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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 |
| Okay, here's what's happening: I'm going to be slowly transferring my blog, life with a werewolf, to a separate site: https://lifewithawerewolf.blogspot.com/ The reasons I'm doing this are many. When I originally started this blog, I couldn't find a blogging host in my initial searches. So, remembering Wordpress from ages ago, I started the site using WordPress. I was unaware of the amount of scams, hackers, spyware, spamware, and bots that were out there searching for WordPress sites to take advantage of them. After deleting 30 and sometimes 60 scam comments a day, (If you wonder what happened to all of the guys who created the "make your penis bigger" "Russian Wives in your area" "You have a rich uncle in this tiny island nation that noone's ever heard about who has died and left you TRILLIONS", they apparently created bots to spam my site.) I finally decided enough was enough and began posting my blog here. Thing is, this relocation was always supposed to be temporary. Jason Forte' is a separate character, with his own life and ideals and things. It's hard to maintain a separate character and their fictional blog under an account with your own name. The degree of separation that I want to build that universe just isn't there. so, I'm moving. Again, that address is: https://lifewithawerewolf.blogspot.com/ It's a slow process, and will probably take a couple of weeks or so. Once that movement is completed, I'll keep posting here for a while, but after a bit will go back to what I was doing before - making announcements that I've posted a new entry and go back to posting my short stories and doing the reviews of other stories. Thank you everyone who enjoys this. I am continuing it, in a format that hopefully will allow you to enjoy the blog a bit more thoroughly. Thanks again! |
| Last week I’ve had a much-needed break. Spending time online with friends playing a drinking game without actually drinking through it was something I needed in my life at that moment in time. Drinking is something I’ve been trying to cut back on. When you have an addictive personality like I do, certain things must always be kept in check. When I go overboard on drinking, my internal clock goes out of whack. I grow irritable. I occasionally may forget to bathe, and food becomes whatever cheap, fried, greasy thing I can get my hands on. That’s completely different from video games, where my internal clock goes out of whack, and I sleep in more often. I grow irritable. I occasionally may forget to bathe and food becomes whatever cheap, fried, greasy and fast thing I can get my hands on. See? Completely different. All jokes aside, they are entirely two different things. And people who don’t have my type of condition can handle both quite easy. After all, they can manage their time wisely. Zack is an avid gamer. He bathes regularly, has never missed a day of work or called in sick because of it (that I know of) and keeps himself in general good shape. Me on the other hand? I go overboard. It’s easy for eleven AM to become one AM if I get caught up in the wrong game, wasting the literal day away as I try to fight my way through hordes of zombies and things. However, the online drinking game was fun. Got to know a couple of acquaintances a bit better, and was able to get my butt kicked in a drinking game that might have been more fun if I had been drinking, but I still avoided drinking. I don’t want to go down that dark road ever again. Other changes are coming as well. It seems that Crash is having some sort of holiday bash at work. I’ve been invited to attend. So, I may FINALLY get to know what it is exactly that he does for a living. The term “on call werewolf’ just doesn’t seem to fit all that well. Besides, it’s a strange concept. After all, why would a county need a werewolf on call? What exactly would be the reason for that? Those are the only things going on this holiday season it seems. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. I will enjoy every minute of hanging out with friends, exchanging gifts and taking things slow. The lawn gnomes are more spring and summer creatures it seems. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them and thank GOD. At least I can drive my Topaz around right now without fear of the brakes randomly failing or a fuel line being cut. A slow, careful, and somewhat relaxing holiday season is just what the doctor ordered; I think. A few cheap gifts for friends. A few cheap gifts from friends. Nothing strange or nasty about any of it. Now that I’ve said that though, watch something crazy happen. If I don’t post anything in the next couple of weeks, well, you know what happened, something crazy. Sad thing is, I don’t know if I should knock on wood now, or later. Is it bad luck to say nothing strange is happening or to point out that something strange will happen. If something weird does happen, did I just curse myself because I made the lame joke that something strange would happen? Or was me pointing out in my lame joke that something strange is going to happen now ONLY happens because I didn’t make the joke strong enough? How does any of these weird curse things work anyway? Someone have a clue? |
| Getting to know all of the mythical creatures that are alive and somewhat well in and around your area is a daunting task. One I personally am not really all that well equipped to handle. I’m a bit anti-social. Discussions is a task left to others when they’re strangers and sometimes even when they’re acquaintances. I’ll follow along and nod when appropriate, but I tend to not offer much in the way of the discussion itself if I don’t know them that well. I must admit that I can be a bit judgmental at times as well, deeming others to be of less intelligence than they actually are – especially if they catch me on a bad day. That is just a very wordy way of saying I quietly judge my neighbors. In that, I hardly think I’m alone. I know it’s not the most honorable of practices, and the judgements I proclaim upon others usually ends up being incorrect in some way or another. However, occasionally, people have raced to prove me right. We used to have a resident here by the name of, well we’ll just call him Charles after the guy on MASH. He had a large house, a beautiful wife, an expensive and gorgeous car. His features were chiseled, he enjoyed working out, and never in all of my many days of knowing this guy have I ever even seen a hair misplaced on his head. His blue eyes held the cold look of vapid vanity, one that always seemed to be looking down on you as you spoke to him. If you were lucky enough to engage him in conversation, he would try to use words in the discussion that were purposefully too big to match what he was talking about. I’ve never seen someone use a four-syllable word to talk about getting diarrhea from a bad taco before I met this guy. You’d think that hearing about his expensive Mercedes Sports car, his obviously overpriced haircut, the expensive manor in which he kept literally everything including his yard that I hated the guy. However, you’d be wrong. Cause Charles had just about as many braincells in his skull as a Ken doll. And nearly every discussion with him always ended up in his own humiliation, something that he never seemed to catch on to. I caught him outside of the liquor store one day, for example. He had a scowl on his face. A look that was either extreme concentration or constipation. I wasn’t sure which one. He stood next to his sports car, staring at the front door of the store. I pulled up next to one of the two parking spaces he took up with his car in my econobox special, got out and stopped in front of him for a moment. Pausing to stare at the door with him, me in puzzlement, him in that extreme constipated concentration. “What are we looking at?” I asked after a few moments. “I swear, how can they call themselves a liquor store if they do not have the appropriate prefunctions of such an establishment,” He grumbled. See what I mean? Who the hell talks like that! Like he wants to sound more intelligent