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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 The first year is available as a compilation in print and on Amazon Kindle: https://a.co/d/gBLLL7E The first year is currently available on audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/B0G3SMJGFN/?source_code=AUDFPWS0223189MWT-BK-ACX0-482... My book, "Dreamers of The Sea" is available now on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0uz7xa3 |
| It took a lot to get the mythicals out of the county. There was one death from the stench, someone's home had been bombed especially bad. It was an elderly woman who was also a werewolf. They never hurt anyone, kept to themselves and didn't ever become involved in anything. Essentially, she and her husband were completely innocent. I doubt of Garret and his merry band of fancy luggage had ever even laid eyes on her. The cover story was some sort of gas leak. The town would probably use the cover as an excuse to begin replacing water pipes. But for then, it was just a misfit group of refugees sitting in another county's hotel while the emergency crews went through it and began the difficult process of clean up. Which meant that most of us could only sit by and watch while the police attempted to handle the issues with the rougarou. That went about as well as you'd imagine. The rougarou didn't bother fighting back. They'd just laugh, then run. The cops would give chase, sirens screaming and radios shouting to coordinate efforts to corner them on a town street somewhere or in a public place. But no matter what they did, they couldn't seem to catch Garret and his minions. They'd cut through the woods at speeds that the police had trouble keeping up with. The lawyer that Garret seemed to have found, some hotshot from a much larger city, had effectively handcuffed them from doing anything on the property itself. No warrants could be issued because the chemical concoction wasn't a controlled substance. The most they could be charged with, he argued, was littering. Littering wasn't an offense that warranted a search warrant. I had attempted to argue with the boss that they had effectively poisoned the population. The way he explained it to me was that there was no way they could make such a claim. It was true that the mythical population, or as he called it, the 'non-human community' had been poisoned. Trouble was, court records could be searched by almost anyone. So, they couldn't legally claim that the chemical concoction was designed to poison even "certain residents", out of danger of someone searching for it later. It made sense. After all, the people who destroyed the twin towers in 9-11 had gotten the idea from listening to the court cases of the original trade center bombers back in the nineties. Dangerous ideas can come from court cases and it's best to not to put certain things on the books. It was why officers of his office had such broad scope of powers. Court, literally, couldn't hold certain people. It made sense, but it had backed everyone into a corner. We were seated at a Holiday Inn eating rubbery eggs and microwaved bacon. The kind of bacon that comes precooked and gets shoved into a steam tray for hours on end. The lobby area they had set aside of their continental breakfast had several images of local buildings blown up and drawn abstractedly over vibrant colors. A corporate imitation of Andy Worhol used as decoration for a generic hotel. I'd stared at that image of what must have been a court house from a hundred years ago, but had come to amount to little more than literal pale imitations of sketches on a wall. Garret was working at something. He'd effectively pushed every mythical out of the county that wasn't a rougarou. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to make sure it happened in a certain way. And the regular cops weren't able to get on his property at all. As if he was hiding something there. "Boss, I'm going to need to call in help." He gave me a gruff laugh. The color had returned to the large man's face, but he was still weak. Most of the mythical population hadn't shifted into their other forms since being poisioned. Crash was the only one who managed it, and that had been mostly because he was in werewolf mode when he got poisoned. The boss just shook his head. "No. You're staying here until this gets dealt with. Once the county is clean we will go through and..." "Get poisoned again," I said. The interruption made him grit his teeth and I was about to get my ass chewed. So, I kept going. "Here me out. My previous occupation gave me connection with a few individuals who will have fun with this sort of thing. Whatever is going on is on that property. I'm able to go and check it being a full member of the office. "You're a part-time paper pusher who is currently pushing his damn boundaries." I shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first time I pushed into places nobody wanted me to go. Remember, that used to be my damn job in another lifetime." I could hear him grit his teeth. He knew I was right. But to look on his face said how much he hated that how right I was. It was the look of a man who was preparing to mourn. I just smiled at him. "Hey, I promise he won't destroy half the damn county." "What does Crash say?" I gave a noncommittal shrug. "He's catching up on modern daytime television. You know there appears to be more court shows than regular daytime dramas and reality shows these days? It's like you gotta pass the bar if you want to be a TV star." "When this is over, you're never getting out of the office. You hear me? A year of paperwork. A decade of paperwork. You'll be filling out every form for everyone in the damn office until you die. Then I'll find a necromancer to drag your corpse from the grave to do more paperwork." Luck. It should be pushed sometimes. I pushed mine when I gave bossman a confident smirk and said "Aww. I didn't know you cared." You know, mythicals can move pretty fast, even when poisoned? And that slap to the back of my head hurt! I honestly felt some claws in it. Rubbing my head, as I made my way to my car, I pulled out my phone and began to type a text message to someone that I hadn't expected I'd ever text ever again. Thing is, it wasn't as if I wanted to cut half the people in my life out. It was more of a closing of a chapter. I didn't keep up with certain names and individuals in my life because that chapter was done. My life had migrated to a brand new location. Heart, mind and soul needed to concentrate on the present day, and that's difficult for a person like me to do so when one foot keeps drifting back to the past. Either that, or it's an excuse to not face what I'd lost. You know, either or. Still, I'd taken a deep breath and texted a number that I didn't think I'd ever text again. He had saved my ass more times than I could count in another time and place. I'd saved him just as much, and though the "score", if you could ever call it a score, was even between us. Still, he'd always told me he owed me. Part of me was hoping and praying he'd still think so when he heard what I had to tell him. It was our last chance to stop Garret at whatever the hell he was doing. |
