said. I expected an East German/ western Russian accent. The type that most Hollywood actors and us plebs alike butcher when we're trying to imitate Dracula. Instead what I got was a familiar beige, mayonnaise dull mid-western accent. I was lead through a door, down a hallway with cheerful blue office carpeting and pastel walls towards a small room near the back. Crash laid on a table, gasping. He was sweating profusely, his form looked. Well, it looked horrible. "Your friend has been poisoned," he said matter-of-factly. "From the color of his skin, it's got to be silver." The doctor leaned in close to Crash, smiled and said "You're lucky you got good friends you moron. Where did you get it from?" He gave me a look, his face turned apologetic for a moment. Then looked away. "around," he replied. I didn't see where he got the needle from. But he drew liquid out of a vial. Then he turned to me. "This is deadly to you." He said. "But it will help him. I'll give him this injection now. But he'll need two a day for the next three days. One in the morning, one at night." He then demonstrated to me how much he'd need, pulled down Crash's shorts to reveal a silvery pale butt cheek and stuck the needle home. Then he smiled up to him and said "Oh, you'll feel a slight sting." Crash mumbled "asshole" to him and grinned a bit. "No changing." He said to me, then looked at Crash. "No changing! You're off the bench for the next week. They can do their patrols without you for a while." Patrols? What patrols? What was going on? "Great. Desk work." Crash grumbled then looked up at him. "Can't you just inject me with more silver instead?" Vic chuckled, "hell no! You still owe me twenty bucks." "I'll pay you tomorrow," Crash replied. "Then can you?" The doctor smiled at me. "Your friend will live." They talked and joked for a few minutes more. Crash got some dietary guidelines and things from Dr. Vic, then he turned to leave the office. Before he left, right as his hand touched the door knob, I finally spoke up. "Oh doc, can I ask a personal question? It's been eating at me since I saw you in the waiting room." I began. "Oh, vampire." Vic replied. "Yes, I can read your thoughts. Yes I feed on human blood. No, I won't feed on yours, unless I don't get paid that is." His looked at Crash who raised a middle finger in the air back at him. "Looks like you're on the menu," he replied with a wink. "Do that and I'll shit in your yard," Crash grumbled. "Really? That's all I get," I joked, holding my hand to my heart. "Jeez, some friend." "You ever try cleaning up werewolf shit," Vic replied. "Takes days. Always stinks to high heaven, believe me. It's more than enough. Filthy creatures." "Shouldn't you be diving in a coffin," Crash sat up, as he spoke. Color began to slowly return to his face. "Shouldn't you be marking a tree," Vic shot back. Crash grinned. "Nah, I've moved onto doors. I'll pee on your door one of these days." "Don't you dare," Vic barked, then opened the door. "Don't!" He looked down at me, and said "you're welcome to leave when he's got the strength. No, don't stop at the front desk just move right on out. His office will pay for it." Then he looked at Crash and said "you're welcome, by the way." and closed the door. "Victor Hammerstein," Crash stood on his feet, swayed a moment, then stood upright. "Is one of the good vampires. And I don't owe him twenty bucks, he owes me fifty. Just don't tell him that. And don't think about it on the way out, it's just like telling him." Crash was able to walk out towards the car on his own two feet. His appetite began to come back too, much to my wallet's detriment. Though since he was poisoned and dying I'll let it slide. We had a good conversation on the way back. But to sum it up: Vampires are generally in the medical field. They're always arrogant, and usually assholes. Though, Vic is Crash's kind of asshole. They hit it off immediately. Vampires do drink blood, but tend not to kill. They weaken people though and the people die of other things, such as cancers or the like. It's why most of them go into medical fields, I reckon. The entire thing was an eye opening experience. Since then Crash has recovered, and is now going back out at nights to patrol or do whatever it is that he does. I seriously have this super hero image in my head now. Maybe I should just buy him a cape? |
| Job hunting sucks. Anyone who says it doesn't really hasn't ever had to go job hunting. Especially after you've spent a better part of your adult life in the military. The civilian world and military one are two entirely different beasts. One is cold, calculating, bitter ready to chew you up and spit you out if you let it and only the strongest survive them. The second is the military. Think I'm exaggerating? All it takes to survive in the military is four things: Right place. Right time. Right Uniform. Right attitude. You have those for things, and you're good to go. Be where you're told to be, when you're told to be there. Be wearing the right clothing. Have a positive attitude about the crappy situation that you're about to suffer, whatever it is. Unit runs. Command layouts. Inspections. Recall formations. Whatever the situation, be positive about it and things run much smoother. Try that in civilian life. Sure, those qualities can get you in the door, but they only carry you so far. And your bullshit detector has to be in good working order, cause it's going to get some work, especially when people find out that you've been in the military before. Most just want nice, simple things from us military types. You know: the horrific stories of death and destruction that we'd rather not live through again with each retelling and instead would rather just drink those memories away. The bitter drama of going away on deployment only to come back and find out your spouse had taken the opportunity to screw half the folks on installation, most of the folks off, has ran away with your cash and is currently living three states away with another person who is driving your car. You know, those horrible things. But others want more. They want our cash, benefits, anything we're willing to sign away to them. Of course, dodging the traditional greedy, money hungry types who just go hunting for soldiers is easy enough. However, dodging those who come at you with the face of one organization or another who simply want to "help" you is where it's easy to get in trouble. Sure, there is crooked schemes out there looking to take advantage of us. It comes with the territory. There is also those who simply are afraid of us. Those who watch far too many movies and expect us to snap at any moment and start spraying bullets through an office building simply because Suzie in accounting has said the wrong thing about our red swingline stapler. So, yes you could say that job hunting has been a bit of a chore. I've thought of doing the traditional things: security guard (can you do that with a cane or laying down?) postal worker (all that walking? With my hip?) TikTok personality (Yeah. No.) You know, all of the jobs that us military types have available to us when we leave military service. I've managed to shoot down pretty much all of them. I have far too much ADHD to be of any use in a boring job that requires me to concentrate on one thing for too long. So that leaves a couple things, sadly TikTok personality could be among them. But I'm not the type who can do funny faces or even dumb, catchy dances. So, that only leaves writing. But writing isn't all that it's cracked up to be. A shrinking market filled with a growing number of players who all want to be a part of the game makes for a very competitive work place. Work that isn't always paying all that much. But it always helps to have friends. Zack is good for help and a game or two. Shawn and Kris are great listeners, and everyone pitches in on groceries. A support system of caring, loving people. A family of sorts that is, in it's own weird way a pack. A misfit pack. Crash has told me before that werewolves always form packs around them. Usually it ends up being mostly werewolves, but for him it's been mostly us human types. We're always there for him. He's always there for us. We're always there for each other to give what another needs, whether it's space, an ear or a helping hand. I'm not angry about ending up in such a place or in such a space. Sure, it would be awesome if I ever find some of that Stephen King money. Have the type of success where a growing list of B grade movies are made of your characters starring a string of bad soap opera actors. That would be great. But life never quite works out that way. I'd be happy with Edgar Alan Poe fame. That sort of success level that only hits after I've gone from this plane of existence into the next. Of course, I'd prefer to get printed, and paid now. But I think I'll settle for this. A life with a werewolf friend, several human room mates, an occasionally visiting stone dragon who helps keep our lawn gnome infestations down, and a car that is ugly but just won't die. And of course the vampire. Oh, I didn't talk about him yet, did I? Well, that's a long story I'll tell another day. |