than he actually is. I tilted my head in confusion, like Crash has done so many times at my jokes. “I’m sorry,” I asked. “Oh, it’s my wife, Nancy,” he said, “I got to get a bottle of champaigne. You see, me and her were attempting a romantic rendezvous last night, and I apparently wasn’t up to the task, so to speak. So, I’m trying to apologize.” All I had in my head then was that image of smiling Bob and his sad neighbors from the commercials years ago. I didn’t want to know anything about his “romantic rendezvous’” or anything else! Yet here we were discussing his lack of ability to perform in the bedroom. Who else in the world would talk like him? He’d tell you that he has “Asperger’s”, but even people with that condition understand that no one else wants to hear about their diarrhea or impotence problems! That conversation ended with me giving him what I hoped was a comforting pat on the shoulder, then entering the establishment to replace the bottle of liquor I’d borrowed from Crash. It was interactions like that one that made me think Charles was just weird. That is, until I finally saw his tail. Now, my understanding of things is still somewhat dim, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t happen to get all of this correct. However, the more I’m exposed to Crash’s insane life and werewolf tendencies, the less traditional tricks of the mythical work on me. So, where as you might see Charles as just a quirky, self-absorbed vapid neighbor, I was finally seeing Charles for what he really was – a troll. He was working out in the yard as he does, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a smile as he mowed the lawn. He does this because, according to him, ‘you kill two birds with one stone. Lawn gets mowed. I get tan.’ Of course, I told him “you also get itchy,” which lead to a lengthy discussion on what really makes someone itchy. According to him, it’s something to do with pheromones. A ‘chemical’ he’s ensured he’s not susceptible to. When I told him that explanation was nuttier than a squirrel turd, he looked at me as if I had the largest wart on my nose. “Squirrel turds aren’t nutty.” He stated, “what are you talking about?” A few days later, me and Crash was discussing our strange neighbor, and his tail, the lawn mowing incident, the works. “You see,” Crash held his coffee cup out in front of himself while he was pontificating, something he does from time to time, especially when he’s about to say something profound, or what he thinks is profound. “Charles is what’s known as a hulderfolk.” I head tilted at him. “A holder what?” He chuckled, in that gruff tone he gets. Crash was close to changing into his ‘night uniform’ as he calls it, to go on patrol or scent mark trees or scare small children. To do whatever it is that he does. “It’s a type of troll. They’re the nice ones. They look almost like people. Sometimes gorgeous people. Though their tails give it away.” He then went on to explain to me that they’re actually quite dangerous if you’re not careful around them. “Don’t get them angry,” he warned me. “They’re not smart. They try to act smart, but they’re not that smart. And, they have no problems attacking or killing humans they think are getting in their way or making fun of them.” Now, I know what you’re thinking. And you’d be wrong. This time, it wasn’t my fault! Seriously, I learned my lesson with the lawn gnomes. Crash said stay out of the way, I stayed out of the way. I didn’t talk to Charles anymore other than to say hello in passing, and had never even seen his wife Nancy in weeks. I didn’t want anything to do with them or their peculiar brand of crazy. So, literally you cannot blame me for Charles banging on our door at four in the morning, growling and muttering. Trolls have their own language. What I heard was literal gibberish. Words and entire sentences without consonants. Others without vowels. A whole heap of banging, and snarling. Crash was gone, doing whatever it is he does for his job as a werewolf. Zack was asleep, and he sleeps like the dead at times. I didn’t think the other two upstairs had the ability to back me up on this, and I wasn’t about to ask. I didn’t bother calling the cops, either. What would you say in a situation like that? Hello, officer I’d like to report a troll banging on my door? I exited the house by the side door, pistol in my hand, lowered at the low ready. It’s a position held with your firearm that allows you to destroy a target quickly, without having to draw it out of your holster. This target being one very large, angry and snarling troll. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts, with a tail snaking down one leg. It resembled something like a cow’s tail. His eyes seemed to glow with rage. He turned to me, glaring, his perfectly shaped nostrils flaring. I raised my weapon once, then lowered the pistol back down for a moment. My finger was near the trigger but not resting on it. Resting your finger on the trigger after all is a great way to cause incidents. “Buddy, right now you got two options. A, you leave my property now, and don’t try this shit again, or B, you’re dead before you hit the ground.” We stood there, glaring at each other for a few seconds, my pistol held at the ready, my finger close to the trigger, his arms down by his sides, grasping at the air as he heaved in anger. “It was you, wasn’t it.” He snarled, taking a step towards me. “You destroyed it. You ruined it. You, filthy, human.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about. One more step, and I’ll,” He grinned at me, then took another step. From that point onward, it was automatic. In the service I had a tendency to aim for legs first if I was shooting to wound. A shoulder wound has too much potential to be fatal. A bullet hits a bone and goes in a direction that destroys lungs, heart, liver, all manner of things. A leg wound bleeds like hell, but they have a greater chance to live through it, usually provided they get a tourniquet in time. Like I said, I liked Charles. So, I was willing to sacrifice a belt to the cause. The shot rang out as a loud pop. I expected lights in neighbors’ windows to turn to light up, people to look out. Cops to be called. None of that actually happened. The bullet penetrated his leg, I could see a small puff of blood in the street light. But he glared at me, and began sprinting towards me. I fired four more rounds, this time into his chest, before he reached me, slamming me into the ground and knocking the pistol away. “Now,” He glared down at me. “I make you pay.” “For what?!” I groaned. “I didn’t do nothing.” “You insulted my wife. Hurt my wife. You attack her. I attack you.” He reached up with a large fist to hammer down on me. My training told me to make space, to bridge out so I could get room to maneuver my way out of this deadly situation, or perhaps even reverse it. But before I could do any of that, a dark furred blur slammed into the side of him. One moment I was about to be pounded into hamburger, the next Crash, in wolf form was snarling over the troll, a clawed hand/paw thing holding his throat. He growled a low guttural growl, one that sent chills down my spine. Charles blinked a couple of times. “But he attack Nancy. Violent, filthy human. He attempted to foul her with his hands, his,” The low guttural growl cut him off in mid-sentence. “Your wife is fine.” I heard Crash say. “But she was she’s,” the troll began. Crash cut him off. “She’s having an affair.” Crash growled. “Who she’s cheating with, you’ll have to get it out of her. You come here again; you forfeit your life. Do you understand?” The troll nodded. I honestly thought I saw tears of fear in his eyes. I walked over to my pistol and picked it up, then went back inside. I hadn’t seen or heard from the troll again. Nor did I see Crash again for another few hours. Over the next few days, things got strange around the troll house. Words were exchanged. Threats made between each other, not many of which made much sense to us regular folk. Crash came in, human form that morning. He stood in the kitchen wearing a torn-up pair of jeans and held a ceramic mug that read This Is My Human Costume”. I