| Hey, y'all. It's Elouise. Guess it's time to tell my part of this thing. Everything started long ago, to tell the truth. Down in the swamp, we had managed to push any sort of non-human law out, thanks in large part to our own special brand of toxic sludge. It's made from a few different plants that grow abundant down there. You brew it nice and thick, let any flies and gnats or whatever land in it, cause the bugs will come in from the stench. You stir it once or twice a day, no more than that. The toxic chemicals, with names far longer than I can pronounce or even remember, will begin to brew from the bacteria inside of it. It's hazardous for humans to eat. It's toxic for most non-humans to even smell. There may be other names for it, but in the bayou, we just called it tar. Garrett will swear up and down that he came up with it, say that he brewed it as a research project while he was cooking up meth in that trailer of his. He'll even get Marissa and Tarissa to agree with him. But if you happen to be unlucky enough to come across that carpet bagger, and you're unlucky enough to be trapped in a conversation with him, ask him about details. When did he start? How did he come up with it? How did he know it was done? That's when his story will fall apart. Truth is, tar's locally known down there, handed down from the Native Americans who used to live in the swamps afore us. They created it over centuries to fight back against windigo and other nasties. Rougarou is just one of the lucky few to be immune. Us and the dragons. But what's the chances of anyone coming across that rare breed? Part of me always knew that Garrett would come back with tar. His grand scheme isn't so hard to figure out once you're in his head. He's the type of guy who will just burn the entire house down so no one else can have it. Especially if he can sell the ashes of it or the land it was sitting on. When his goons came, Jason and Crash were probably out dealing with him or the terribly fake twins somewhere. He enjoys doing that. Walking up to the hornet's nest, kicking it once or twice, then standing there to see how angry they'll get at him. Poor Garrett never could figure out there's a difference between anger and panic. And a panicked person will kill someone to survive if they have to. How I got captured isn't all that interestin. Some charlatan had come to my door, claiming his cell phone had died and needed a tow truck for his car. True enough, there was a car out front, with hood up. No smoke coming from it. Headlights still on. I don't know much about vehicles, to tell ya the truth. Can barely tell a Corvette from a Chrysler, but I did know that everything looked suspicious with their silver sedan. What could I do with the feller? He was wearing an old T-shirt advertising some jamboree or something, one of those giant music festivals that became so popular for a while. I invited him in, told him to wait while I went and got my cell phone. The intention was to shift, scare the bejesus out of mister 'out of juice' in my living room and figure out what was going on. The sound of the window opening in my bedroom changed my plans. Trailers aren't known for having the most secure windows on the planet. Mine was no exception. Now, an average person off the street won't crack it, but any experienced burglar can get threw them with no problems. I had always relied on my own abilities. After all, a thief won't be stealing too many more things if they're bouncing around a rubber room talking about giant gator women. But that didn't go too far with two gentlemen holding pistols loaded with silver. There was a brief struggle. The guy in the window didn't give me a chance to shift. I ran into the living room to see my front door being kicked in, and another guy brandishing a pistol. Unfortunately, I did the thing all victims do when faced with something like that and stared down at the pistols rather than their faces. I could see something of a family resemblance, but I didn't pay much more attention than that. It's hard to fight while trying to shift into your fighting form. And hurts like a son of a bitch. Fight didn't last long before I was escorted out the front door and sat into the silver car. As we drove by, I could see Jason being loaded into the back of a cop car. His back was to me, and I know he didn't see me. All I could think then was Garrett. That son of a bitch. I was sitting in the back of the sedan, crammed in there, between two brothers with the father sitting up front talking about how proud of he was of his boys, blah, blah, blah. I didn't pay attention. I just watched out the window. We were taken across town into a property that was overgrown. From there, Marissa and Tarissa both met me. The terribly fake twins waved enthusiastically as I was brought over. "Look Rissa, it's Clarissa!" Marissa exclaimed. I'd always hated that name. Told Garrett so. Hated the idea of being part of a triplet. Told Garrett so on many occasions. Don't know why he wants triplets so bad. Well, I have one idea, and it's kind of sick. "Why, if it isn't Emma! And her friend Lamborghini!" They both rolled their eyes and grabbed each of my arms. The one I called Lamborghini was gritting her teeth. "My name was Lexus, and now it's Tarissa," she snarled. "You wouldn't know anything about being in a sisterhood. Or being in a family." I rolled my eyes as I was shoved into their truck. "I know all about family. Both good and bad. And sister, it's the right thing to leave bad family before they make you worse." There was a gator growl in her throat. I knew right then and there she wanted to end me. If Garrett hadn't been there, it would have gotten real nasty real quick. But old Garrett just laughed. "Ladies, ladies. We can't spill her blood yet. We got more important work to do." He turned to the other guy, he looked like a man who spent a life working in the sun. His face resembled shoe leather. "Now, you spread that stuff all over town. Anywhere you can spread some." He looked down at it confused. "I don't get it, won't they just wash this stuff off?" Garrett laughed. "Go ahead. Stick your finger in it." The darn fool stuck just the tip of his finger in it. It was coated when he pulled it back. It strung tight for a moment like a strand of cheese clinging to a slice of pizza in a commercial. Then that strand snapped. He tried wiping it off his fingertip, but the more he tried, the more coated his fingers got. He flailed, cried, smearing the stuff on his shirt, his pants, all over his other hand. His fingers fluttered and flailed like he saw a bee. Garrett's booming laughter provided a soundtrack to his impromptu one man show. "It'll take more than the power of Pine-Sol to get that stuff out," he laughed. "Hope that shirt ain't a goodun, that shirt and your jeans are ruined." Though when he pronounced it, the ruined came out sounding like 'ruint'. "Now that you're through with your performance art, get that stuff smeared. We ain't got much time. Get your boys and get to work." The old guy ran off, grabbing two men. They jumped into a vehicle, and drove off. Meanwhile, I was rolling down a bumpy back road. It was sometime before I heard sirens and gunshots. Things were playing out bad back there, and I knew they'd only get worse. Life has a funny way of falling apart from time to time. Forcing us to stitch it back together in whatever way we know how. Tar's greatest property isn't in what it kills, but what it creates. Through the stench and the destruction that follows it, it creates chaos, allowing our kind to waltz in and take over. Like Garrett had just done. As we rolled down the overgrown drive of the farmhouse that Garrett had either bought or stolen, I watched the tree tops and the sky. I was certain it was going to be the last time I ever got a chance to do that. |
| The collar was large enough that I could use it as a belt. The leash was thick and had this elastic tensity to it, as if designed for dogs large enough to wear saddles. Wasn't sure what it would do with a werewolf who could throw me over his shoulder and carry me around. It didn't take long for him to come back, and when he returned there was a grin on his face, as if he was looking forward to seeing it. All of this to find one group of humans who had kidnapped Elouise. All of this to try and connect them with Garrett to give us at least something to go on; to let Crash give Garrett and the rest of his Rougarou clan what was coming to them. Crash was as eager as he ever was to get things going. "This is fucking embarrassing," Crash grumbled as he pulled me along. He kept tucking his tail since technically, he had to walk through town nude in broad daylight. "Oh, come on," I said. "This isn't that bad! I'm not recording anything at least." "Only cause Andy confiscated your phone," he snarled. "Don't be like that. We'll find Elouise, you'll get dressed, and we can have a good laugh about it later as I tell the guys back home, Mitch and just about everyone else who'll listen." He looked up at me, his ears folded down in annoyance. "I'm still pissing in your bed." "Bad dog! No treat for