| Werewolves are certainly human. Until their absolutely not. One example of this strange dichotomy happened when me and Crash were playing video games one day. I remember it was a racing game of some kind, probably one of the Gran Tourismo games or it's ilk on one of the other systems. The style of driving was meant to be as real world as possible, to give you as serious of a drivers experience as could be had with a controller in your hand. So, of course me and Crash were using it to play bumper cars. "Gah! Get back here!" Crash shouted, as I drove away on some beautiful course with lots of open spaces. I remember there being lots of dirt, thin scrabbly pieces of grass struggling for survival in its digital world of a virtual punishing sun, and of course lots and lots of tire smoke. "Ha! Eat my dust!" I shouted, trying to push and shove him off the couch with my shoulder, while clutching my controller in both hands. The vehicle on screen, probably a Mopar beast of some kind, continued to squeal tire smoke as I twisted and wrenched its way through scenery that was never intended by programmers to be used as a race track. We at some point in the game had determined that using the track was cheating. Why? I don't know, something about asphalt tires being used on asphalt was too easy for our little game. Or something. I'm not sure. Alcohol was involved, that much I do remember, so really whenever we get in these little things of drinking and gaming, strange rules come out and honestly, almost anything goes. It had been a late Friday night that capped off one heck of a week for both of us. I did just deal with the whole ordeal of the gnomes and the mess left behind by the Larry, the stone dragon. Apparently, Larry knows how to throw one heck of a party, but cleanliness is not high on the list of any dragon, especially a stone one. It took me hours to clean up the shattered remnants of the hats, stone fruits and vegetables the gnomes were "growing", as well as the brownish blackish stone pile that I'm going to go on believing was a weird sculpture Larry liked enough to leave behind and not something else entirely. For Crash, it was a week of something he absolutely hated: office work. I knew by now that the centaur boss and other characters I created for my head canon was far from Crash's reality, but someone was certainly riding him hard about something, that much I could tell. Hence, the whole game of virtual drinking and driving that we had going on. Or as we called it: "Drunk Bumper Cars." Like I said earlier, we had no actual rules for the game itself, making most of the stuff up on the fly. However, we did have drinking rules. If you lose, you take a drink. If you win, you take a drink. The loser has to also drink with the winner. It was a simple game that was getting us both drunk. Since neither of us was planning on doing any actual driving it worked out well. That is it did until Crash began to grow hair. I'm not the most observant of people. Heck, my entire head could be set ablaze and it would take me several hours to even notice. However, even I could see the dark hairs that started to grow down his arms from his shirt. "Uh, Crash," I asked, pausing the game for a moment. "Yeah," he asked. Twitching his fingers absent-mindedly. His finger nails had nearly grown into claws, but he wasn't at the point of extreme pain, yet. A point of changing I had only heard through my bedroom wall, and had no interest in seeing in real life. "You're uh....changing." I said, feeling like an idiot. "What," he cried, stumbling a moment as he got up, then walked over towards the bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror. I could see a bit of a muzzle beginning for form on his face, but nothing terribly permanent yet. "Oh shit," he grumbled, stumbling towards his bedroom. "What should I do," I asked. I was concerned. After all, I'm sure that Crash has been through this change hundreds of times before and was more than used to it by now. However, for me, it was the very first time I was seeing it first hand, and was at a loss for what I could be and should be actually doing. I heard the screams. And cries. I had never witnessed the shift in real life, but I knew it was a painful ordeal, something that was survived more than lived or enjoyed. To me, it always seemed like syphilis. Sure the itching and burning and pain can be horrendous, but look at the upside! I mean, if you can find one. Crash tossed his shirt in the dirty clothes hamper in his room. his chest and stomach had a lot more hair on it than before. "Get me another beer, I guess," he mumbled as he walked back into the living room and picked up the game controller. "You're not going to need, medicine, or towels or something," I asked. "Nah," he replied. "I'm just pent up. I'll have more body hair and things, but I won't go full wolf. I'll probably change next week for work." Pent up. He said he was pent up? "You mean, like a horny teenager?" "Well, kind of." He shrugged. "I'm getting beer, I'll be right back." I said, walking towards the beer fridge we kept on the back porch. It got me away from things for a moment, giving my brain time to think. When I returned, I tossed him one. He popped the top with a fingernail that was rapidly becoming a claw and sighed. "The chemicals that cause the change in us weres builds up in our system if we don't change enough. Then our bodies begin to force a change. Wherever we are. A lot of fun dealing with it when it happens and you're say, in the middle of an operation or something." "So, you're a doctor." I said dumbly. He took a long drink out of the beer, then smiled. "Out of all that, you got that I'm a doctor?" It was my turn to shrug. "I dunno. What else am I supposed to get out of that?" "Look, the thing to remember is, that if I don't change. I will," Crash said, then took another long drink. Yeah, whatever that meant. I popped open my beer and took a drink while I thought. So werewolves are basically like horny teenagers, only with shifting forms. This leaves all sorts of things to the imagination, parts of which I'll leave to the worse parts of Deviant Art and Tumblr to picture. I don't really want to. And he didn't call them werewolves, but weres. Where there more than one type of were out there or was it just short hand for werewolf? Did they have a club or something? What was the secret handshake to get in their club? What if I wanted to be secretary of the werewolf club and not president? My mind was running away with itself again. It does that from time to time. "So, are you like, extra aggressive or something," I asked, trying to get my brain back on track. "No, I'm not. I'm still me. I won't go randomly attacking anyone, and besides if I did they'd take away my pension," he said, then took another sip and set the beer down. "Are you going to keep playing?" "I dunno," I said, "are you going to keep changing?" "I dunno. Does that even matter?" He picked up a controller and stared at me awaiting my answer. I looked over at him, and shrugged. I guess it didn't. He wasn't screaming in agony yet. I grabbed the controller and unpaused it. "Okay, fine." I said. "But no more bumper cars. This race we do completely in top gear. No other gear allowed." "Deal," he grinned. Crash didn't completely shift that night. He did so a few days later, going in for 'the evening shift' as Zack and Kris called it. He came home later covered in usual muck, and a bit of blood. I didn't ask, he didn't tell. It kind of works out well right now. Though, I know there will come a time when he has to tell me more about his job and the other part of his life. Whenever that happens, whatever day that is, I'll be ready. I'm sure he has horrific stories. But it can't be any worse than some of the tales I've heard from my former co-workers. My battle buddies. The men and women whom I served with who may only talk about those things after heavy amounts of alcohol, in the quiet moments when the night is slowly losing its fight to the dawn. When that time comes for Crash. I'm ready. I'll listen. But for now, I'm content to play drinking contests with ridiculous rules. To have prank wars and strange meals. I'm content to have a friend and a room mate. I'm content to have family. |