made a couple jokes about how you know your old because you drink decaf before bed. He smiled politely, then went finished his coffee and went to sleep. The troll incident bothered me for a while. I had no idea why he fingered me as the adulterer or rapist or whatever. Crash still hasn’t given any indication as to why he’d think that. Was she cheating on him with a human? There has to be more humans than us in this area, right? Sure, the town is a little strange. I get that. More than once I’ve seen centaurs and minotaurs. Of course, there’s the werewolf and the vampire we met, who technically doesn’t live in this town but I still count. Now the trolls, both of whom seemed to have moved on. I don’t look too hard at the red stains around the house. The police aren’t asking too many questions either, and I’m not trying to do their job for them. In life sometimes there are no clear resolutions to things. I may never see Charles again. If I do, we will not speak of that night or the bullets I put in him. We may do little more than nod at each other in passing. I’d love to know more about his wife, Nancy, and who she was seeing on the side. To know if they got divorced, if they separated, forgave each other, or if she’s planted out back in the rose bushes. Perhaps maybe even get to know the person dumb enough to break up the marriage of a troll. After all, that long tail is a dead giveaway, and tricks or not you’re going to notice that thing sooner or later, especially when it’s rubbing your inner thigh. However, right now, once again I am forced to be content with wondering what happened and what might have been. To let my imagination run wild and try to answer these questions for me. Crash has never been one to talk about a “case” as he calls it. Whatever that means. Maybe he’s a werewolf Columbo? Solving crimes in a raincoat at night. Although a werewolf in a raincoat would give me images less of Columbo and more of some sort of cursed flasher. The Columbo thing is a fun image and one that gives me an idea for a character. I might write it down or let it go. I don’t know yet. We’ll see. |
| So, last week was thanksgiving. Surprisingly Crash got the weekend off, a full four days. It was surprising to everyone because we didn’t really expect him to get four days off back-to-back. Especially given his job, whatever it was that calls him away so often to do, well God almighty only knows what, in the dead of night, to only come home at the mornings first few rays of light covered in mud, muck and fluids that I won’t even begin to ask what they are. He still wouldn’t talk about it, though occasionally now I hear grumbles that he’s going to have to talk to me soon about something if “things don’t change”, in that ominous tone usually reserved by Hollywood for tragic anti-heroes and war movies. I know I’m not messing up, so it’s not me that has to worry. After all, I pay my rent, clean up after myself and even help him on occasion with various individual things when he needs it. I suppose I do hope things change or he gets things figured out, or whatever, cause he doesn’t look too terribly pleased about whatever outcomes there maybe about whatever is going on that he won’t talk about. Mostly, we got a chance to pal around for the last few days, do things that we’ve wanted to do. It helps when your roommate has the same strange sense of humor you do. For example, when he was in the shower on Thanksgiving, I shouted the entire “Scooby Doo” theme song at him, complete with the hard-to-understand verse near the end. To get me back, he waited till I was about to sleep then began to shout the “Purple People Eater” song at me. Loudly. Off key of course. Thanks. But we didn’t get up to too many shenanigans over the holidays. It was a pretty regular, run of the mill holiday for a group of friends that has become a surrogate like family for all involved. We ate turkey and ham, and pumpkin pie. We even did the prayer over the meal thanking God for the good food and the ability for all of us to be there together as a family. Crash scrounged up a table cloth from somewhere, and it was set in the dining room table – right next to the old tube radio and other knickknacks and doodads that have been collected in this house by lord knows who over the years. The dark walls gave it a homely feeling and for a moment or two while we ate mostly in silence. I could feel dead relatives and battle buddies gone in one conflict or another sitting at the table with us, enjoying the moment together gathered around the breaking of our own bread. As strange of a family as we are, we are still a family in our own right. A pack if you will, according to Crash. And he will do anything to protect one of his own. It stood in a stark contrast to my last Thanksgiving I celebrated. Standing alone in my apartment, cold from the drafty windows and drinking Wild Turkey in celebration of the holiday. My darling ex was God knows where, but I wasn’t out of the military, not yet. Nor was I divorced yet. I was alone on my couch, watching Rocky, my favorite holiday movie. (Hey, it has both Thanksgiving and Christmas in it. If Die Hard gets counted as a Christmas movie, then Rocky is a Christmas movie, and a much better one, thank you!) I admit though, at the time I was watching it just to hear him tell Adrian “To you, it’s thanksgiving, to me it’s Thursday.” Which for many years had summed up my entire attitude about that holiday. In the military, Thanksgiving and Christmas is always done up well overseas. If you’re deployed you get the pleasure of witnessing your smiling chain of command hand out Turkey and Gravy in their best dress uniforms, smiling and joking the entire time like they’re almost just like you. It’s the two days of the year, Thanksgiving and Christmas, the food isn’t all that bad, and for once you get plenty of it. Of course, there is the deployments where you’re actually doing the job you train for instead of playing watchdog or security guard for an entire nation somewhere. Those meals for holidays can be iffy at best. But you understand it. After all, you’d rather be doing your job somewhere fighting for something important than sitting back on a military base in the states sweeping a motor pool waiting to be able to do something bigger. It’s strange. That a million light years from home you are at least distracted. A thousand miles from the previous life I knew, so far away from everything else that has come before I can find some semblance of family amongst the crazy cast of characters sitting around that table. From the body hair werewolf jokes, the bad puns, the teasing of everyone, and the various dishes we all attempted to cook (or buy. They wouldn’t let me do another Wild Turkey Thanksgiving), the awkward pauses, we all felt closer at that dining table than any of us had felt in the previous lives we had left. Crash was alone before we all moved here. Zack ran from a situation that he is still uncomfortable talking about, one that we haven’t pried into, but let him know we’re there for whenever he’s ready to open up about it. Kris and Shawn came from differing situations, ones that I won’t get into, but makes mine look tame by comparison. Despite the insanity of all of our schedules, the bad jokes we sometimes pull, the horrible horror movies. Despite vampires, werewolves, the neighborhood Troll going crazy, the lawn gnomes occasionally trying to kill me, despite the zombies coming to the least qualified person on the block for counseling, it’s a much more enjoyable life that I’m living now than I have in the past several years. Crash was right when he said we were a pack. That means we’re family. And that makes all the difference. Oh, I haven’t talked about the neighborhood troll yet, have I? Well, yeah. That’s kind of a crazy one. And for once, it is quite literally not my fault. I’ll get into that one, next update. I promise. |