you!" He put his nose back to the asphalt. "I'm definitely pissing in your bed." I gave him a snarl of my own, though it was watered down with humor. "Oh, come on, lighten up." "Okay, you get naked and walk through town on a leash." I laughed. "You couple that with my Easter egg theory, and I'll be rode out of town on a rail." He gave a short gruff of laughter of his own. "You should be rode out of town on a rail for that Easter egg theory. And telling it to children, no less." "Hey, I was drunk, okay?" We pulled down main street. The few people that were out and about didn't give us a second look. After all, it was just a guy walking his dog, and possibly talking to his pet. Who cares if the animal is humongous when there's so much commotion going on the other side of town? Andy had the idea to have his deputy race through the stop signs on the opposite end while he chased him for a few blocks. With the roars of the engines, the flashing lights, sirens, everyone's attention was in the other direction. So there hopefully wouldn't be any calls about a man walking his crazy pet bear dog thing down the street. The trail had led down Main half a block. Then it turned and toured through a neighborhood, peppered with old houses and new, the type of neighborhood you'd find in a slowly developing small town. It cut down a side street that led towards a highway on the outskirts. Occasionally a car would pull up behind us and pass. Everyone was too polite to honk their horn, but we got a lot of stares. Crash tried to pretend to be a dog, but I could tell he was a little embarrassed by the four cars that pulled up to us. The looks we got from the locals told me that if they weren't so polite, they'd have cussed me out. So, I did the only thing I could: I waved at them and gave each car a nice, large goofy smile. The trail turned down a gravel road for about a half mile. The road was trees on one side and farm fields on the other, with drives jutting into it every once in a blue from the trees themselves. Eventually, we came to a drive where Crash had stopped. The house was unassuming. A single story ranch type house, with both a front porch and what looked like a back. A half acre of lawn in the front. There was a vehicle there, an old pickup of some kind, but not much of anything else. Certainly not a VW, Passat or otherwise. A skinny man wearing a sleeveless T-shirt was out on the porch. He had a mullet that strangely reminded me of an old MacGyver rerun. The snarl on his face matched the hairdo. For some reason, I briefly wondered if he was going to challenge me to a dance off and start singing Hall and Oats tunes. I jerked back on the leash, pulling Crash back. "Okay, okay, let's turn around." He watched us closely as we walked part way down the street, out of his sight. There wasn't much for us to go on still. The car ended there, but there wasn't any signs of non-humans on the property. So, I called Andy. Two sentences into the phone call, Crash began to dry heave. It looked like a cat coughing up a hairball at first. Then, it got worse, turning into a full body wretch, complete with claws in the ground, snarl on his face, and ears pinned. There was a pained look upon his expression as he pulled back further. "Something..." Crash grumbled. "...wrong..." he stammered as he drew back further from the property. "Yeah, that was Crash. Hurry." I hung up the phone. Joe Dirt's uglier cousin walked towards the mailbox with a shit eating grin. He took an old paintbrush, dipped it into an old Home Depot bucket and coated the bristles. Pulling it out, the brush was covered in a thick viscous, blackish brown fluid that smelled like what I imagine the inside of a dead horse's ass crack would smell like. It made me gag and was making Crash worse. Giving the post the mailbox was nailed to a good three or for swipes with the brush, he walked back towards his home, laughing. Crash had turned a sickly shade of green and had to move back even further. "Shit." "Yeah," I agreed. "That wasn't in the manual. Guess I'm doing more than paperwork, huh?" Didn't get a response to that question. Andy showed up a few moments after that, a sneer of disgust and concern on his face. "Will he be alright?" "I don't know," I said truthfully. "Some punk painted something horrible on the mailbox and now Crash is turning colors." Reaching down, I stroked Crash's ear. Normally, he wouldn't let my hand near his head in that manner, which makes sense. But, it was instinctual. A human comforting his beloved canine, not a man and his werewolf friend. He could only give me a pained groan back. The groan felt like it stabbed me in the heart. I looked at the cop, a cold anger in my voice. "Can I go kill that bastard?" "No," he said. "Neither can I. But, I can get him for something else." The police department and Crash's department it seemed worked in tandem. When something fell out of the jurisdiction of us, like it had, it fell directly into Andy's department. It didn't take him long to walk up and touch the mysterious substance on the post. He collected some and saved it in an evidence bag. Afterward, he made a call on his radio and walked up the drive. Another police cruiser roared down the road a few moments later, it's siren blaring, lights flashing. They skid to a stop in front of the house, sliding almost sideways. Two more cops jumped out, pistols drawn. Down the drive they ran, running headlong into death and danger, while I sat with sickness. "Jason." "Yeah?" Crash looked up at me. "Are you petting me?" I stopped. He chuckled weakly. "You keep that up, and people will think we're dating." "People think you're my dog," I told him. "Humans think I'm your dog..." he started retching again, and spewed up green bile. Then he panted. "I got to get away from that stuff." I didn't know what to do. I'd lifted him up, threw his arm over my shoulder and started limping with him towards the highway. Ignoring Crash's incredulous look, I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. With each step was a cleaner breath. With each step he grew stronger. As we stopped on the shoulder of the highway, he swayed for a moment, but he stayed upright on his own. At least for a while. Then he collapsed back to the asphalt. I nearly followed him, but managed to stay upright through nothing else than pure rage and adrenaline. Bosses number was dialed before I knew I'd done it. Only, for the first time, Boss didn't answer. He had always answered. I dialed again and again. Nothing. I called the office next. No answer. Things were going from wrong to worse. Crash was just starting to get color back in his lips and ears. Just barely getting the strength to stand. From the road I could hear gunshots. Our only lead was going out in a blaze of glory. Then, my phone rang. It was Charles. I hung up. It rang again and again. Finally, after the fifth time hanging up on him, I answered. "Little busy Charles, this better be important," I snarled. "All sorts of folk are collapsing around town." "What?" Panic rose in his voice. With panic his grammar got worse. "Yes. Minotaur couple dropped. Outside dropped. Unicorn guy. And...I feel..." then the connection dropped. Rage boiled in my veins. My fist shook as I clenched it tight. I snarled a single word. "Garrett." Somewhere, I could feel him laughing. |