| It was something I figured I could handle at first. Part of me was still convinced that Crash was doing it somehow, right underneath my nose. I mean, you can figure out why. Lawn Gnomes? Coming to life? Really? What's next, a ten foot tall purple dinosaur dancing through the living room and teaching us all how to spell? The entire idea was preposterous. So is the idea of werewolves I suppose. Yet I was living with a real one, whom I'd seen in multiple forms already up to this point. I at first tried ignoring them and their pranks. The Vaseline on the brake pedal. The toothpaste on the door handles to my car. The weird dreams that kept getting more and more surreal, with the great big gnome trying to talk to me as I was tied up. I didn't understand, didn't want to understand. Yet, with each dream, the words started to become clearer, and clearer. I still didn't understand the language, but I got the gist enough to know that he wanted inside the house, and couldn't come inside unless I invited him or brought him in. I didn't want to do the former, and was afraid to do the latter. But if I brought him in and say, locked him up the dreams would stop, wouldn't they? "What happens when a lawn gnome comes inside," I tried to ask Crash casually. My body language must have told him that it wasn't any casual request. "Well, depends," he replied as I stifled a yawn. Today was one of his office days, so he would be expected to come home at a reasonable time, which would be a nice change of pace. His shirt was tucked and fitted, his tie rested just above his belt buckle. It was a stylized brass wolf face howling at a full moon in the background. "They can wreak havoc. Tie you to the bed, grow lawn in the living room. In your case, Kheid out there would pull you apart, but not before he has you kill all of us first." "He says he wants to play nice," I mumble as I start brewing a cup of coffee. I felt a heavy hand land on my shoulder and spin me around. I stared up into Crash's eyes which had grown decidedly darker. "So you can understand them." Being military, part of my former job was to lie through omission. I'd tell my commander for example after one incident, "No sir, we were simply training on the humvee." I'd just conveniently leave out the part where we did the drivers course at double the speed they asked us to go complete with getting air on some of the dunes, turning them into ramps. "Sir, the get together was to boost morale in the squad," I'd tell my platoon leader after another incident. The fact that our little get together required two kegs to boost morale, well I'd just leave that out. Besides, we weren't encouraging people to drink. We just weren't discouraging it either. And free booze is free booze. So, I've had plenty of practice when I told him, "I still don't understand a word they're saying." Of course I left out the part of me beginning to understand every intention behind the now nightly interrogations. "So, you're thinking of bringing one inside," Crash replied. "Let me guess, Kheid?" "Well, we could lock him in a trunk or something," I offered. "Get the eyesore off the lawn." "If it's an eyesore you want to get rid of," Crash replied with a sly grin, "I can do it." "Well, I'd like to just, you know, grab it, and sell it to someone else later," I said, looking down. "Sure, that always works out well." Crash rolled his eyes. "Just say uncle, and I'll do it." I grabbed my cup of coffee and looked out at the lawn. Kheid glared at me through his sunglasses. Two different female gnomes where draped off of him, each grinning in their own way. A sinister way now. They were all looking at me. I felt the hatred coming up from that glare. "I...." I began. "I'll....think about it," I said, then turned back around. "Well," Crash replied. "I got to go to work. Text me when you're ready to give in." I nodded my acquiescence, then the door slammed shut to announce Crash's departure. I glanced one more time outside. The glare grew more sinister. I turned and locked the door after Crash left. It wouldn't help at all, I knew. But I felt a little safer. A couple hours went by before I finally gave in. I had went out to my car to head to the store and pick up lunch. When I pressed my foot on the brake pedal, it sank all the way to the floor. Scratching my head, I opened the hood of the car, only to find a small stone knife sticking out of the brake fluid reservoir. Two things occurred to me then. First, that was a damn strong knife cause those master cylinders aren't made all that weak. Second, this was a warning. Kheid wanted inside. Or else. A chill went down my spine as I looked over my shoulder. There he was. The lawn gnome. Glaring at me again. This time with two half naked female trolls and two half naked male trolls, all draped over him. All glaring at me. "UNCLE!" I texted to Crash, then sent him a photograph of my master cylinder. "GET INSIDE. LOCK THE DOOR." He texted back. I tried to be cool, just turn around, and walk slowly towards the door. As I looked over at Kheid, he was still glaring at me. I sighed, and picked up the pace a bit, never meaning to break into a run, but I guess by the time I got to the door, I had done so, slamming it shut hard enough to wake up Shawn who came down stairs in time to see me huffing and puffing in the kitchen. "You okay?" he asked, his curly hair flopping to the side as he tilted his head in confusion. I sighed and nodded, "Yeah, I'm fine." I replied, trying to play it cool. "I thought there was a huge ass snake outside." I lied. "Oh," he said with a shrug. "I thought it was your lawn gnomes again." "What?" I said, tilting my head. "Yeah, you go outside mumble about them at night. Move them around." He went to the sink and grabbed a glass of water. "You've seen me moving them around," It was more of an accusation than a question. "No, but you go outside, mumbling about them, come back in and they're moved in weird poses. Has to be you doing it, right?" He took a sip, then started walking back to his room. Sleep walking. I've never slept walked in my entire life, and these damn things have me sleep walking! I grabbed my phone and texted Crash, "Did you know I've been sleep walking?" Crash texted me back. "Yeah. We've all seen you. You go outside, and stare at Kheid for several hours as if you're in a deep debate. Then you come back inside and lay back down again." How did I miss that? I checked my bed and bed clothes. They were covered in dirt. I must have been so exhausted that I didn't notice it. Or was it something else? To this day, I'm still not entirely sure how I missed that. After all, they had me sleep walking. Could they have programmed me to miss that as well? When Crash came home a few hours later, I was in my room, pistol in hand. "Wow, paranoid much?" He said with a straight face. "I just found out I've been sleep walking and covering my room and night clothes in dirt," I growled. He nodded. "Yeah, I know. When I tried to ask you about it last, you growled at me something about King Kheid, and shuffled back into your room." "How long have I been doing this," I asked. Well, it was more of a cry. I was pretty freaked out by now. This was my first real paranormal experience, after all. Well, outside of treating Crash's shoulder or the night he brought me home that is. "Every night since you brought that thing home." He replied. "Don't worry, it's handled." "How are we going to do it," I gruffed, standing up