| Are you really tough? Do you think of yourself as the worlds biggest badass? Someone who could stare down any motorcycle gang with a simple glare and get away without a scratch? Would bears think twice before crossing your path? Are you the Billy in Billy Badass? Well, then try driving a hooptie. Hoopties are the kinds of vehicles that can take the venom and vinegar out of anyone. They will get you from point A to B, no problem (usually no problem that is), but you won’t look good or tough doing it. That’s why the toughest people in the world drive them. Sure, anyone can look tough, sexy and cool behind the wheel of a perfectly preserved early seventies muscle car. Throw on dark shades, stomp the go pedal, and lay a nice thick set of elevens down on the roadway at any red light. Try having that same sort of look in a late eighties Yugo. Go ahead, try it. There won’t be any elevens. In fact, you won’t even get a one-wheel peel. The most you’ll get is a few chuckles, because you’ll feel like a clown minus the circus. A Mercury Topaz is the kind of car that’s economical. It’s durable. It gets you where you need to go and the most you’ll have to do is change the oil and other fluids at regular intervals. But you’re not gonna look cool doing it. In the service, I’ve seen plenty of men and women driving large expensive trucks. Especially when the big sign-on bonuses hit. I’ve seen plenty of expensive modern muscle cars, too. If you sit outside the gate one day and watch the cars going in and out of a military base, you might think its our service men and women who single handedly keeps them in business, you’ll see so many of them. But you’ll be hard pressed to find any hoopties. These dedicated, durable, mostly forgotten about vehicles of mass-produced econobox fortunes have proven themselves time and again through years and sometimes decades of dedicated service. And yet, they never get any love on screen or in real life. In all my years of watching action movies, I’ve seen exactly two scenes that involved hoopties. One in “The Crow”, where it was played up for laughs, and another in “The Expendables 3” where, again it was played up for laughs. I honestly can’t think of any others. I guess what I’m trying to say is my ride is starting to get to me. Crash has that Caddy. Despite its dents, dings and scratches, it looks bad ass. It’s easy to look tough in a vehicle like that. Especially a beat up old American Luxury car that’s primed to move steel at a high speed. But, I on the other hand, don’t have any such vehicle. I’d love a new car. It doesn’t have to be expensive, it doesn’t have to be exactly new. But it does have to be sporty. And by sporty I mean a sports car. I don’t mean those cross-over bastardized things that look as if an SUV and a sports car had an inbred love child. I never understood the point of those. You want the room of an SUV but the maneuverability and comfort of a car? Then breakdown and get a station wagon. That’s all that is. And beneath the marketing and images of these cars going in places they will never go, doing things they will never be seen doing, beneath the angry eye headlights and aggressive bucktoothed grills, that’s all it really is. It’s a station wagon, just with a modern name. I’m counting pennies again. Ramen noodles are now becoming gourmet cuisine for me. Tap water is my new Avian. I’m saving as much cash as I possibly can over the next few months and taking a look at what’s out there. Used car prices are collapsing finally, so hopefully now’s the time I can actually afford a fun, yet easy and cheap to repair car that will help me salvage a little bit of dignity driving. If you think it’s a bit silly, you’re right. I admit it is a little silly. So is paying fifty bucks for a haircut. A hundred dollars for a shirt, or two hundred dollars for shoes. So is paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for a home in a fancy neighborhood for the exclusive right to say “I live here”. We all do silly little things now and again to save our own pride. Certain things that mean the world to us, but to others perhaps mean very little. What I’ve come to understand after months of driving a Mercury Topaz around is that such things aren’t really all that bad. Sometimes it’s okay to wear the leather jacket cause you feel good in it. To suck in your gut in a mirror and flex when no one’s watching. To have those little reasons to like yourself just a bit so you can honestly hold your head high when you’re around others instead of just faking it. It’s okay to be proud of who you are, no matter what silly way or means you use to get there. So yeah, I’m looking for a crazy nineties or early 00s sports car. Something probably American, easy to fix, and cheap. Something that I can easily put a good exhaust on, do a few things to the engine and get a bit more angry ponies under the hood. I’m going to be doing that for me, cause that’s what I want to do. That’s just one more small thing I’ll have to make me feel good about myself. And there’s nothing wrong with having a few of those small reasons to do that. |
| I think I’ve taken at least four showers and I still feel dirty. There are certain nights that I refuse to drink on: Christmas, Easter, and now, I will no longer drink on Halloween. Christmas drinking just leads to fighting. Alcohol is a social lubricant; it also lowers inhibitions. So, when your crazy uncle says something crazy at the holiday friendly family get together about politics or religion or both (as those crazy uncle’s like to do), just to wind people up, you spout off and say something. Pretty soon, you’re off to the races, ruining Christmas for everyone around you and being told things like “It’s alright if you don’t make it this year,” and “I appreciate it if you could not fight, or maybe not come.” Easter is the same way. I have a similar story with a different cast of characters but the same old ending. A “please don’t come, thank you” and “My eight-year-old will never look at an Easter Egg the same way you bastard.” To my credit, I thought it was a legitimate question: if the Easter Bunny actually does lay the eggs, then….you know what? I was drunk, and that is just a little too graphic for this blog. And if I complete that thought here, YOU won’t look at Easter Eggs or Skittles the same way, so I’ll end that thought there. Halloween’s story involves something a bit stranger, equal amounts of Al Cohol and his merry band of idiots, and a giant ‘I TOLD YOU SO’ from a certain part time furry, full time friend. If you remember my previous blog entry, I had started drinking. If you don’t, just look below, hit the “previous” button once. It’s all there. I was mostly drinking to forget what had happened the previous day. But as the song says ‘wine is fine, but whiskey’s quicker’. And when you’re drinking to forget or just to cope with what had happened, only copious amounts will do. After my third beer, and two thirds of the way into a bottle of Jack, there was a knock at the door. When I opened the door up, there standing on my door step was six of the dead. Four male two female, all in various stages of decomposition. Although the flesh was rotting, it hadn’t rotted completely off yet much to the delight of the maggots feasting on old and new open wounds. Not that any of the creatures or beings cared, mind you. They didn’t feel a thing. Couldn’t even feel when their limbs fell off. Remember the invitation I got? The one I was contemplating on RSVPing on it, and maybe saying no? Well, turns out that if you don’t send it back, they’ll just come get you. Imagine my shock at finding four dead guys and two dead women were standing there, all with expectant looks on their faces. One had snagged a “trick or treat” bag somewhere, and was just holding it up to the door, groaning. Everyone had been dead only a little while. Now, we don’t exactly have a large township where we live, so it was surprising to see so many freshly dead in such a place. I know of only about two burials in the past month. My only guess is that they must have been traveling, coming in from all over. Being drawn to our particular cemetery for and by whatever means. Our little town can’t be the regular location of the pilgrimage of the dead, or someone would have noticed by now. It must move around or something. Otherwise, by now we’d have news vans camped out along the highway, waiting for the arrival of the dead, all interviewing each zombie. Don Lemon or someone would cry at how beautiful it is to see the dead dance in the moonlight, all while flashing tweets at you every five seconds or so about how horrible a person you are for thinking…well something. They’d find a way to make you angry about it, just to keep you watching. Anything for ratings, after all. Their skin had begun to rot in several places. Maggots were eating flesh right off of their corpses, and of course there was that oh so fresh smell that makes you want to vomit. But what got me in trouble was the eyes. When they did their in-unison groan which I think was supposed to be ‘surprise’, or ‘hi’ or could even have been, ‘what lovely weather you delightful living have. Would you mind spending the evening with us on this clear and cool night? We promise not to bleed on anything, haha.’ Whatever the question or statement may have been intended, my response was a resounding “NO” and trying to slam the door. Like I said though, the eyes got me in trouble. I’m a dog lover. I don’t care as much about people as I probably should. Call it an occupational hazard from my previous profession. Soldiers, cops and fire fighters tend to not see the best sides of humanity in their work. But animals, pets especially, are a weak spot of mine. And slamming the door shut in their face felt too much like stomping on a litter of puppies. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. As drunk as I was already getting, I took a long swig from the bottle I was drinking. Went to where we stashed the booze and grabbed the other bottle of liquor, growled “lets do this,” and closed the door behind me as I followed the recently dead. I only have flashes and glimpses of what happened after. When you drink to the point of deleting your memory, it doesn’t do everything completely. I remember sitting in a circle with a group of them, ten or more, at least, and talking about who they used to be. Despite not knowing anyone. I guess I reached philosopher drunk. At some point I was dancing with an elderly woman about my height, who didn’t have nearly as many maggots on her as some of the others. We just waltzed in a circle in the cemetery. There was no music, though some of the others tried to sing. Their ‘song’ came out as strangled grunts and groans, if they made any noise at all. I don’t remember what all happened. A bobbing for apples thing was done, but the water ended up more brown and muddy than anything. I think I ended up with some old guys less than mentionables instead of an apple. I have no idea how it got in there, though that dead guy must have gotten a kick out of it, pointing and making an attempt to laugh. I guess I know which one was the practical joker of the group. Alcohol does kill germs. That’s what I told myself when I rinsed my mouth out with booze a couple times before taking another long swig after that. I’m not certain how long they wanted to go on. I don’t think they knew either. Everyone must have just been there till they felt the call to return to rest. Little by little, they drifted off or so I’m told. They wandered back towards whatever graves they came from, their bodies having been put at ease to rest in the knowledge that they weren’t abandoned by their spirits and souls. They wouldn’t be forgotten by everyone. At least one soul was here who still cared. Maybe more would show up eventually. By the time the barest whispers of dawn was spoken on the horizon, I was left alone, sitting against a grave stone, drinking what was left of my bottle, and just wondering what in the world had happened. According my own memory, other than the flashes and glimpses that had started to come back, I had just been drinking at the party with the dead folk, things had just started, and then, there I was. Alone. Well, not exactly alone. Crash was there, standing over me. A heavy clawed paw rested on my shoulder as the sun began to rise over the horizon. “Come on,” he growled. “Let’s get back home, and you can tell me what happened.” His fur always looked pitch black in the early morning light. As if a piece of darkness had come alive and was preparing to dismember you. His eyes glowed like a cat’s, the shine of it sending shivers up my spine. It isn’t a thing I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing. Most of what’s been recounted here comes from Crash. He insists that most of the night, other than that disastrous bobbing for apples and other party games the dead attempted to play, was spent talking. We sat in a circle, while I drank, talking to everyone. I had what every philosopher drunk wants, a captive audience. Though, Crash insists that what I was attempting to do, was to help them. That’s the part that gets me the most. Me? Help? Ha. I’ve never been good at that. Talking to others isn’t exactly something I’m well versed in doing. It’s why I write. I write because I don’t like to talk. Talking to people is difficult, writing about them is easy. There’re too many things inside of all of us. Sharped edges and smoothed out roughness to catch skin and pull scabs. Scars and injuries that we all attempt to hide and end up attacking people over because someone accidentally poked a sore spot. Too many reasons to cut others out of your life. To antagonize them. To hate them. And we all seem far too willing to do that these days. To hate. Antagonize. Attack. Kill the enemy at all costs because they posted a meme, said something dumb about a video game or movie we don’t like. Saw the wrong news article. Listen to the wrong songs. Followed the wrong individuals on social media. They didn’t step on the correct eggshells at the correct moments, so they deserve to be flogged in public for their transgressions. I’ve never been good at any of that. Some of us walk perfectly amongst the eggshells. They dance like gentle fairies amongst the pristine fragile white feelings and opinions of others easily defying and dodging and deftly handling any issue that comes up. I’m one of the others. Those that get frustrated at the eggshells and their existence. I’m more likely to kick them back in your face than to try and walk amongst them. How can someone like me actually help? I never expressed any of this to Crash as we stood in the kitchen that morning, watching the approaching light enflame the white cabinets, blue tiled floor and walls. As the light played out against dirty dishes and clean counter tops. I stood pontificating in my own mind, holding a cup of coffee instead of liquor. Wishing that I had slept the night before. That I hadn’t drank so much I forgot what happened. Wondering how I drank so much that I had forgotten. “You know, most people when the discover the existence of the zombies, they freak out. Some like to try and shoot them. Others try and ignore them, pretend they don’t exist. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who tried to sit down with them and talk to them. Comfort them,” Crash said. His large paws gripped a single coffee mug, one the size of a large soup bowl. The dark liquid inside it rippled as he took a gentle lap of it, his muzzle still prevalent. His thick fur coat still visible. I laughed. “So basically, I wasted my time.” Crash patted me on the shoulder. “Kindness, is never a waste of time.” He said, before taking a couple more laps from the mug, and setting it on the counter. Then he disappeared back into his room and I guess to go sleep. Or be human again for a while. Whatever it is that he does when he gets like this. And here I am. Half drunk as I write this, though I know I’ll be sober when I post it. Wondering exactly what happened, why it happened and what will happen to me. I’ve seen my fair share of horrible. Had to do my own share of horrible to survive, just as anyone. Have been a jack ass, an asshole, ignored others. Started arguments, fights. Cut people out of my life for no other reason than I just really didn’t want to be the one to start talking to them. How can someone like me be….kind? I’m not kind. Ask my ex. I’ve never been kind. I’ve been a kind…a kind of asshole. But never kind. And try to help others? It’s enough to make my head spin. I think I’ve pontificated enough. I’ve wasted enough oxygen for one day. I’m going to get another shower and get some sleep. I still feel grimey. |
