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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. |
| The hardest part of my plan was honestly getting everyone on board. I had to explain it more than once to Kris and Shawn, both of whom was very skeptical of turning our home into a death trap. “What if Crash comes home” came up more than once. I promised Mitch, and well, everyone that if Crash came home, I’d be the one to stop him from coming inside before we disarmed the traps. Then there was the manner of traps we could use. I’m not certain a claymore would stop a werewolf, though it would slow it down and piss it off. That’s what we would be going for. Slowing them down, at least until we could do something a bit more to them. Unfortunately, silver doesn’t work like it does in the movies. A simple touch or glance at it does nothing. It has to get into their blood stream to hurt or kill a werewolf. I wasn’t desiring to kill any of them. At least, not yet. This did feel a bit like kittens protecting the den from a lion. In the end, there wasn’t much we could do if they decided to, say, forgo all subtlety and jump from the ground to the second-floor windows to literally bite our heads off. But it was better than sitting and waiting for them to come get us. Plus, being pro-active against a problem feels better than waiting for your problem to come and maim you in the middle of the night. I’m not much of a sportsman so I stopped by the store to pick up some fishing line. It makes a great trip line that’s hard to see. I stretched the fishing line across a few of the stairs and in one door way. Then I did a couple things you’d expect. A nail or two on the stairs, some trip hazards in a small hallway, Soapy floor in the kitchen, then we set inside upstairs, and waited. If we had the home set up the same way the kid did in the movie, I would have definitely set up some paint cans to the face style traps. But as it stands, I felt confident in our ability to at least piss off our attackers before they killed us. That made me feel a little better. When we had completed the trip back to the house, all the shopping, and were upstairs in Kris and Shawn’s room it was almost morning. Mitch was downstairs preferring to have a bit more open room to fight, especially if he was going to “get his claws dirty” he said. Although all of us had seen Crash shift more than once between human and wolf, Mitch preferred privacy to do it so we let him perform that feat alone. Getting The Nobility to walk into our trap after we had set everything up, we thought would have been a challenge. However, as we worked setting the house up, I had an epiphany. Instead of hoping they might happen to show up to get us, I just texted Crash and asked him when he was coming home and told him that everyone was worried here. There wasn’t much more that could be sent. “The party’s here”? “Don’t forget we’re hunting”? Anything of the like and we might as well just text them, “bye the way, we know you’re not actually Crash and we’re setting a trap.” As it stood at that moment, I still wasn’t sure that I had done exactly that. Expectations were non-existent. After all, were they going to just show up in black SUVs like in the movies? Maybe a few old Cadillacs or something like in a Scorsese flick? We didn’t know. We certainly didn’t expect three colorful, expensive and very out of place European SUVs. They waited until nightfall before they showed up. We ate, we talked, we planned, and we jumped at every little shadow and vehicle that rolled down the road. Tension is like pulling on fishing line. After a while, it starts to cut into your skin, leave lines. It can even cut you if you keep it tight enough, long enough. It started to cut us a bit. I won’t go over everything that was said, but to sum it up: Kris at one point said this was all my fault for starting this little blog. Shawn of course backed up his man. Zack tried to point out that fighting is stupid when everyone was about to show up. And I said…. Well, I’m ashamed of it. But I didn’t start this blog to sugar coat anything or make myself feel any better about the world. I really started it to try and make sense of the insanity that was happening, to try and screw my head on right. To also try and get a little bit of therapy through these words on the screen, cause anyone who’s ever attempted to get mental help from the VA can attest to, they ignore you till you almost die, then they treat you. And when they treat you, you go back to wishing you’d just been ignored. What I had said was “Well, I guess instead of just helping Crash with things perhaps I should be more like you free loaders and do absolutely nothing.” That was the most hurtful thing I could come up with on short notice. Yes, there was more curse words in it, and maybe the word wasn’t exactly “free loaders”, but closer in tone to a curse word. Hell, this blog isn’t censored, I don’t know why I’m doing it now. The words used was ‘useless fuckers’ not ‘free loaders.’ I’m still ashamed I said it. Though it did give everyone a pause. The one good thing that came out of that fight was the silence. It allowed us to hear the engines running outside. One individual stepped out of the lead vehicle, a blue Mercedes of some kind. He was in human form, talking on his phone. I couldn’t see more than that thanks to the encroaching night. Front and back door slammed open under the heavy feet of the werewolves. Zack, Kris and Shawn all jumped out of their skins and into each other’s arms, a cry dying in their throat. I didn’t blame them. Experiencing this sort of thing was frightening at first. Heck, I can’t really count how many times I’ve seen it whether it’s with training or through real life situations in my previous occupation, and it was still frightening for me. My fear response had just been trained to be pulling a pistol instead of crying out. Crash in wolf form has a brown and black fur pattern that blends in with the night. So, if he wants, all you see in the darkness is his two eyes shining and his teeth glistening in the full moon light. He pulled this little prank on me when I was going to the pisser on one of the first nights living with him. That’s why I saran wrapped his toilet seat by the way, I did literally wet myself because of that. Mitch’s fur pattern is pure nightmare fuel. A mix of silver, white and grey, so it almost glistens in the light, making him seem even larger than his already humongous frame. He looks like a ghost of a monster come to life in order to rip you to shreds. When the door kicked in and the first wolf came barreling through, he pounced, twisted and chomped their shoulder. They crashed to the floor and into a wall, with a snarl and a wail. Then after tackling them, he leaped through the dining room over to the kitchen and landed on the kitchen table, which creaked under his weight. Two came in through that side door, and launched themselves at him. The soap beneath their claws slipped, and they hit the floor, their jaws snapping shut in a loud clop! Mitch leaped off the table, landed on them. Digging his claws in he leaped forward throwing them into the table and wall behind him. As he was doing this, the first wolf made it to the stairwell, stepping on a nail and yelping loudly. He snarled something, then tried to take the stairs two at a time. He missed the first trip wire, then like an expert hooked the second, landing face first on the stairs and got tangled in the third. That made a perfect path for the other two. They had just finished sliding around our kitchen and just about destroying it and was racing upstairs, with Mitch in tow, literally snapping at their heels. The first of the two brown wolves leaped up the stairs, landed on the first wolves back, then leaped into the doorway, snarling at me. I glared back at them through the site of my pistol. “Far enough,” I growled. The first one of course, didn’t listen. He smiled at me, his ears twisting back as he did to make it look more vicious and stepped forward, drool dripping onto the floor. He growled some sort of threat that I couldn’t understand. Mental note for everyone out there. Threats only work if people understand them. If you try to threaten someone in a language they don’t understand, all they’ll hear is gibberish. I understood the pointing with claws and snapping of teeth, but the language barrier just left me feeling confused instead of scared. “Hey moron!” I shouted. “I think I can blast your buddy in the eye through your nuts. You want me to try? We live with a werewolf; you want to bet this isn’t loaded with silver?” That’s when he said the first thing I could understand. “You want to see your friend alive? You come with us.” “Bullshit,” I growled. “Either he’s dead already, or soon will be.” I didn’t see the looks everyone exchanged when I said that. I didn’t have to. But it was a fact. If we left Crash’s life, Crash was effectively dead. Loneliness is the biggest killer of werewolves out there. It also does a number on people as well. Loneliness breeds depression, which breeds despair, which breeds death. First the death of any desires and joys in your own life, the death of your hopes and dreams, then your own literal death. It had nearly killed me when Crash came and pulled me out of there. It nearly killed him all those years ago before we moved in. I wasn’t about to let it finish the job on him. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a gun aimed at your jewels,” I said. “Release Crash.” “You’re under arrest,” he snarled. “I don’t think you get this, but I’m American. I’m also a combat veteran. Which means, I’m hurting. Which means I’m already pissed off, and you just invaded my home in a state that says I’m allowed to kill you for that. You know the only cure for cheering up a combat vet? Killing. And buddy, you ain’t giving me many reasons to keep your dumbass alive.” I pulled the hammer back on my pistol for effect. “Try me.” He grinned viciously. “Look out the window.” I didn’t move. Zack took a moment and peered down. “Holy shit,” he said, “They have Crash.” “What,” I asked. “Yeah. Two of them have Crash by the throat,” he said. “Either you come with us, or he dies,” he said. “So, we die and then he dies slowly, or we all die now, huh,” I said. Then raised the pistol at his head. “I choose,” “Don’t!” Kris shouted. I sighed, and looked over at him. “What?” “Just don’t,” he whimpered. “Crash can’t die.” I sighed and nodded. “Alright,” I conceded. “You go first, then we’ll follow.” It was slow going, but we made it out onto the lawn. There were very few stars out, but we did have a beautiful moon above us. I looked at it and thought about how strange it was that the moon should be the last thing I saw before I died. Crash snarled at his captors, thrashed in their claws to try and free himself, but could not. Two werewolves could very easily restrain one. I wish I had beautiful words to tell him but could only stare like the rest of us. Don’t look, I thought, Don’t watch. Please don’t watch this. It’s here that I must say thank God for our lovely neighbors. I am sincere in saying that. Cause if it weren’t for them, I certainly wouldn’t be typing this out for you now. Zack, Kris, and Shawn would be long gone. They said they owed us more than one and that’s why they interfered, even if it was interfering in the affairs of werewolves. Honestly, I’m just surprised that they could come up with such a complicated plan. I guess you should never underestimate them, even if they do seem simple. |
| I never thought I’d see Mitch so soon. The fast-food werewolf I figured would go back to his life and his family or whatever he was doing with his spare time. So, it was a bit of a shock when he turned back up unannounced with a hangdog look on his face. It was as if someone had kicked his puppy and peed in his cornflakes all at once. “I just want you to know,” he said, “I’m really sorry about how things are gonna go down. And I’m doing everything I can.” “What,” I asked. It was early morning. Crash hadn’t arrived from work yet. He was on night shift, and it was a bit late for him, but not late enough for us to worry about anything. “I just…” he began. Then sighed. “How much do you know about werewolves?” “That you shed enough in wolf form to make another one of you. It’s a pain constantly sweeping all the time,” I said. My intention was to lighten the mood. However, those things rarely ever go the way I’d like them too. Instead of even getting a polite chuckle, I got a glare. “This is serious,” he said. “I know a bit, I guess.” “Well, then you don’t know much about The Nobility then. Grab your bugout bag and meet me out here with your roommates. I think we can get you all to safety before they come.” “I’m kind of lost,” I said. “Can’t this wait till Crash gets home?” “He won’t.” I head tilted at that. Darn annoying habit I picked up from Crash. “What?” “Get your roomies. Get your bag. Let’s go.” I did what he asked, grabbing Kris, Shawn, Zack and each one of us grabbing a small bag with a couple changes of clothing in them and what meds we needed and got back outside. Mitch’s SUV was large enough thankfully to house all of us. Though it was pretty old butdurable, as durable as an old Suburban could be, I suppose. We left town in relative silence, and headed south, reaching the state line in a few hours. After a fast-food lunch, and wasting a couple hours, we headed over to a cheap motel beside the interstate. I collected our phones, turned them all off and placed them in the freezer. Kris turned on a mindless reality TV show of some kind and turned the volume up. My six-hundred-pound mother’s dog’s boyfriend’s life or something like that. All of those shows are the same, anyway so who can really keep track? Kris crossed his arms and glared at Mitch. “Start talking.” “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking around. Despite Mitch’s massive frame he was looking smaller and smaller now, looking around the room in a few nervous glances. “We’re about as secure as we can be. Tell us about The Nobility.” I replied. “And where the hell is Crash,” Zack added, glaring up at him. “I’m missing GTA for this.” “And I’m missing work, dude.” Shawn replied. “Look, I know you’re all a bit confused about everything,” he said, “but I promise it will be alright.” “Mitch,” I said, stepping forward. I patted his cheek, and smiled. “Our friend needs our help. For one reason or another he’s saved all of our asses at one point in time. Mine multiple. So if he needs our help, we’re going to help him. Now, you can either tell us what we require, or we’ll go find him. By handing out flyers and shouting his name out the car window like we’re looking for a lost dog, if need be, but we WILL find him.” “Yes, but how the hell are you going to rescue him from five werewolves,” Mitch asked, his face growing dark. “Oh.” It was Mitch’s turn to cross his arms. “Oh.” “The Nobility.” He snarled it like it was a curse, then began to talk. “There are two theories to the origins of werewolves. One is evolution. Hunters/gatherers worked better when one had better hearing, sight, smell, was stronger and