and tucking my pistol in my pants. "Handled." Crash said again. "I've got it, don't worry." Then he brought me to the window. Outside, hidden in a bush near the roadside away from Kheid who was still glaring at me was a stone dragon. It resembled a cross between an Eastern dragon and a western one, with large muscular legs and a slender stylized body. "You get to clean up after it tomorrow," Crash said with a grin, patting me on the shoulder. "What?" I asked, walking after him. "How is more cheesy lawn art going to solve this!?" He would say nothing more about it, despite my frequent inquiries about it through dinner. It was Zack's night to cook, so that meant Hamburger Helper and more Hamburger Helper. With a side of, you guessed it, Hamburger Helper. He's a wiz at those things though, so at least the meal came out good. I'm not sure how he does it, really. That night I went to sleep as normal. This time getting my door barricaded from the outside by Crash, (I had to beg him into doing it), and sleeping on the floor next to the bed with my pistol near my hand. I wanted to make sure I slept light so if anything happened I could easily meet it with gunfire. If those stone monstrosities were going to get me, I was going to take a few of them out with me first. Make them pay for choosing me. In my dream, there was no interrogation or threats. I wasn't tied up at all. I was standing in the lawn as normal, a thick fog around the yard covering everything else. Only this time, I heard screaming and shouting. Cries of fear and pain. I literally saw stone gnomes fleeing the stone dragon who had one gnome under a foot, another in it's mouth, and a third in a head lock with it's tail. They writhed and struggled as the dragon began to gobble each one down. I felt more than saw something hard and heavy strike me in the chest, catching me off balance and knocking me down. Glaring down at me was Kheid, who reached up and took off his sunglasses to reveal beady red glowing eyes. "I'll be back," It said, in gnomish. I could strangely understand it this time. "I'll have my revenge. You'll all suffer." Then he was gone. Fleeing as the stone dragon chased after, with one gnome wrapped in his tail, and now two more in his stone belly. I awoke with a start. Standing up, I stretched. Then touched my chest. I had a bruise there. Covered in dirt and muck. How? I was still barricaded inside. The tall shelf and other things that Crash had piled in front of my door blocked my path. I sat down, on my bed, looked out into the sun drenched evening villa view that I had on my wall and sighed. A few moments later Crash began to clear the barricade so I could leave my room. "Maybe today is a good day." I said as Crash cleared the way for me to get out. They were gone. No gnomes remained. Shattered stone vegetables, hats, a few shattered faces that looked as if bites had been taken out of them where around, sure. But no gnomes. Only one very fat and happy stone dragon sitting curled up on the lawn, looking up at me through the window. "Don't forget." Crash said as he began to prepare for his day. "Yeah, yeah," I mumbled. "I got to clean up. Thank God they're gone though." "Yes, and thank Larry." Crash replied. I threw a thumb down at the stone dragon. "Him?" Crash nodded. "He's only visiting. But he likes the yard, and lawn gnomes are his favorite. Says you gave him quite the buffet last night. Think he likes you." It was all getting a bit too weird for me. But I swear that damn stone dragon winked at me when I passed back by the window. |
| The lesson to be learned here is this: never buy lawn gnomes at yard sales. I'll say that again: NEVER BUY LAWN GNOMES AT YARD SALES. It just doesn't pan out all that well, and can be the start of an all out invasion. It hasn't come to barb wire and siege towers yet, but honestly I think we're not a long way off from that. Things all started with yard sale season. If you're not familiar, yard sale season kicks off right around summer and goes until it's just far too damn cold to sit outside any longer to hock your useless stuff onto unsuspecting early morning shoppers. The little community we live near has a weekend every year where they go all out for yard sales. Stretching from one lawn to the next, street after street, block after block, you could spend, well.... it's not a very big community so forty five minutes at least going through yard sales looking at all the neat stuff people are willing to part with now that it's outlived its usefulness to them, or someone moved out/died, or it broke or whatever. That was what I was doing that morning, moving from yard to garage carefully picking through everyone's piles of stuff trying to find the gold mine within the rubbish. Crash had a late night adventure of some kind or another that he was still on, and would get home about an hour after I had left. I had imagined it had something to do with his centaur boss and or something but honestly I had no clue really and didn't ask because, what's the fun in that? I'd rather just guess and make it up as I go along. After touring blankets piled high with baby clothing bought new and barely worn, (and saying 'kid's grow fast, don't they?' for about a billion times) and witnessing box and crate after box and crate filled with records from people who must have been local favorites at one point but now no one in their life could remember who the heck these people were, I'd stumbled across something. It was a lawn gnome. He had on a little pair of sunglasses, a leather jacket, and his arms crossed in front of him like he was posing as if he was tough or something. The darn thing made me giggle when I saw it, which is difficult for a lawn gnome to do. In my head I had visions of a moving lawn gnome, first starting in one part of the yard, then the next. Slowly a few inches a day here and there. That is until Crash Sean, Zack and the rest would start asking themselves if they were going insane or if that thing was moving. Was it a dumb idea? Perhaps. But remember, I'm not the one who stood in the kitchen eating Reese's Peanut Butter Puffs out of a dogfood bag. So, he had it coming. Besides it wasn't like anything was going to happen, right? Gnome gets moved around, people ask 'am I crazy or is that thing moving?', I pretend to not know, and see how long it takes before they crack or catch me. That was my original intension when I brought it home and set it up near the woods by our property. It was visible from the road, looked cute and funny in that weird kitschy sort of way your strange aunt with all the cats and figurines is. It didn't exactly bring "class" to the house, but then again my forgotten relic of a car, and the grass that's always over grown doesn't bring much class either. Besides, if you remember my last post, class is not something I concern myself too much with. Crash was less than enthusiastic about our latest addition to the landscaping. I expected some hemms and haws. Maybe a joke or two about my taste in figurines or perhaps one or two jokes about me becoming a stereotypical housewife from the eighties. I didn't expect the 'what the hell' moment that I got. He came crashing through the door, a sneer on his face. He was covered in dirt and mud this time, as well as another substance that smelled a bit like sewage if sewage wanted to stink. "What the hell is that thing doing in our yard," he growled. "Oh, the gnome," I asked, trying my best to sound innocent. "No, the water fountain in the back next to the olympic sized pool," he said, rolling his eyes. "Yes the gnome!" "I saw it at a yard sale, and thought" I began. "That you'd pollute our yard and the entire neighborhood," he replied dryly. "You mad," I asked, a bit confused now. I mean, sure lawn gnomes are a bit cheesy, but we're a bit of a cheesy group. From Zack's Minecraft Halloween decorations to Kris and Sean's unique taste on Christmas (think 'Frozen' meets 'Nightmare before Christmas'), and of course me and Crash ourselves, we have a delightfully unique take on just about everything. We're the ones who could have endless hours of debates about what exactly it would sound like if Talking Heads suddenly decided to become a Slipknot style metal band, for example complete with lyrics and song titles. Since when was something too cheesy