| Sometimes life just sucks. We all have different ways to say it, though it boils down to that one phrase. Life. Just. Sucks. In the military, we pretty much summed it up into the letters: F.M.L. F@$K My Life! A curse that is uttered against your very existence in that moment and the ever-mounting problems that seem to always surround those of us who serve, especially when it’s filled with pointless “fun” runs - joyless exercises that are mostly just exercises in patience, and the ever present company ass chewing, usually dolled out to inflict punishment on everyone for the crimes of a few. That number in general usually being less than five individuals who had taken it upon themselves to do something stupid. Like drinking and driving. Not showing up to work on time. Leaving their equipment in the motorpool a mess. Whatever. I no longer had any of those problems to deal with. Didn’t have to worry about cleaning vehicles meticulously so they could sit out in the motorpool on parade, side by side, like so many Lamborghinis and Ferraris hanging out at Leno’s Garage. No, I did have other issues however that were intent on ruining my entire day. Such as a Kamikaze Lawn Gnome trying to kill my car. The day started out normal. I got up, grabbed a shower, some coffee, and started to head out to do some running around: go to the bank, get some groceries, that sort of thing. A typical mundane day. I backed out of the driveway, like normal. Wasn’t paying much attention to the lawn, because let’s be honest, who really watches the lawn when they’re backing away from it. So, I didn’t see the lawn gnome coming upon me or my car, though I did hear a tiny shout of victory as I waited for a truck to pass, as if Jerry Mouse had finally killed Tom. As I began to back out into clear traffic, I heard a shout of agony as if Jerry Mouse had finally been crushed by Tom. And finally, the familiar sound of a tire popping. At least this time they didn’t puncture my damn brake master cylinder. Naturally, I pulled back into the driveway, to see just what had happened. When I saw the lawn gnome half crushed in the drive way, and my tire side wall punctured by what looked like another tiny stone knife, I sadly had to back over the rest of the lawn gnome to park my car to change the tire. But woudn’t you know it, it must have taken me five times to find just the perfect spot to change my tire. Poor little guy. As I was putting on my spare, another bold S.O.B. crawled up to the other side of my car, pulled a break line on the front passenger wheel, then crawled away. Luckily there was still the parking brake. It kind of worked, however those kinds of “find a soft target” decisions aren’t a lot of fun to make when you’re going thirty miles an hour in bumper-to-bumper traffic in town and suddenly you need to go zero. All of these are easy problems to solve, honestly. Get a used tire (a side wall puncture is not something that can be repaired, sadly), reconnect the brake line, get more fluid. Get the guys at the tire shop to bleed the brakes for me, (yay more money down the drain), and finally just get the groceries I wanted to get in the first place. All of this before noon. So, today was already off to a fantastic start. It was only going to get better. So, of course since I’ve already had to deal with lawn gnomes today, I would have to deal with rogue zombies as well. After my trip to the bank, I ran inside the grocery store to pick up a couple things. After that morning, beer was definitely on the menu. Crash would complain, but after that glorious start to the day, including having tiny plaster people with a pension for pointy hats try and kill me, I figured I deserved it. When the door was cracked open, it released a stench that was so powerful, it could be tasted more than smelled. Sitting in the back seat, as if they were Ms. Daisy and I was the reliable driver, was the corpse of someone I hadn’t known in life. They were wearing their best suit, from the waist up, though hadn’t been buried with pants. I guess I understand, after all, if your loved one’s in a coffin, why spring for the full suit when the showing will only be from the waist up? It’s not like their body is going to dig itself out of the grave a few days later and climb into some stranger’s car right? The skin had faded into a moldy, green color. The teeth wasn’t yellow, though it definitely was a few shades darker than pure white. What was left of their hair pointed out at all angles, as if modeled after the hair style of some mad scientist. This being waved at me as if we were old friends, with it’s dead naked ass sitting on the cloth seats in the back. “Oh, hell no,” I shouted, as I opened the car door. “No! Not today whoever you used to be. Get out of my car. Out!” The zombie blinked at me at first, shocked as if it was a puppy who had just been smacked for the first time for doing something bad. It blinked in surprise, tried to hiss something at me. I could tell it wanted to ask a question, like “why are you throwing me out here?” Though all that came out was “ehhh?” “Because!” I shouted back, “you stink, and I’m not nearly drunk enough for this. Get out! The dead don’t ride with me. OUT!” I moved my three grocery bags to my right hand and opened the door with the other, glaring as I waited for the creature from the deep of the black grave side manor to climb out, with a look as if it had just been smacked with a rolled-up newspaper for being bad. I growled something under my breath, (which won’t be printed here. I am trying to cut down on my F bombs, honest!), and got back in the car, then opened the door again. It stared forlorne through window. I never knew until that day that the dead could ever resemble a kitten who’d been thrown out into the rain with no home to go to. The smell, which was ripe enough, was not dissipating. I quickly rolled down my window and started the car. The dead guy still stared at me, with the most pathetic look possible. I put it in gear, looked back to back up, then threw it in park. “Fine!” I shouted at it, in the voice every one of us gives a pet when they’ve gotten their way. “Get in. And lay down, cause I don’t want the neighbors to think I’ve gone insane and become a necrophiliac.” The zombie opened the door and sat back down, did it’s own version of grumbling under its breath, then laid down. It must have thought it was undignified to be hidden in the backseat like this or something. He wouldn’t be the one shampooing out the seats for the next month trying to kill the damn smell, though. So I felt no pity. The trip home had taken just under thirty minutes, but it felt like four hours. I have driven military trucks before for hours running on three days of no sleep. I’d rather do that again, with all of the bullets flying at me being thrown in than do that drive with the zombie. Now, Gary is one of our normal friends. He doesn’t have any idea about the werewolf thing, is a gearhead who loves older econoboxes and station wagons, and can sit and talk for hours about such things. An older gentleman type with a pleasant smile, a halo of hair around his head, and glasses thick enough to make certain types of lasers. As I pulled into the drive way and saw his happy wave and small poodle I groaned. Normally I enjoy a small conversation about my Topaz and whatever hidden treasure he happened to dig up. But today, just was NOT the day. “Hey!” He said, smiling as he wandered over. “Hi!” I shouted back, a little too loud, hoping the dead guy would hear and try to hide a bit better. Throwing the door open, I jumped to my feet, and raced over to Gary, smiling. “It’s been a minute, hasn’t it!” I said, subtly wandering away from the car. “Yeah, I guess.” Gary said, confused. His confusion was probably because we had just spoken the day prior, him talking about Bessy, his car, and Betsy his wife. Gary currently owns a 1992 Buick Regal Grand Sport. A steal, he says, he picked up in a barn find with an interior mostly intact. Including all of the plastic wood, “made from the finest plastic trees,” he said with a