faster. A tribe with a couple werewolves could dominate other tribes much easier in theory and take whatever territory they wanted. The other theory is The Nobility. The original bloodline. Their family name would be quite familiar to, well, just about everyone. So among the rest of us ‘mutts’ as they call us, we just call them The Nobility. They say they were blessed by the direct hand of God himself, who reached down and dictated them to rule. A couple hundred years ago, right when America was having its civil war in fact, there was a bit of a civil war among werewolves. The secret war was fought in plain sight among humans and treated as random political killings or just regular murders. I won’t go into great detail of every battle, but the result was, we lost. The Nobility kept their power in Europe, and we fled here.” “I don’t get it,” I said. “What does this have anything to do with Crash?” “Well, The Nobility deems werewolves to be automatically part of their nation, whether they want to be or not. It’s membership by birth and only revoked by death. This is part of the reason why we fought. The other reason was xenophobia. You see, The Nobility sees humanity something to be protected, kept, guided. You know, like a pet. You’re never supposed to know about us. You’re never supposed to live with us. And you’re never supposed to be in a pack with us. Since Crash has all of you as his pack, then by their law, he’s supposed to die.” “How did they find out about Crash, anyway,” Zack asked. “Because,” Mitch said, “someone decided it was a smart idea to start a blog.” I smiled sheepishly, then shrugged. “It’s not like anyone reads the damn thing.” I got a couple of glances, but no glares. “They probably already knew about all of you anyway,” Mitch said. “Can’t say for sure, though. My family fought against them to the last wolf. Finally my grandmother fled here so our family name would live. She met a human, she fell in love with and well, here we are. The Mutts. The Nobility has Crash. They’re having a ‘discussion’,” he threw air quotes around the word, “about his life choices. Their choices will be to kill all of you and Crash. Or to just kill Crash.” “Great,” Kris grumbled. “Those fuckers will kill him either way.” “Crash could be lucky. They could tell him to just kick you out,” Mitch said. “So, kick us out or die. Mitch, you do realize kicking us out will kill Crash, right,” I asked. He nodded. His eyes were watery for a moment. He looked out the window. The cracked parking lot stared back up at him. I was smart enough to ensure we had something on the second floor in the middle. That way we wouldn’t be easy to grab. I didn’t ask why Mitch chose the rundown Motel over a nicer hotel though, despite us being able to pool or cash together to afford it. Cause in a pinch, he can easily go through the walls here and make us an escape route. At least that’s what I choose to believe. It could also be because he’s really cheap. I don’t know. According to Mitch The Nobility are a funny bunch. They expect ones like Crash to either just marry the first werewolf they run across or live in solitude forever, even if solitude is what kills most werewolves. They consider werewolves of those from a human parent to be “mutts.” When he said this, he spat the word out. We had been sitting in that Motel room for the longest time, as the sun began to set, it was Zack of all people who finally put things into perspective. “We all have jobs and lives to get to. I understand hiding out in this motel if they’re after us. But it sounds like they’re after Crash instead.” Kris nodded. “Besides, Crash really can’t live without us. We don’t want to live without him. And who says it’s their damn business anyway who he chooses to have as a pack, anyway?” “They do,” Mitch said. “And their thousands of werewolves they can call upon to fight for them at moment’s notice. If The Nobility chose to, they could literally wipe your town and any memory of it off the map.” We sat there for a long time, listening to the sounds of the people on television talk about their frustrations living with this 600 pound dog’s wife’s girlfriend’s brother or whatever they were going on about. As the mindless monotony droned on, we all stared at the floor. Or the wall. Or the ceiling. Kris and Shawn held each other for comfort. But a single thought kept running through my head. In guerrilla warfare, those who know the home have the advantage. They’re the ones who understand every shortcut, every nook, every cranny. They have the memories of the people who lived nearby, of dead-end roads, of which paths through the forest twists around in circles and which one leads directly to the other side. Or to the creek. Militaries in the past have studied local maps, interviewed local people, have fought hard to mitigate this advantage, but no amount of satellite photography, of talking to other people could eliminate the boon of having the home field. “We could go back,” I said. Everyone looked at me. “How,” Zack asked. “Well, easy. Mitch gets in his surburban and drives us. Then we might have enough time to get ready,” I said. “You know this will be incredibly stupid,” Mitch said. I grinned. “Well, I’ve been accused of being brave before, but never of being smart.” “What’s the plan,” Zack asked. “We follow Kevin McCallister’s example,” I said. “What are you talking about,” Mitch asked. “What? Haven’t you ever watched Home Alone?” |