for us? "I'm not mad," he replied finally. His shoulders had slumped forward, his face was dark with that subtle defeated look that we all get at the end of a hard day. "Just a long day at the office, and now, that thing." He threw a thumb up over his shoulder towards the yard. It's strange. I swear the damn Gnome was glaring into the house just then. His arms crossed, the sunglasses on his face peering at us through the windows with, well hate. I wrote it off at the time to my overactive imagination. "When you've had your fun with him, let me know and I'll take care of it," he sighed, and shuffled through the kitchen towards the shower. The strangeness began almost the next day. I went outside to begin my prank. I was going to move the gnome just a few inches from it's spot by the large oak tree near the path through the woods towards the house. If they let me, I would inch it up to the door step, and practically inside the house. However, instead of standing next to the woods, it was now over near the garage. Near the woods was a female lawn gnome. She was complete with hat, large bashful eyes and a blush, as if being courted by my original lawn gnome. He was turned slightly towards her, and I swear he had a 'come hither to' smile on his face. "Very funny," I grumbled, and turned around to go back inside. At the time, I figured it was Crash pranking me. Ceramic and plaster doesn't exactly just get up on it's own and begin moving around the yard by itself, does it? That's not the way physics work, at least not in this world. It could be Zack, but honestly video games are more his speed. If it was him, I'd expect the gnome to suddenly look like a character out of Zelda or Halo or something. So, it had to be Crash, didn't it? I don't know where he found the time to get the gnomes or even where he got them from, but it had to be him. Upon seeing this, I rolled my eyes, and went back inside. How the heck was I defeated in my own prank even before I started it? Am I really that predictable? It's as if he not only stole my entire play book, but rewrote every bit of it, Xeroxed it, and gave it back to me. The female and male lawn gnomes moved around a bit in the yard every day. At one point he moved away from the garage, towards the female. At another they were holding hands and kissing. As they were kissing another female lawn gnome appeared at the entrance towards the woods. "That freaking hairball," I growled. Taking a picture, I texted "very funny" to Crash. His only response was "Say uncle and I'll take care of it." I glared at the screen. "Screw you," I muttered. I could ignore it far longer than he could. Push comes to shove, I can take care of it. It went back and forth like this for a few days more. The gnomes began to multiply. As the first female began to swell up day by day, the other female was being held by the gnome. Then came male gnomes. small kid gnomes. Little ceramic carrots being planted in the front of the house by gnomes. The whole entire works. "Oh, what the hell," I grumbled looking at them. We had started off with one. Now, if I counted the number would be closer to thirty. They were multiplying faster than rabbits! I began seeing little ceramic men in my dreams wearing pointy hats and threatening me with ceramic knives. They would speak a gibberish language that I didn't understand. I awoke that morning, groggy. It was now approximately three weeks into Gnome ownership, or gnomership as I began calling it, feeling more like an owner of a ceramic petting zoo at this point than the proud over of a strange lawn statue that was supposed to be a funny prank for me, but completely backfiring instead. Shuffling from my bedroom into the kitchen, I gave a big yawn as I prepared myself a cup of coffee. I would need it extra strong this morning. "You look like hell," Crash replied, smiling at me from his usual chair at the table by the window. He had a steaming coffee cup in front of him and a half eaten bowl of cereal before him. It appeared that he was looking out into the yard at the lawn gnomes. One was in the process of mooning the window, another giving us the finger. Cute. "I had dreams of lawn gnomes attacking me," I grumbled. "Could you understand them," Crash asked. "No, they were speaking gibberish," I replied, unsure of where this was going. "Good," he said, then took another bite of cereal. "You ready to give in?" "no," I growled, "especially since I know it's you moving them around. I don't know where you're finding all of these stupid figurines, but I know it's you." "no, not me." He replied. "They move themselves." Not this crap again. "Sure. They come alive under the moonlight to terrorize us." "Well, mostly play pranks." He replied. 'But, that one you got there is a trouble maker." "Pranks aren't trouble," I asked. He shook his head. "No, not usually. They'll saran wrap your toilet seat or put peanut butter in your tooth paste, things like that." "Peanut butter in the tooth paste?" That just sounded weird. Crash shrugged. "They think it's funny. But Kheid out there, he's dangerous. Hates humans. Wants to eradicate us all." "Crash, you're making no sense here," I replied, visibly confused. After all, he named the damn thing Kheid. I've got a lawn gnome army out there. Well, at least a lawn gnome platoon. Twenty something of them, planting things, reaping things, lawn gnome kids running around, all being over seen by a gnome that strangely has no chin beard, but has the pointed hat, sun glasses, a leather jacket, and now a pistol and grenade rounds in a sling wrapped around itself like it's a one gnome army. You know Rambo? This thing now looks like Ram-gnome. "Like I said, when you're ready to all it quits, let me know. I'll take care of them. And when you can understand them, especially let them know." I rolled my eyes at his words. Now, he's just being silly, I thought, then walked back into my room to start my day of writing and reading. I wrote the entire thing off really. After all, Crash works at night and has a lot of time on his hands. Err...paws. Or whatever form he's in when he works at night. He could easily be moving gnomes around before work trying to throw me off. Slowly adding to the collection in time to make me think I'm crazy. Right? But that one gnome, the leather daddy Gnome named Kheid, he seems to no longer be kidding or playful. There is no smile full of humor on his face in the mornings like the other gnomes. And slowly as their numbers grow each one of them begins to look more and more sinister. As if they're ready to come after us. So, either this will end with Crash laughing at me after he's driven me bonkers, or a lawn full of broken lawn gnomes, or we will all be forced to recognize the power of our new pointy hatted over lords. One of those three things will happen. Either way, I've made my piece with it. And no, the cocked hand gun near my bedside isn't because now I'm paranoid. All of this trouble because I tried to start one prank. Next time I'm just replacing his shampoo with nair or putting toothpaste on his door knob or something. All of this trouble. No lawn gnomes. No more of this! This prank has gone absolutely no where. Lawn gnomes just aren't worth the trouble. |