grin. “I just noticed you had a spot of trouble this morning.” He replied, trying to walk closer to the car. My heart sank as his feet kept wandering closer to seeing the dead guy in the back seat. Is it legal to knock your neighbor over the head so he doesn’t see your corpse hitch hiker? “Well, just some neighbor kids playing a prank,” I chuckled. “Got a flat tire. Had to get it replaced. The tire place also had to reattach a brake hose or something that apparently worn loose. No big deal.” Concern painted over Gary’s face. “Kind of a big deal.” He started walking closer to the car. “Brake fluid is flammable you know. Did any of it…” “No, it’s fine. Besides,” I interrupted, grabbing his shoulder a bit and started walking him towards the other side of our yard. My car is parked on the south side of the property. On the other side is Crash’s, as well as Shawn’s, Kris’, and Zacks. Each one having a vehicle befitting their personality. “Crash just had to get a new rag top installed on his caddy,” I said. Which wasn’t technically a lie. “You might want to see that thing now.” Gary laughed, “seen one caddy, seen a thousand. Now, your Topaz, THAT’S a find.” He tried to wander his way back towards my car. My heart skipped a beat when he stopped, as if he had been smacked. “Smells like something crawled in it and died though. You might want to look at that. From the stench, something big, phew!” He gave a few waves in front of his nose to emphasize the stench. “Yeah,” I said with a nervous laugh. “I’m kind of embarrassed by it.” “Kids again?” He asked. I nodded. “Kids. Scoundrels are just,” Gary laughed. “Yeah, don’t get me started. Though, they grow out of it.” His face grew more serious as he leaned towards me as if telling some ancient secret. “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you. There’s apparently a rather large dog around here, I almost mistook it for a bear. It seems to be running around your property at night.” I shrugged. “That’s strange.” If only he knew. “Yeah, just wanted you to be aware. Don’t want you or Crash or anyone to get attacked. Especially Crash. That poor guy has a run of bad luck it seems.” Gary smiled, then patted me on the back. “Well, good luck. If you need help, just let me know.” He said, then, thankfully, wandered back in the direction of his house. I ran back to my car. The thing was still in the back seat. “When I get back out here, you better be gone,” I growled. I ran inside, put my few things away, then ran back out, to find dead guy still sitting in the seat, upright now, and waving joyfully at me as if it hadn’t seen me in years. “What, you want to go to the cemetary or something?” It nodded. “Great!” I snapped, then jumped back in, threw the car in drive, and raced down the street far faster than any Mercury Topaz was ever meant to travel. I didn’t see if Gary saw anything, though he never mentioned it later. But who knows. As I pulled into the local cemetary, I looked around. The coast was clear. Throwing open the back door, I pointed and shouted in as stern of a voice as possible, “out!” The thing that was, well, whoever it was, crawled out, looked at me and gave me a thumbs up, then sauntered off. I still have no idea what exactly that was, but now I have a stench in my car that doesn’t seem to be going away and the nauseating image of a half-dressed corpse laying in my backseat with maggots crawling around in crevices I never wanted to think about on a corpse. So, excuse me while I go take four showers and drink myself into oblivion. I think I deserve it after today. |
| I’m not sure how much glee I get from any holidays, anymore. Christmas used to always be my favorite. I still enjoy it, the lights, the music (yes, I’m the one that likes it. Sue me!). All except that one Mariah Carrey song. That piece of corporate homogenized made schlock I guarantee is playing on repeat in hell. But I haven’t gotten a lot of enjoyment out of Halloween for quite some time. Things like trick or treaters is kind of a treat. It’s nice to see what sort of costumes kids get these days, especially when you can get the rare child or two that have homemade costumes instead of the “Spirit of Halloween” plastic foil things that parents over spent on. The candy is okay, but I’m an adult with a (albeit somewhat meager) source of income. I can get my own candy anytime I want. Do I really need a holiday as an excuse to eat candy? Spooky things have just never, really scared me. Skeletons. Woo. Oh no, vampires! Watch out. Werewolves! Yikes. Zombies! Ich. None of it has ever really got my blood racing. The fault lies, at least in my eyes, in the age I was raised in. By the time I was nine years old I was watching Freddy Kreuger on television make hamburger out of teenagers thanks in large part to video rentals. When you’re raised around slashers like A Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th, and the Halloween series, as well as grosstacular movies like Hellraiser plastic skeletons and rubber vampires really don’t have that much to offer you. Perhaps that’s one of the great things about the recent developments in my life. Finding out the truth of zombies, finding out that my friend who kept calling himself a werewolf was an actual werewolf, learning about vampires. All of the traditional horror things have gotten a new jolt of life in them. I’m not one for parties, especially Halloween ones. However, this year feels a bit different. I do have an invitation to one. I have no clue as to where it came from, but maybe I’ll go. I don’t know. Perhaps I should let Crash investigate it first? The invitation was sent through traditional mail. The paper feels strange, and has a hint of dirt on it, as if it was found on the ground then mailed out. But the address was made out correct, and my name was spelled properly on it. There wasn’t any extra postage, and I’m still alive after having touched it a day or two ago, so I don’t think it’s Anthrax. Zack, shawn and Kris all think I’d be crazy to go. So, like any self-respecting jaded veteran that just makes me want to go more. Their strange warnings of “you better shower in bleach when you get back” make me scratch my head a little bit. That came from Kris of course. Shawn just shakes his head and says “trust me dude, don’t.” Whatever that means. I swear, he must have been a surfer or something in a past life. If I do go, I’m not wearing a costume. Yeah, I know, spirit of the season and all that, but I can’t bring myself to wear an old army jacket and call myself a “bum” or spend two hundred bucks or more on something that looks like it was made in a factory filled with five year olds for ten dollars. Besides I don’t have a lot of cash, and I don’t have a lot of old clothing other than a few remaining military duds. For obvious reasons, I’m not wearing that. No self-respecting veteran will start wearing their old uniforms around town, after all. We really don’t want clout like that. We’d rather just have the discount and be on our way – if we even want to bother with that. But still. Parties are fun, sometimes. So, I might go anyway. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted. I always do. |