| There wasn't much of a conversation for the forty five seconds it took to drive me to the police station. The cop, who I'll call Andy for the sake of this little blog, didn't give me much of a hassle. He was an older type, close to my own age in fact. From the way he acted, I could tell he had years of experience within the police department of our small town. His balding hair was cut military short, his hazel eyes had the thousand yard cop stare. The type of stare that said he'd seen too many bar fights and far too many hunting accidents. The car pulled up to a squat building that had parking places for about three patrol cars in the back. Lead inside handcuffed, I didn't complain any until he'd handcuffed me and set me down next to one of three scarred desks. "Sorry about the performance back there, but we got to keep up appearances." He logged into a computer and tapped at keys, filling out a report as he spoke to me. I stole a glance at it. It looked just like one of the fake forms that Crash had slid across my desk for me to fill out for him. Figures Crash would stick a real one among all the nonsense. "So, how long has this been going on?" I explained everything as best as I could to him. From the moment Garrett limped his way through the door, the half threats disguised as playful jabs. My outright threat, and every incident since. I tried backing up claims with date and times, and was able to use receipts a couple of times to do so. "Yeah," he muttered, tapping out keys. "They're trying to play you for something. All of this is going to your division, of course. Your boss will determine the next course of action. If it was me? I'd keep my head down and..." His words stopped when his radio squawked to life. It spoke of a 9-1-1 call about an address that was familiar to me. Elouise's address. Tell you the truth, I hadn't thought about her in the middle of all of this. Simply put, I didn't want to get her involved with Garrett again if we could avoid it. Figured the best way to do that was to simply not talk about Garrett to her. Besides, she had a life of her own. A small business that she ran out of her trailer on the side, and the almost relationship thing going on with Crash. If anyone told her, I guessed it would have been him. "I'm coming," I said, standing up. "No, sit your ass down," he growled at me. "Crash will be by to pick you up soon." If you thought I just politely waited for Crash, you'd be out of your mind. I half-walked, half-jogged to Elouise's place, limping part of the way. Crash pulled up in his car and growled at me "get in." We drove down to the site where Andy and an assistant of his were standing by, starting an investigation of their own already. "Rare treat for you boys to tag along," Crash said. I didn't say anything for a change. "I smell three humans, males. Adults, one older than the other two. Will need to shift to tell you more." "Shift," Andy asked. I nodded. "He's probably going to go inside first, don't worry." The front door had been kicked in. Not that it's terribly difficult to do that on a trailer. The bushes that Elouise had planted had been driven over with something. It looked as if they were trying to move quickly. A window was smashed out, an object thrown through it. Glass was all over the lawn. Inside was worse, with things strewn about and shattered, as if someone was searching for something. Whatever it was, obviously they hadn't found it cause Elouise was still alive. Stepping out a moment, I spent time with the two officers as Crash shifted. The conversation drifted from stories about military life to stories of their jobs. There is quite a bit of cross over between the two fields. Just as many stupid things we have to deal with from our superiors and from locals. And, just as many inside jokes. The type of humor that cops and military personnel use isn't the type of jokes that most people understand. To misquote Joseph Stalin, dark humor is like food, not everyone gets it. But the humor laid about those lines. It was the type of humor built from trauma and response. Joke built as a way of dealing with stress and horror. So, I won't go into the jokes we told there, or the stories that were shared. It was about ten minutes later when Crash came ambling out on all fours, nose to the ground, muzzle pulled back in a grimace. "I'm not taking you for walkies." "That's fine. I'll just mark your bed later." I eye-rolled as the cops chuckled at the inside jokes. "Okay, okay. What do you smell?" "Tire marks say sedan. The scent says VW, so probably a Passat. Built in the teens at some time, so maybe ten years old? It's burning oil, and leaking coolant." "That makes sense," Andy said. "They did say a silver sedan pulled up." "Unfortunately, no scent of anyone in my jurisdiction. Just two males, early twenties. Another male in his late forties." "What I don't get," I said, "is why would three humans kidnap Elouise?" Crash stood to his full height, something that caused the other two to put their hands to their pistols momentarily. "Garrett again. We're still off this case. Because it's human perpetrators, I can't interfere. Neither can you." "So, let me get this straight. They pick a fight in the police station hoping to get in trouble." "No," Crash said. "Knowing you'd respond. Which you did and got us both banned from investigating them." "They keep after me, you're forced to intervene. Then they take that moment to kidnap Elouise?" "No," Crash said. "They paid someone else to kidnap Elouise. I'm certain I can get evidence of this car and the wonder twins talking. But I'll have to investigate in this form, and there's no way I can do that in daylight." Andy smiled, then. And thank God for Andy for two things. One, he's got a hell of a cop mind on him. Two, he was willing to tell a werewolf, "It'll take me less than five minutes to get you a leash and collar." The look Crash gave him was priceless. "Absolutely not! No! I won't do that. You can't make me." I looked at Crash. "It'll give us the evidence we need to get out of the penalty box and get back on the ice for this case." "Fine," He grumbled. Then he looked at me. "You better not tell a soul." I pulled out my cell phone. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." He took it away from me and threw it in Andy's car before I could start recording, the jerk. The deal was Andy could walk Crash around, with his partner in the patrol car. But I had to sit in the back. And wasn't allowed to get my phone until Crash had finished. Which I was getting nervous about. Cause, Crash was going to sniff out this car, possibly through downtown. After how many other cars had already driven over it. After how many other people and mythicals and dogs and what not had already walked by it. Even Crash's nose would get confused after that. Could he even do it? Could it be done in time? After all, Elouise had maybe hours before Garrett would kill her. He was going to want his money first. Then he was going to want revenge. Which he would have gotten in one fell swoop. Revenge on us, killing our unofficial pack member. Revenge on Elouise. And revenge on Crash. I wasn't certain how much more we could do at that point, but I did know that whatever we could do, our time to do it in was running out. |
| It's been one hell of a week. Boss said stay away from Garrett and his wannabe crime family, so that's what I did. Or at least tried to. I didn't follow him anywhere after that fiasco at the office, didn't bother trying to talk to him when I got out of my own ass chewing. Crash just grumbled "figures," when I came home that night and told him what happened. Then he asked if I filled out those reports like he asked. Which, of course I had. I filled them out with his NCIS forms, "National Claw InciSors" form to be precise. He got a smile out of that one. During my typical running around that week, I'd seen a lot of their family. Marissa standing at the pharmacy when I arrived, looking as if she'd ran down there to beat me into it. She had her cell phone out and ready when I'd arrived, recording me. I had to leave and wait an hour before she finally left. Tarissa pulling into the gas pump and pumping gas directly behind me, cell phone in hand, presumably recording. She flipped her hair back, and batted her attractive eyes. "I always did like a man in uniform. They give you one of those cute sheriff things or a pretty blue cop one?" I turned and snarled, biting my lip and squeezing my hand hard enough to leave impressions of my fingernails in my palm pads. She giggled at me from behind her cellphone. "Oh come on! It's rude to not answer someone when they're talking to you!" Part of me wanted to spin around and snarl back, "It's even more rude to kill a couple and con a community with a fake land scam!" Of course, I didn't. If it was just my own freedom at stake, I would have done it in a heartbeat. However, Crash, and the gang don't deserve to suffer for my own mouth, as dumb as the circumstances may be. So, I did the only thing I could