| Crash's recent injury has both of us thinking about the future. Neither one of us really is getting any younger. Since it has been impossible to age in reverse, we've both come to the conclusion that we're going to age with dignity and grace giving each new milestone the quiet suffering elegance and prestige each one deserves. "Yeah, right," Crash said, rolling his eyes. "I'm going into the grave screaming like a banshee fighting the whole damn way. I'm going to live till I'm a thousand." He was seated in the kitchen at the end of a long day at the office. A glass was in his hand that appeared to be rum and coke, though I'm not sure just how much rum was in it. Smelled like a lot from my seat across the table. His arm was still in the sling, though the chunk was no longer missing out of it. In a day or two he'd be back to working nights, doing whatever it is that he does. "Do, you? I mean....can you live that long?" I asked, unsure. Sometimes these things happen in our conversations. "Yeah," he said smiling, "and we sleep in coffins during the day and drink the blood of the innocent at night when you sleep!" "Very funny," I grumbled rolling my eyes. He chuckled a bit, leaning back in his chair, then took another sip. "Nah, we don't. We usually live as long as you regular humans do. We hardly age until just about the end when everything falls apart at once." I rubbed my hip a bit at the thought of falling apart. There was heavy moisture in the air, due to the recent rains, which was starting to play hell on my joints. Some days I wasn't sure how old I was. I felt closer to eighty than forty. "I'm gonna need a cane soon." I grumbled. "I got one in the closet you can use," Crash nodded his head back down the hallway. "Hell no," I growled. "I'm going to get me a sword cane." This perplexed Crash at first. I'm not going to go into the extended conversation, but he seemed puzzled then pleased with the idea. I'll get myself a sword cane, one with a glass skull on the end of it, and blood red jewels for the eye sockets. I'm going back and forth on whether to make it a human skull or a canine's. I want to have black trousers and a black belt to wear with it, and maybe a coat and a fedora or a pork pie hat. I'll have sun glasses I wear just about everywhere I go when I do. Why? Well, because like Crash said I'm going into the grave screaming like a banshee and fighting the whole entire way. Just because you're getting old doesn't mean you're getting dead. I've always hated the philosophy that some have when it comes to that. "From the moment you're born, you begin to die" they say trying to drag you down mentally and emotionally into their own dark negative space. From the moment you're born you begin to get older. That isn't some new age philosophy, or some crazy new religious movement talking, that's just life. The time you choose to start giving in, to start letting others decide for you what is cool and what is not, what is acceptable and what is not, what you like and what you shouldn't, THAT'S the moment you begin to die. Death isn't something that's experienced by everyone in the same way. Some people die in their heart, mind and soul almost right out of middle school. They decide they'd rather be accepted by a group than to think for themselves on what they like or don't, what is acceptable and what is not. And when you'd rather be accepted by a group rather than make your own decisions, that's when it begins. Dying isn't something that's embraced by me, but merely accepted. It's a fact of life. Everyone: service members, police, fire fighters, etc, everyone who has that dangerous type of occupation sooner or later accepts that they could die. They do the things they can to prevent it, but any day could honestly be their last. It's why they sometimes laugh the loudest, have the most twisted jokes, do the crazier things. Cause tomorrow could literally be their last day, so why worry about it? When you die in your mind, heart and soul, the body isn't that far behind. That goes double for when you get older. Others deciding for you that certain music isn't good. That certain movies should be rejected, because THEY didn't like it, so now you have to hate it too. Why? Am I not allowed now to like older style music and newer stuff simply because someone said I'm not supposed to? When the hell did I sign up for that? Life is about living. It's not about dying, or about making a stand or a statement. I'm not out protesting others, or trying to over throw anything. I'm not fighting political battles for some fat politician to get elected and grow fatter and richer off the blood I spill. I'm making my choices, living life the way I see fit. If I want to dress like a villainous reject from an anime, then damn it, I will. If I want to see a Metallica concert one day, then a Black Pistol Fire concert the next, then damn it I will. If I want to watch foreign action films or sappy romantic comedies back to back, then damn it, I will. Cause I'm living my life. Other's can't live it for me. Or as Crash put it that night before he decided to call it a day, "If I can't choose the way I die, I might as well choose the way I live." |
| Crash's life as you know by now is consistently inconsistent. His work schedule has him out at nights, that is unless he's just working a regular nine to five in the office, sharing gossip about whatever it is werewolves gossip about around the water cooler. He has been tight lipped about his job, which only causes my mind to get creative, and come up with all sorts of strange scenarios. I've been told on more than one occasion that I have an active imagination. Which, lets be entirely honest here, is an understatement. If my imagination was a child, it would be loaded with ADHD, caffeine and sugar, given a box of markers and four white walls in a small room and two hours without adult supervision. What I'm trying to say is, giving me as little information as possible just invites all sorts of strange ideas and scenarios. You see, I know Crash's job has an office portion cause he sometimes goes to work in a suit and tie. So, the little information that I've gleaned from his, what I now call, nighttime adventures, and the suit and tie has lead me to the image of him standing around in an office with other mythical creatures gossiping by the water cooler about what the humans are doing. I'm sure Val, the vampire, would have some juicy gossip as he sips his cup full of red liquid, swearing up and down that they were willing and are still alive. "And quite healthy!" he would say with eyes darting around to see if anyone suspects anything. Susan, whose the office manager in my little head cannon that I created for this scenario makes the best coffee. She's also a centaur, and will just literally kick you into next week instead of firing you if she gets angry, which is why everyone stays on her good side. The skinwalker, Larry, tries to pretend to be just about everyone in the office for a laugh. People chuckle out of politeness, but no one has the heart to tell Larry that mimicking people's motions is funny, walking in the office looking literally just like them is just creepy and weird. But, come on, it's Larry. He means well, but is not just good as people. Sad thing is, I could go on like this for hours. Create little lives for these people, and what each one of them does. Make up fun personality quirks and things for them, like Larry having a set of old school turn tables that he uses to try and make up his own beats at home, though he's not very good at it. He knows he's not good, but he does it for fun and to relieve stress not for money or anything. Or how Susan is two cat adoptions shy of being a crazy cat lady. Or crazy cat centaur. Or whatever. All of this works for his office days, but what about non-office days? The other times Crash works at night and comes home covered in dirt and muck? None of this actually explains those evenings and nights. Especially when he comes home in the mornings some days with injuries. An injured werewolf is strange. They heal much faster, sure. It's funny to see someone with a broken arm on Monday, going into work on Friday like nothing actually ever happened to them. When in wolf form, if the injury is severe enough they can't shift back until it's healed up some. They have to walk around the house for days, stuck in form while whatever part of their body heals to the point that they can shift back to human. The first time I saw this, I was just getting up when Crash stumbled into the door. Sunlight had just peaked over the horizon for the morning, giving gentle rays of goodness and beauty to go with my early coffee. When the back door slammed open and Crash half tumbled, half rolled into it, I gaped at him, stunned. I hadn't seen him in his wolf form often. I'm not sure if it's a bad luck thing or if they don't like revealing that form to humans due to us staring or whatever. He was trying not to leave a blood trail. However, that was difficult due to the gaping hole in his shoulder. A large hand (paw?) covered it. He grimaced, stumbled down the hallway into his room without saying a word, then slammed the door shut. I didn't see him for almost a day afterwards, and when I did, he was still in his werewolf form. Grumbling a bit about pain, a wrap on his shoulder, and not saying anything else. No explanation