| “So, zombies, huh?” It was a rare day off for Crash. I told him what I had spotted on the way back from the drive through, and he proceeded to just shrug it off. “They’re harmless. They stink, but honestly, they’re harmless.” “So, what I saw was real?” I asked. We had some cheesy werewolf movie on in the living room. Red Corn Syrup, rubber effects, and horrible acting was one way to pass the time around here, especially around Halloween, a holiday that’s so remembered, honestly because it’s the one day of the year Crash can walk through Walmart in his wolf form “au natural” as he calls it, and get compliments instead of screams. I get the impression that werewolves sometimes have a lower self-image of themselves. I guess all of those screams and shouts in fear every time you show the world your furrier side must wear on a person after a while. “Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “Real enough. Zombies are just like, soul wrappers without the cosmic center. They house the contents of you: the spirit and soul, but they aren’t you. Not really.” I turned to look at him. He was human, no sign of change. His face looked haggard. His goatee and side burns had grown to nearly overtake his whole face. The match set of luggage under his eyes looked as though they were preparing to fly to Europe for a twelve week stay. He’d come in a day earlier and told me that he’d been forced to take a day off. “shift fatigue,” he muttered, then walked back to bed. And proceeded to sleep for almost eighteen hours. I don’t know what ‘Shift Fatigue’ is, but I’m glad I really can’t get it. It sounds like a werewolf thing. And it sounds horrible. “Soul rappers?” I said. “So, what. They’re going to come up to me and start spitting rhymes about God and heaven and hell?” He gave me a look. “Not funny,” he grumbled. “Think of them this way: they’re more or less chip bags blowing in the wind. They know they’re dead. That the soul that possessed them before is gone. They have very few likes or dislikes. They can’t eat. They don’t even know why they’re moving. But they do move, a lot. In fact, their favorite thing to do is to walk around neighborhoods and hang out with humans.” “So, head shot kills them, then?” I said. “No. Well, it can but that’s kind of cruel.” He grumbled. “Why?” The monster on the screen growled and snarled as it began to slash through the front door separating it from its fresh kill. Crash paused the movie and looked at me. “It’s like stomping on a lost kitten.” “Lost?” That was new to me. “I thought they were resurrected by voodoo priests or something. That they hungered for human flesh or were some sort of ghoulish slave.” Crash rolled his eyes. “It’s more like they’re lost puppies. The ones being controlled are something else entirely and the best thing you can do for them is to kill them again. These, it’s well, the best I can explain it is that the flesh remembers life. It remembers having a soul, a spirit, a guide. But here, at this time of year when things are thinnest and thickest they regain the ability to move.” “Why?” none of this was making sense. When someone was dead, they were dead. A bag of mostly assembled flesh and bone that will soon be worm food. Why all of this ‘thinnest and thickest’ crap? “Well, to hang out at Halloween parties. To talk to former relatives and find out what their missing soul used to be like. To meet new people and try to make friends to visit their grave from time to time to say hi. To be, well, human. At least for a while.” “So, they long to be what they were?” I hummed. “I guess that makes sense in some strange way.” “They long to know and remember the soul they once held so lovingly and carried through this life.” Crash said. “But, they’re dead. Worms are eating their brains. They can’t remember anything cause they no longer have the ability to remember.” I replied. Crash nodded. “So, you see,” “It really would be like stomping on a lost kitten.” I muttered. I did feel bad in a way. They were missing a part of themselves they only remember having, but couldn’t remember anything about. Doomed to wander until they returned to the grave searching for that piece of themselves, they’ll never grasp, to get some peace and closure. “Besides, they’ll just rot back into the ground soon enough anyway.” Crash shrugged, then flipped the movie back on. He didn’t go into any further details about that. They’ll just rot back into the ground? Like at a faster rate? At a slower rate? I didn’t really want to know. I turned my attention back to the woman on the screen, screaming as a werewolf tried to claw its way through her front door. Hopefully all of the red corn syrup and bad acting can wash the taste of miserable rotten flesh desperately seeking themselves out of my brain. But as the movie played on, I began to doubt it. I just hope we don’t get any particularly smelly trick or treaters. |
| It’s my first official Halloween season as part of the pack. Part of me figured that Halloween would be a fun time for a werewolf or vampire. Think about it, you have a built-in costume. Just go as, well, yourself. A vampire just dresses up in the duds that they put you in as a dead guy, and there ya go: instant costume that’s guaranteed to win any competition. However, for Crash, it seems to be a whole lot of work. He keeps saying that things will “slow down”, but always manages to dodge the question of just what it is he does. I am curious. Not curious enough to go snooping, but I’m still curious. The centaur office lady fantasy was a fun toy for my mind to play with for a while, however, it’s finally been tossed that aside for the lure of the mystery. Twelve hour days. Fourteen hour days. Six days a week, if he’s lucky and they give him a day off. And all for what? Many days now, he just wakes up in the late afternoon or early evening, already in werewolf form, grumbling the entire way as he shuffles out the back door and walks the path towards the woods. Then we won’t see him till morning, when he comes in covered in dirt, muck and mud, showers off and goes to sleep. Occasionally he’ll eat dinner. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve threatened to put a flea collar on him. A joke that was only met with a middle finger as he stood in the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee that he gently lapped at while the sun continued it’s morning ritual. None of the other guys seem all that worried. Zack just shrugs and says “wait till the end of the month,” and doesn’t say much more. I have no idea what that even means. As if that’s anything new in THIS house. I’ve noticed other weird things though. Since I’m in the pack now, it’s like things around town aren’t hiding anymore, or their tricks don’t work on me, or whatever. I don’t even know what it is. Could it be a scent thing? As far as I know, I haven’t been marked or anything. I mean, if a werewolf pees on you, you kind of remember that event, even if its one you wouldn’t want to. I don’t know though if there’s some sort of psychic or spiritual or whatever kind of mark that lets every other monster and nasty out there to go ahead and try to freak me out. There has to be something to explain all of these weird happenings. Just the other day, I was driving by a cemetery in the evening, after a run from a local fast food place, and a guy was walking from a grave. He wasn’t alone, there was a couple others behind him, but his arm fell off. Betsy (what I decided to name my car), pulled to a complete stop on the shoulder of the two-lane road. It was a grade or two above gravel, though it would be a stretch to call the road “high grade pavement”, more like “tarred and compacted rocks”. The guy walked on as if nothing happened. Another guy walked up behind him, picked up the arm and tapped him on the shoulder with it. I was probably about thirty feet away give or take, but I could see bone and muscle tissue on the dropped arm. Nothing looked fresh, it was all putrid and rotting meat. Both guys turned and waved at me, dried sagging skin, maggots dining happily in one eye, at least I think it was maggots. It’s not the strangest thing I’ve seen in my life, and not nearly the most disgusting thing I’d seen (a guy stepping on an anti-tank mine, now that’s nasty). I simply waved back and drove on, like nothing happened. I didn’t want to see if any other body parts drop off. Call me crazy, if you like. That was just one thing. Mr. Simpson, one of our neighbors seemed to be a full foot and a half taller than he was a few days ago. I’ve heard of growth spurts, but geez! I guess the weird house with the tall doors now makes sense. I don’t know what’s going on with all of it. I’m keeping my head down, not accepting gifts from strangers, and watching out for lawn gnomes, the little suckers seem to be more active in other people’s yards too. I figure Crash will tell me what’s going on sooner or later. Or he won’t, and I’ll simply make something up like my mind always does. I just hope my roommates won’t be too freaked out if I start cleaning my gun a bit more than normal. Let’s just say it’s giving me some comfort these days. |
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