legally do - I left. Most of the week was like this. As inconspicuous as I was trying to be with it, it seemed they weren't. They were enjoying making me squirm, and enjoying more making sure other people watched me squirm and avoid eye contact, cell phone always recording me like I was a cheating ex being called out. And like a cheating ex, they relished in every public humiliation I was forced to suffer. These days, a good portion of folk will just stand back, pull the cell phones out and record for their social media, snickering the entire time. You still have some decent hearted beings out there who will turn their heads and do their best to not get involved, muttering sayings about circus and monkeys. But every once in a while, though, you'll get that one individual who will have to interfere. The kind of person who will be willing to stand up for you no matter what. The type of person who you wish, for the love of God, would just shut up. They pushed and pushed and talked and talked, not exactly following me, but still popping up in enough places around our little town that it felt like I was being constantly watched. The pressure got to the point that sobriety for me was about to take a few days sabbatical until the entire thing blew over. Outside of the liquor store, Marissa (or is it Tarissa? I can never get those two straight) showed up. All I wanted was a bottle cheap liquor. Marissa, Tarissa, Clarissa explains it all, whatever her damn name was stopped me in front of the door and wanted to talk. "Aww, poor little cripple needs a drink? I can help ya get one, honey?" If I'd heard him pull up, I would have said something, honest I would have. But I gritted my teeth so hard they hurt. I took two steps back towards my car seeing red, about to explode, when someone did for me. And about the worst person in that situation who could have. "I know not why you make trouble for friend! But you make trouble for him, you make trouble with me!" Charles' voice was distinct. And he was already losing his grammar, which meant Charles was beginning a slow shift. He was going to smash, rip, rend and tear anyone in his way. Marissa, the door, the liquor store, the attendant behind the counter, the bird in the tree behind the store. It didn't matter. Of course, Marissa/Tarissa whoever she was, didn't care. She had started turning green herself, and was preparing to go all rougarou on me and Charles. "You best get your Hulderfolk pet on a leash, human," she snarled. I tried to grab Charles arm and pull him back. "Come on, big guy. It's not worth it," I tried. "She insult you! She insult me! She is bad person! Bad person DIE!" And there it was. The push she had been spoiling for. Her cell phone was out and before I could shout 'Shut up, dummy,' she was recording again. "What's that?! You're going to hurt me?" Charles took the obvious bait and ran with it, snapping the metaphorical line. "I'll more than hurt! I'll chew your bones and feast on entrails!" I could see what she was doing. It was very careful: poking, prodding. Pushing just enough to rile him up, but without making a clear threat of her own. Everything was said in the form of a question, and when the police arrived, which didn't take long, everything was presented. "More threats, officer. Me and my family can't get a moment's peace," was the official line. "We were just going to the grocery store and there he was!" A few taps and she pulled out a video of me at the grocery store. She swiped to another video. "Here we are just trying to get gas and he had to jump in ahead of us!" She swipped angrily to two more videos and snarled at the cop, "It's like he's stalking us, I swear!" When he looked at me, she gave me the briefest of glances. There was a look of triumph in that glance. The way the videos appeared was the moment the camera came out, I turned my head, blushed in embarrassment like I'd just been caught, and tried to get out of the way. Hell, even I thought I looked guilty in how those videos were edited. So, I didn't blame the local officer when he started asking pointed questions. Not that Charles helped much in that regard either. The cop was in his mid thirties, looked to still be doing patrol, which to me meant that he was likely already over this entire endeavor. His thinning hair almost pulled forward in the scowl the man was giving me. "Would you care to explain what happened?" I believe it was the cops tone. But, hulderfolk are notoriously unpredictable, especially when angered. So, likely it could have been anything. "Don't you dare question friend!" It went down hill from there. Charles snarling obscenities, and becoming more and more troll by the second, the officer snarling for Charles to stop, Marissa - or whatever twin she claimed to be, was crying about how scared she was, playing it up real big for a cop who seemed to be getting real sick of all of it. And me without any means of fighting back. Crash had to come out and interrupt things before they got worse. He barely got Charles restrained and calmed down enough to get him home. Marissa or whatever wonder twin she was, was practically dancing when that happened. Then the other shoe dropped. "We can't take this anymore, officer! I'd like to press charges," the toxic twin shouted, her voice holding a note of triumph as the officer rounded on me with a frustrated, weary look. "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in for further questioning." "But!" "We'll be impounding your vehicle as well sir." It's not like I hadn't been expecting as much. I believe I took it about as respectful and kind as I could. My official statement has me saying "What the actual ever loving fuck!" But I still say I said "whatever". Either or, things only got more fun for Marissa explains it all, recording the entire endeavor. Being tased hurts. Especially when it's done twice. There's no shame in admitting I was whimpering at the end of that. It felt like...no, I won't go into it. If anyone is curious enough, they go find a cop and get the experience first hand. Me? I don't want to relive that experience through explanation. Needless to say, I did end up on the asphalt of the parking lot, jerking and kicking. Of course none of these are memories I have. I remember the pain of it, then being on the ground. The videos I saw online though caught the whole incident in 4k. Someone caught it in 8k. At least my humiliation warranted the good resolution this time. On the way to the station, the cop gave me a look. I couldn't determine if it was pity, or just exhaustion. Either way, I didn't blame him. There was no telling what was going to happen when we got to the police station. But one thing was certain, it wasn't going to get any better for me that day. |
| We all get those parts of our jobs that we hate. Part of our job is dealing with unruly customers, the kind that drives us nuts and makes us want to violate one or two company rules and probably a law or two. I'm not exempted from this. Working part-time for Crash's special unit division thing, which I still don't know the name of, and which has become something of an office prank on me, I get those types of customers. It's worse when that customer is one that Crash was supposed to kill but had managed to get away. I'm still puzzled how he did it. But he sure as hell did. His gnarled wooden cane made a soft thwump thwump thwump on the floor as he walked across our office. Technically, as a part-time employee of the special division, unit thing that Crash works for, I'm not allowed to have a desk of my own. So, I've been forced to share one with Crash. Crash is getting the better end of this deal. Can't tell you the number of times I walked into an office only to find a stack of paperwork with Crash's scrawled and sometimes bloody signature on it. Only the words "fill these reports out and I'll sign it later. Thanks." on a Post-It note on top of them, each form had somehow had a different label for the department over the heading. "Special Investigations Unit", "Mythical Creature Commandos", "Law and Order: Fur and Claw Unit". Okay, that last one made me giggle. It's lead to more than one discussion of my duty around