of what happened. No attempt at an explanation. Just "hey Jason," in the hallway, then back to his room. Every question I asked was met with "you wouldn't believe me," then he went back to his room. I mean, dude you're literally a seven foot tall five hundred something pounds of pure muscle walking talking werewolf. Everything is on the table right now for possibilities. But this lack of information gets my brain going again. He still hasn't talked about the bite, but my brain has come up with an Indiana Jones scenario, where he's trying to rescue a statue of Catomon from a temple but was attacked by cougar people, (cause they're always cougar people in the middle of it, isn't there?) and barely escaped with his life after only dispatching four or five dozen, (cause he's a werewolf, remember). I haven't told Crash any of these thoughts or ideas yet. I'm certain if he heard them, he'd laugh and tell me it's something a bit more mundane than that, and proceed to give me an explanation that's both better and far worse than what I was originally imagining. But the injury thing did throw me for a bit. I mean, yes he's a werewolf, but surely that doesn't mean he's out howling at the moon or whatever, does it? But he's got to be doing something dangerous to go out so often at night for his job, only to come back covered in mud, dirt, and sometimes blood that he swears isn't his and isn't human. But the strangest thing of it all is how quick he heals. The bit shoulder thing from earlier only lasted four days and he was back to normal. His shoulder was missing flesh. I helped him bandage the wound twice, mostly since Kris and Sean wouldn't touch even try to touch it, and the last time Zack attempted to help with his wound, he nearly passed out and Crash ended up giving him first aid instead. That was how I found myself standing in his bedroom, with Crash leaning against a large four post bed, pointing at a box of gauze pads and a wrap. "Could you help with this, please," he pleaded. His ears were folded back like a dog begging for help. Pain creased his muzzle for a moment, before I eventually nodded. Beside the bed was two end tables that looked like they came from a different era from the Victorian style four post bed he had. On top of the one on his left was an smart device of some kind that I could hear play music on occasion. He leaned over half the bed, hanging his head in pain and misery. As I walked around the bed, an old Jeff Foxworthy joke began playing through my mind. "you'd injure yourself in some horrible way and you'd go back to your mom to hear those ever-loving words: 'well, I hope you're satisfied.'" I began to chuckle a bit, under my breath, trying to suppress the urge to act out the scene as told by Jeff. "What," Crash said, as I began to unwrap his shoulder. "Well, I hope you're satisifed," I said, smiling. "What," he asked, confused. I confused him enough that he head tilted. Werewolves do it too, apparently. I picked up my best southern woman accent that I could find rolling around in my noggin and said "Look at you, you're in a pool of blood." He bent his head down, and I heard a low rumble. It took me a moment to realize he was chuckling. "Are you doing that old Jeff Foxworthy joke?" I blushed, and pulled the bloody gauze off of his shoulder. All three pads of them. "No." "You were," he smiled. I looked down into his shoulder. It wasn't as bad as I expected. I'm sure it would have been a fascinating site for a doctor or scientist. It reminded me of one of those creature from another planet flicks. It was pulsating a bit, slowly. I could see something white sticking out of it near the center. "Uh, dude, there's something in here." There wasn't a lot of blood. There was some, but it appeared as if his body was rerouting it somehow. Like it had created the necessary clots so it was now concentrating on building and replacing torn tissue, and not just pushing blood through the open vessels and whatever exposed to the air. However, the white thing looked to be completely out of place. I didn't ask. I grabbed and pulled. He yelped a bit, and a small spurt of blood sprayed outward onto his white blanket. "Ouch!" He snarled, looking back at me. "here," I replied, putting it in his working hand. "I think that belongs to whatever the hell did that to you." "Oh, thanks." He said, his eyes widening a bit. "This is going to help." "I'm glad I could," I replied grabbing the fresh gauze, slowly packing it back in before applying the wrap. The tooth or whatever was never really explained. Not sure it ever will be. That was why my brain came up with cougar people, and the entire Temple of Doom rip off. I don't honestly need to know what he does, and the explanation at this point might actually disappoint me, due to how much fun my imagination had playing with this entire idea. Besides, if I find out Larry the Skinwalker and Susan the Centaur are fake, I'm going to be very disappointed. |
| Independence is a very important thing, especially to someone like me. You have to be able to feel as if you can do things on your own. It doesn't matter if it's as simple as changing your oil or repairing your home. You must be able to do those minor things, or else in the back of your mind during the major problems you'll have that little voice asking you 'can you really handle this?' I've had that voice far too often for the past several months. After my ex left and pretty much took everything I had, what I really had left was a photograph half a closet of clothing, and some military gear. That was it. I didn't even have all of the gear I was issued, (which was a lot of fun when I went to sign out for the final time, let me tell you.) I had nothing left to my name. No family left that honestly cared if I lived or died. I had Al Cohol, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and a whole lot of time to party with those three friends of mine who were determined to kill me slowly. Ozzy is right - suicide is slow with liquor. But Crash dragged me out of that place, away from those things. For the first few days he was keeping a pretty close eye on me. I could drink with him, a beer on occasion in the evenings. That was it. No liquor. No wine. Nothing stronger than beer and no more than two on a Friday with him. If you're a drunk like me two beers pretty much will just piss you off. It won't be enough to even get you relaxed, let alone buzzed. It's just enough to remind you of the drug you used to enjoy and the good friends you used to party with. However, I thought it was in my best sense of self preservation to not tell Crash no. After all, he was my friend of several years at this point, but he was still a werewolf. Which was a mysterious and dangerous creature of an origin that still remains unknown to me. Given that I couldn't drink, had to ride with Crash or Kris if I wanted to go somewhere (Zack had a license but barely drove anywhere), life was getting a little difficult. Sure, working was just a bit out of the question. But I still wanted to feel the road beneath my tires, roll down a window feel the wind blowing in my hair. Blast my favorite songs, sing along at the top of my lungs as I cruised down empty roads and highways. Taste the freedom, as it where. Freedom is a key ingredient in independence. You must be free to succeed or fall flat on your face in life. It's the act of picking yourself back up that teaches you independence, that teaches you how to be alone in this cold, harsh world. Those where things that I had lost. When my ex took everything, and I got injured I lost just about every ounce of freedom I had. Which caused me to lose my independence. Which caused me to lose my self respect. It was about damn time to get some of all of those things back. Crash was the one who brought it up first on a Friday night. We were sitting in the back of his yard, the trees pushing forward onto the property, casting pitch black shadows in the blackest of night. Occasionally wind would blow through these trees, causing these shadows to dance in the dim moonlight and orange light of our bon fire, making it look as if the very dark itself had come alive. His large frame pressed out against a small lawn chair. It creaked and groaned in complaint with each movement and adjustment he made, but it