the office. Which has led me to not filling out the paperwork as he asked. Which has led to more pranks. We'll talk it out soon. We always do. But the man standing before me that day wasn't Crash. From his overalls, the shit eating grin on his face, the glint in his eye and the backwoods' hillbilly heroine millionaire look about him, it could only be Garrett. Despite having his tail ripped off, there was no loss of height. In human form, one leg had lost a lot of mass. His green eyes held a murderous look of triumph. "I understand there's a vacancy in your little town for my kind." If you don't remember Garrett. Him, Marissa and Tarissa some time ago had decided they were going to reconnect with their long-lost sister, Elouise. Elouise had stolen a significant sum of money from them, they wanted it back. But more than that, they attempted to scam the good folks of our little county out of money and had murdered an innocent couple in the process. The entire ordeal was covered in the 'New Business Ventures' episodes. The most shocking thing about that was the fact that he was standing there in front of my desk, in the middle of our office. Not in handcuffs, not in pieces. But in what looked to be his best overalls and flannel shirt! And none of the other mythicals in the building were doing a thing about it. "Didn't you murder a family and threaten to eat me or something? That sort of thing puts a bit of a damper on the whole 'Let's be neighbors' thing you're trying here." His lip didn't even curl up into a snarl, as if he expected the accusation. "You weren't an officer then. Heck, you technically aren't now, just the human secretary they suckered into doing this job. Besides, I got myself a pardon! Now where's that damn paperwork?" I left him at the desk, asking one of the mythicals on office duty to keep an eye on him. (Guy asked to be out of this blog. So, maybe I didn't even get the gender right, heh.) I went and talked to the boss, who only grunted, "send his tailless ass in. I'll speak to him." Curses flew under my breath as I walked over like a sequestered monk in humble prayer. When I sat down, I could see Garrett had heard every one from the shit eating grin on his face. "Boss will speak to you sir." "Ain't what you called me walking over," he laughed. "Why don't you stick around boy, I may want a bite after." He chuckled in the back of his throat at the comment. "I'll be an expensive meal, gatorboy. Go ahead and try it, I'd love a new pair of alligator boots." It shut his laughter up. Before he could retort I shouted over to the resident werebear or whatever his species is called and shouted "Hey boss! Garrett here is threatening your favorite human." "You're my only human. Tell him to get his scaly ass in here." Garrett gave me a dismissive snort and walked over to the bosses' office, his head held high as if he had won some grand prize. What I had expected and what happened were entirely different things. I had expected the boss to laugh, say hell no, and kick his sorry ass out, telling him 'pardon or no pardon, you're not welcome'. Instead, the boss snarled at him, and pointed a finger that was starting to become a claw at Garrett, shouting. I couldn't hear what was said, my hearing isn't good enough. But office gossip tells me it was nothing good. But he still agreed and processed the paperwork himself. That isn't the part that hurt. What hurt was what bossman had told me after. "Stay away from him and his family. That goes for you, Crash, and everyone else in your pack. Stay the hell away." It took a lot to bite back what I wanted to say then. Instead, I as respectfully as I could, pointed out the facts: they weren't going to stay away from us. Far from it, in fact. "I'm willing to bet, sir, that they'll try to move in next door." "Lucky for you, I vetoed that. They're buying property near the county line, near an entirely different town. You and yours should be left alone. If they bother you, Crash knows what to do. Don't you dare even glare at him." "He's the rougarou!" Boss sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Yes, but you're the human that threatened him." My jaw dropped for a moment. It took a couple of tries before I could respond without shouting at him. "He threatened me first. Said 'stick around, I may want a bite after'." "Yes, and he says he was inviting you to lunch, and you threatened him." I pounded the desk. "He threatened to eat me before!" Boss sighed and rubbed his temples. "Were you this much trouble in the military?" "No, in the military I could have shot him." He nodded at that and leaned back in his chair. "Believe me, I wish I could sink my teeth into that slippery bastard. But sometimes in law enforcement all you can do is play the long game. That means smiling and waving at scum like that while you wait for them to slip up. That's what you're doing Forte. Wait for him to slip up. Don't talk to him. Don't approach him. If he talks to you, don't respond. You got it?" "Got it," I said, dejectedly. Garrett had somehow beaten me before we had even had a chance for our next fight. He'd taken my two greatest assets off the board: my mouth and my pistol. What else could I do then but nod at him when I left the office, and go back to my desk. Fortunately, he didn't press his luck. After all, egging me on may get a rise out of me, but would destroy his entire 'innocent victim' shtick. But he did manage to walk by my desk one more time, thumping the cane extra loud to try and make me look at him. This entire situation would have been much easier to deal with in the military. A guy like Garrett would have been killed already. There wouldn't have been any of the jurisdictional nonsense. Bad guy is there. Located. Destroyed. End of list. But here, it's as if they're inviting him and his family into the damn county. Playing a game of chess with the lives in the county as chess pieces. I just hope that they figure something out soon, before Garrett tries to make a play for checkmate. That slippery bastard is smart enough to get it. |
| Sometimes, my mind runs away with me. I and Crash were standing in the kitchen in the morning. He was in human form, drinking a cup of coffee. Light filtered in, the early morning light that feels as reluctant to be up as we humans are at such an early hour - especially during winter. Breakfast was made and eaten in its usual fashion: I did some eggs, and Crash did his thing he does occasionally with the bread and bacon. He fried the bacon next to me, then used some of the grease left over to fry the bread. The scents still hung in the air as the coffee was doing its job of arousing our senses and wills. That was when I'd broached the subject. "So, what do werewolves do differently around Christmastime?" Crash shrugged. "Trim the tree with entrails and blood. We meet..." "Very funny," I interrupted him. He laughed and shook his head, taking a sip while I continued. "What does your species do differently? For real." The images that I had were, well, different to say the least. I'd imagined a werewolf family going north and building a hunting bunker out of snow, then going to take on the biggest game they could, the only game that could challenge them - polar bears and moose. But, as usual, my active imagination had it wrong. I had developed a story about a family of werewolves trying to survive such a trip after one of the polar bears starts going after them instead, and they get injured. It was turning into a Cormac McCarthy type story about the brutality of life in general. But my imagination was quite a ways off base. "Not a lot, to tell you the truth. We're living with you humans cause we want what you have. We want a peaceful life in a nice neighborhood with pleasant neighbors who are friends. With cars in the driveway and children playing in the backyard. A lot of our traditions are yours." "So the tree?" "That was a werewolf tradition at first. We wanted to put something in your home that smelled like us, so we'd go out at night and mark a tree, then convince you to put it up in your homes. Kept the vampires and the trolls away." Crash took another sip, an extended one. I couldn't tell if it was to hide a smirk, or not. I still think he was hiding one. He's kidding right? Of course, he's got to be kidding. "So, besides operation stinky tree, what other traditions do you guys have?" Crash gave a soft chuckle and shrugged. "My family does a hunt. Well, we used to, but as my parents get older it's harder for them. So, I do the hunt. But I tend to stream it for them so they can watch it live and talk to me." "So werewolves hunt?" "No, not all werewolves." He set his cup aside, and looked down as if lost in thought a moment. "Some do. We do. But others don't like hunting much. Had a friend who insisted on baking. She was crazy, even for a werewolf. She'd shift, then bake a sheet cake or a dozen different kinds of cookies. Said she'd rather bake than kill." That threw me for a loop. I looked at him for a moment, then asked the obvious question. "How much fur?" He laughed. I wouldn't let it go. "I'm serious, how much fur in the baking?" "Let's just say it was extra fiber." Just when you think that you know everything about someone. Those Christmas traditions, they're special in their own way. We all have them. Watching Charlie Brown and Garfield, that claymation special with the California Raisins in them. Attending that one church that does the fantastic Christmas pageant. Watching our children put their own Christmas pageant on. It's strange to think that werewolves and other mythical kind do these things as well. They watch the same specials, attend the same services, go to the same pageants. But there's not one special tradition for them. Have they been integrated into our society so long they no longer have their own? Have they always been with us? These are anthropologist questions that I'm not certain will ever be answered. Crash picked up a dish and brought it to the sink. As he prepared to wash a load he said, "Of course there's the annual howling at the moon. We all have to get out and do that." Which I smiled at, because I knew he was kidding. In the reflective surface of the window above the sink, I swore I saw that smile, so I know for certain he was kidding. Had to be kidding, right? |
| It's troubling times for everyone, I suppose. There are memories I hear from others, memories of Christmas presents piled so high in front of Christmas trees in the living room that you could barely see the star at the top of it. Boxes lovingly wrapped with expensive paper, ribbons and bows, each with their own name and card attached. Gifts piled so high it becomes a literal sea of wrapping paper for small children to wade through and a garbage truck's nightmare come day after to deal with. Then there's the food, food that was lovingly prepped and baked. Fights in the kitchen are almost always forgotten in the mornings. That is, unless you're the guy half drunk by ten AM in the corner with the children trying to explain to them that Santa Claus is really a stalker looking for any excuse to snatch a bad child up and make them disappear before New Years. Yeah, a quick apology to my ex brother-in-law about giving your kids nightmares. Guess I got carried away with my description. But this year feels a bit more subdued than those. The gifts for a lot of people aren't piled as high. The food budget has been trimmed back. As a parent, I can imagine that feels a bit like a failure to your kids. They may believe in Santa, but you know where Santa really comes from, and your bank account isn't capable of conjuring up as generous of a version of the fat man this year. At times, it can be easy to forget that there's still magic in the season for children, regardless of how many gifts they get or how many times you've watched Charlie Brown. I've asked Crash if there were any special werewolf traditions. He told me the story of Krampus, of course, which I think I've talked about before. About how he steals bad children in the night and gives them to good werewolf pups. It makes sense for a werewolf's version of Christmas, if you think about it. But, there was something mentioned. He hadn't specifically banned me from talking about it, so I'll mention it. It was how him and his mother would shift, and hunt together. They'd bring the beast down and bring it in for his father to help clean, that they'd later cook. The meal was then shared by them, with all the fixings that they'd throw in and assist together with in their own special way. This leads me to the thought of Christmas being more than just boxes covered in enough wrapping paper to lose a small child in. It seemed to be more in that description for one family than fighting over gifts in a store, or wearing out the Amazon delivery people. There was a true magic of the season at that moment for that family. Perhaps the magic of Christmas, if there's any real magic in it, comes from things just like that. Not from hearing Mariah Carey for the millionth time. Not from overworking store employees. But from the small moments in time that are shared with loved ones. Driving around and looking at the decorated houses. Watching the Christmas specials with your family. Enjoying that special holiday performance by a local group. And of course, the Christmas villages. I wonder if mythicals have their own version of a Christmas village? Maybe where kids come and sit on Krampus's knee. Perhaps one child plays the bad kid caught by Krampus. I could see the Rougarou doing some sort of version of eggnog that wouldn't be edible for humans. Heck, it might not be edible for most mythicals. The minotuars would, of course, run a Christmas tree lot. Cause of course they would. Then there would be the caroling, oh boy can I imagine the caroling. Sadly. Mythicals of all kinds in their shifted forms, singing a chorus of songs designed for their special version of the year. All to celebrate, well, what we celebrate really. Whether that's the religious reason, or the familial one. And I can hear all choruses of voices singing in their own off-key tones that may sound beautiful with special kind of ears. But to my human ones, it would sound like a pack of dogs trying to chase down a bull, an alligator and a confused troll. Well, however you enjoy it, just try to enjoy this coming holiday season. After all, just like the special says, Christmas doesn't come from a store. Perhaps it means just a little bit more. Or something like that. |
| Thanksgiving is one of those truly underappreciated holidays. For some families, at least. For others, it's a time to set the ropes up, get the guys in the corner limbered up and ready. It's a time to ensure that everyone understands the three knock down rule, and to respect the ref at all times. At one point in my life, I was the guy who would not only start these kinds of festivities at a get-together, but I'd be the one who to throw the first metaphysical, and sometimes literal, punch. People who run from their hometown are always running from something. I, in a way, had been running from myself. It's a flight that took me halfway around the world and left me buried in the bottom of a liquor bottle waiting to drown. That's one of the things I'm truly thankful for. To have a roommate, a friend, a pack member, who not only can see through the cantankerous shenanigans, but give it right back to me. Who, with a joke, a poke, a turn of phrase, can pull a smile out of me. That snarling, walking, talking, overgrown child's nightmare has literally saved my life. For that, I'll be eternally grateful. Another thing I'm thankful for is my roommates. Zack, Kris, Sean. They're their own versions of crazy, it's true. But it's a version of crazy that we all need. A version that seems to lean on each other and, in some strange way, keep us all sane at the same time. After Zack's recent adventure, I've tried my best to show him that he's loved and appreciated around here. After all, it's not everyone who find an indie party game and get all of us together, screaming and shouting together. But, Zack is more than the video game guy. He's the guy who will come out with that strange hidden wisdom when we're all too stressed to see it. There was that time when Crash got really sick and Zack called the doc. There was also other times that I haven't