never broke. He had a beer in one hand, sipping it, playing with his cell phone in the other. "I think it's about time we got you a car." He said, before taking a sip. "I've been meaning to ask you that." I replied. I had already met my "two beer" limit, the two casualties of our little party sitting by my chair, their wrinkled and crumbled bodies reflecting glinting light from the bonfire. "I think it's time I got one." "Yes, would let you get to your appointments," he replied. I had a VA appointment two towns over. It was the closest one, and would take over an hour to get there. But I had to get there. Kris with his job wasn't able to take me. That would only leave Crash, who tried not to grumble, but I could tell riding me around everywhere was starting to get to him. I looked down at the fire a bit, waiting. "What kind of cars do you like?" He asked eventually, still stabbing and swiping at his phone with his finger. "I don't know. Mustangs and Chargers I guess," I replied. He chuckled. "You got a mullet under there somewhere you hiding?" I smiled. "Yeah, it's in my closet next to the silver bullets." "Funny, ha. Jokes on you, I happen to like silver," he grinned. We went back and forth as he scrolled over Facebook marketplace and Craigslist and other places looking for vehicles. Old Lincoln Towncar? No, I said, I may have a bad hip and back but I wasn't that old. A Dodge diplomat from the eighties? My only response was to tell him that I thought we were friends. Finally, his whole face lit up. "I got it! I got it!" he shouted. "What is it?" I asked. "Do you trust me?" His face was complete innocence and trustworthiness. Two ingredients that I would come to learn in a werewolf meant that they were up to mischief. "I guess," I sighed. "Good!" he said. Then began typing furiously on the phone, communicating with someone back and forth. I don't know what was being negotiated. I do know that the original price was three thousand, but he was able to whittle it down to around two grand. For something. I didn't know what though. All weekend I couldn't get much out of him about it, other than "You'll grow to love it, I'm sure." "Grow to love it," I said. "Yes, I know you will." He said with a grin. "So, won't love it in the beginning," I frowned. He would only smile and not say anything else more. The teasing went back and forth for a while, with me wondering what sort of strange contraption that was supposed to be a car he came up with. Would it be that strange Lebaron from the eighties, a car that would need as much lemon Pledge as it needed wax? Or could it have been the Suzuki Samari? A vehicle that can go almost anywhere, just won't get there fast. A thousand possibilities ran through my mind until Monday rolled around and my appointment. The trip through the hills and up to the interstate was made in relative silence. The quiet chatter of the morning DJs and the inane sounds of pop music drifted up through the Cadillac's speakers as we rode our way up from the woods into civilization. Once traffic thickened up, he pulled off the interstate onto a small side road that lead us right to the VA, where I would begin my appointment and he disappeared, grinning. I had given him a check earlier for twenty two hundred dollars. I deeply regretted it, but figured, it's Crash. Either I was going to get the Charger I wanted, or it was going to be a weird Jeep or Cadillac that they only made for a year or two. Either way it would be a unique and awesome car. So, I went inside, went through my appointment, the entire ordeal taking about a half hour. When I began to leave, Crash stood up in the lobby, grin on his face. "Come on," he said, "I got to show this to you." Sitting in the parking lot of the strip mall that the VA resided in was a 1993 Mercury Topaz. It was gold. Or at least I think it was gold. The color more closely resembled what someone blind who had never seen color before might have thought gold looked like if it had been described to them. There wasn't any rust on it, so it had that, but the rear bumper had a sticker stating "don't blame me, I didn't vote for Hillary" on the back. There was numerous bumps and dips in the front and back, obvious evidence of an elderly owner who held on to it and drove it a bit more than they honestly should have. "What do you think?" He asked, grinning wider. "If you paid more than two for this, I got ripped off." I growled. "Two thousand," he replied as I opened the door. I watched the automatic seat belt move, rolling quickly forward in the car towards the front. I knew once I sat down it would attack me with machine like speed and precision. "I hope you mean two dollars, and not two thousand dollars," I mumbled, looking inside. The interior looked immaculate and old. I half expected to see a Pearl Jam CD shoved somewhere under a floor mat or something. It had old car scent. That scent that said it was sitting somewhere forgotten for far too long. "It's perfect!" he beamed. I could see that the mileage was sitting around seventy thousand miles. Grandma's garage kept church car it looked like. "It's crap," I grumbled. The conversation was a little tense on the way back to Crash's car. He had taken the Topaz out for a "test drive" that had ended in the VA parking lot, with me driving back through the town side roads and neighborhoods to the small house that the car came from. It wasn't a rich neighborhood but a safe one, with power lines running two and fro above cracked streets. The trees where old and thick, providing ample shade above the old roads. Some of the fences were rusty, but every yard was well kept. It was a neighborhood for starting out and a neighborhood for finishing up, with some yards littered with brightly colored plastic toys and others with plants and gardens. In front of an ancient looking brick home, sat Crash's Caddy. We pulled up to it, and he paused a moment. "Look," he sighed, staring at his car. "I know you want something sporty. I didn't give him a dime yet. If you don't want this car, I'll give you your money back. But just hear me out." "I'm listening," I said. "This car isn't your permanent car. It's the first car you get that's dependable. The one you can drive to places while your fun car is being fixed. That car we'll get next. That one you save up for so you can get the exact one you want. So you'll have two cars, one you take to the grocery store, and one you take to the track." He said. I nodded in reply. "Makes sense. This car really that reliable?" "Well, this model I'd usually laugh and say no. But that old woman who owned it," he shook his head slowly while he spoke, "she was a bit eccentric. Every single thing on it she would get changed and replaced. Yearly coolant flushes. Yearly transmission fluid changes. Yearly powersteering fluid changes. Her kids never understood it, but she would tell them 'a vehicle needs taken care of' or some crap like that." "So, what does it need," I asked. After all, used cars always need something. When you buy used, you're buying someone else's problems, after all. "Tires. And a battery I think. That's it." He looked back at me, a strange earnestness in his face. "I asked if you trusted me," he said, "this is what I meant. I'm telling you, it's not flashy, it's not beautiful but it will last you three or four years easy with no troubles." So, that's how I became the proud owner of a Mercury Topaz. I didn't like it at first, but it slowly began to grow on me. It wasn't the car cars n coffee or for meet ups of any kind. But it was the reliable little engine that just couldn't quit on me. The slow grocery getter that got me to the store, to my appointments and back again with no problems. It was the one, when a little over a year later, I finally had the cash and drove up to the Dealership to buy my slightly used Charger. It was the one Crash drove home when I drove that Charger back to my house, a huge smile on my face. It's the car I use for everything except driving fast. It's been dead reliable. So, agreeing with that old lady, yearly I change the transmission fluid, the power steering fluid, the brake fluid, and of course every three thousand miles or so I change the oil. This little car takes care of me. So I take care of her. |
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