talked about publicly before. When I was getting really into myself, walling myself off to the rest of the world, and Zack was the only one who sat me down and talked to me about it. We both discussed heavy things that day. I'm grateful for him doing it. Kris and Sean are the regular odd couple. Two guys who seem to be polar opposites, but when they get together, they begin zinging and riffing in their own colorful playful way. I swear they could put on a stage show. That is if Sean didn't get stage fright and Kris didn't, well, lash out in his own unique Kris manner. That is, I'm thankful for everyone in our makeshift pack. I'm thankful that I get to interact with each of them in our ways. Thankful to have everyone of them in my life. And I know they're thankful to have me as well. Thanksgiving this year was done a little different. Instead of sitting around our poor, neglected dining room table, we instead sat around the television and watched a movie. I did spend much of the day hiding in my room, watching old Thanksgiving specials from my childhood and being grumbly. There wasn't any one thing I could put my finger on then. But, I understand it now. I suppose Crash understood it better than me. Darn werewolf hearing, he could hear the grumbles I was giving myself in my room. I, for one, thought I was being quiet. So, I did jump a bit when Crash shoved the door open. He was in his human form (which he always is during Thanksgiving, unless he's called to an emergency call). He sat down on the bed next to me, and patted my shoulder. It was one of those strange situations that felt comfortable, yet foreign. I wanted the pat on the back, the bro hug as it where, but still I turned away, grumbling about "touchy, feely werewolves". "Look, Jason," he said, standing. "The past can't be re-written. So why keep planning for it? You're loved and appreciated here. Forget about yesterday. You're missing today." It wasn't exactly Shakespeare. But he had a point. It sunk in slowly as I was watching an old Garfield cartoon. It was then that I stepped out of the room and joined everyone else in what was going on. I didn't get a chance to say what I was thankful for yesterday. So, I'm doing it here. One of the things I learned a long time ago: If you want to apologize or be grateful to someone: don't wait. You don't know if you'll ever get the opportunity to do it again. So, guys, just know that I am thankful for you. I don't always show it, but it's true. Thank you for being you. |
| A while back I asked Crash to hear some werewolf music. At that time, Crash would send me things like Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark At The Moon" or Metallica's "Of Wolf and Man", or other songs that reference werewolves in some way across rock, country and blues. At the time, I'd given it up, figuring that there either wasn't any such thing as werewolf music, or that it was Crash's way of saying "I don't want to share this with you right now." Turns out, there may be such a thing as werewolf music though. And it came from a slip of the tongue from Crash. We were watching a documentary one evening on YouTube about a style of rock called, "Psychobilly". This genre of music is a blend of punk, of hillbilly, of country, and its a fantastic, chaotic, wonderful madness of music. It's Jackson Pollock on LSD and speed, ramped up to 200 bpm. During the documentary, one of the popular bands, one of the originators of the genre in fact (no I won't say which one), came on screen. Crash pointed and said "he's a werewolf." Crash does this from time to time. There's a lot more famous people who are werewolves or vampires than you'd think. And the occasional minotaur. But very rarely trolls though. I guess being in the public limelight doesn't interrupt their own unique lifestyles or whatever. I don't know. I just know if I ever happen to catch one of them at a convention in an elevator or something, I'm asking how they balance all that. But, it makes sense for psychobilly to be a sort of werewolf style of music. It's aggressive, yet playful. Has it's own snark and attitude about it, yet it's strangely respectful of it's own roots, unlike some other musical styles which actively try to shun their roots the moment they rise slightly above them. You can figure which genres of rock and country I'm talking about, I won't go naming names here. Yes, I may be stirring the shit pot today, but I'm not licking the spoon. Even the clothing, the torn off sleeves, and the jeans. The stylized hair, it makes for easy shifting if you think about it. Plus, if you do manage to tear up your clothing a little in the midst of a shift, who could really tell? Wouldn't it just add to the aesthetic? Put some safety pins in it to hold it together, and keep rockin! All in all, this just makes me want to attend a psychobilly concert. I'd like to see some of these groups in action, to see if I can spot a werewolf or a vampire on stage singing and crooning while most of the crowd is oblivious to what's going on around them. Come to think of it, much of the subject matter in psychobilly - the songs of vampires and werewolves, of dark love and fantasies, actually fits right in to the entire mythical life style. Perhaps it's a musical style tailor-made for mythicals? Mythicals singing about things that they'd be able to relate to, but done with enough sarcasm, snark and fantasy to hide the truth between the lines in the song? Who knows? Crash wasn't very talkative when I asked him about this. Though he did get that look on his face that said I was close to something he didn't want me to be close to just yet. So, I don't know if my idea is accurate, but it works for me for now. And if psychobilly is really built for werewolves, vampires and the like, then I say I hope they enjoy it. I hope their musical style is fantastic. And I hope they don't mind me listening along too. Cause some of those songs are pretty catchy. And it's a small ear into their real culture. Into how they'd interact and know each other without the knowledge of a regular human being around. A small ear into them being themselves, in other words. Themselves that this world rarely ever gives them a chance at being. Come to think of it, how many times do any of us get to be ourselves? That side the world rarely ever sees? We all have the friendship side that our friends know. The family side only parents and siblings could know. The work side that's only brought to the office and the service side that's only brought into other professional settings, like a doctors office or a grocery store. They're all different versions of a person presented in different ways. But how often can someone be that other side, the one that doesn't see the light of day all that often? This isn't necessarily that side that wants to be painted lime green and run down the street naked holding a red ball on your head while screaming "I'm an olive! I'm an olive!" I mean, it could be. And if you have that side, more power to you. But that does mean you're crazy. Or live in Florida. Or both. No, this is that side that maybe likes those things others may find strange or embarrassing. This is that side that may attract silent judging instead of jokes. As the ages creep up, it's the silent judging that hurts more than jokes. After all, zingers can always be swatted back with another good zinger. Silent judging? Any zingers back at silent judging, only gets worse silent judging. Which could be another reason that psychobilly very well could be werewolf music. Or mythical music, anyway. What better way could there be to hide your culture than to hide it in plain sight with old B-grade horror movie references sprinkled in here and there? To be able to talk about your struggles to the public without the public ever knowing? It'd be a blast to go to a psychobilly concert, having this knowledge on my side, and these unconfirmed suspicions. The entire concert would take a different level for me then, and hold a complete different meaning. Maybe I could talk Crash into going? Well, if the overworking oaf could wrangle some time off, that is. |
un: 
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