| It’s my theory that everyone is magnetic of some magnitude. Meaning, they naturally attract certain things. Some people attract riches and wealth, others attract fun people and parties, still others attract nothing but trouble. I try to stay away from those that do attract trouble, and stay near those that attract goodness and kindness. Those are the qualities I need, after all. The qualities we all need in our lives. I don’t need trouble around me. Charles had done every bit of those things. He was the kind of personality that attracted trouble. It’s not his fault, I suppose. Being hulderfolk, he rather enjoys human company. Even if he doesn’t fully grasp or understand it. Nancy does as well. These blond haired, blue eyed chiseled beauties could have before been seen just about everywhere about town if they weren’t at home. Working outside together, working out at the gym or going on runs. Doing all sorts of things. Until the divorce that is. After the attack, strange threats, and subsequent break up I thought I was done with those two. No amount of curiosity could make it worth chasing them down to find out what exactly happened to these tailed and crazy kids. But I suppose just because you maybe done with someone, doesn’t mean that they’re exactly done with you. Charles didn’t take the break up well. I could see that from the first moment I laid eyes on him outside of the grocery store. His face looked more broken up than the ancient, sun-bleached parking lot out front. He wasn’t in his Mercedes. He was staring longingly through the glass at the front door, like a kid at an amusement park that is just two inches shy of getting on the rollercoaster. “Charles,” I asked. “Jason,” he said, snapping his attention to me. There was a half-crazed look in his eye. “Look, if you attack me,” I said, starting into a standard threat. Charles cut me off as he turned, grabbing my shirt in both hands. “Look, I’m sorry, okay! I was grief smitten and bitten down by the terrible tragedy that had occurred at my domicile.” I held back a gag when he embraced me like this. Charles had undergone many things in the past several weeks, but it smelled like a shower wasn’t one of them. Neither was a clean change of clothing. His over priced designer pants and shirt looked as if they had rolled around in the dirt and been dragged behind a car. “Okay, okay. Apology accepted,” I grumbled, pushing against him to try and get some space and clean air between us. “What are you doing here?” “Nancy’s in there,” he said. “She doesn’t want to see me.” “Okay,” I said. “So?” “I don’t want to see her.” See what I mean about these head scratcher statements these hulderfolk always seems to give you? “Then, I have a great solution. Why don’t you, I don’t know, just go away. Let her shop in peace and you won’t see each other.” “But,” Charles said, “I have to see her.” I sighed. “I’m going to regret this. But why do you have to see her?” “Because, I love her.” “Charles, my sweet dear friend. Then why do you not want to see her?” I asked. His face darkened a moment. “Because I hate her.” He snarled. “I will piss on her toes if I see her again.” In as patient of a voice as I could muster, my anger rapidly increasing from the proximity of his stench and the strangeness of the conversation, I asked, “Charles? Is that why you have to see her again? Cause you need to pee?” He gave me that look he gives me sometimes as if a strange wart had suddenly sprouted out of my nose. “No! You humans are so weird. Why would you ask me that?” Why indeed. I slid my hands into my pockets to keep me from crossing my arms in annoyance and anger. After staring at him for a few moments, he finally said “I don’t know why. I hate her but I love her. Most of my kind mate for life, you know.” I didn’t, but I guess that makes sense in a…Charles sort of way. “Why don’t you go talk to her?” His eyes welled up for a moment, emotion breaking through on his face. “I tried that. She ignored me, made me run across five yards and through a ditch to just get her attention while she drove away. No amount of pontificating or vocalizing my emotions could over come the destructive volume of her audio equipment in her vehicle.” If you’re as tongue tied as I am about that mouthful of monstrosity, don’t worry. I’ve figured out what he was trying to say. He was chasing her car, and she was blasting her music. She probably didn’t even see him. “I followed her here. Shouted her name, but she didn’t even look around,” he said. I sighed. “Look, I got groceries to get.” Crestfallen, he slunk away from the door. “My life has no meaning without my Nancy,” he said. “Even after she betrayed me.” “Okay,” I growled. “Fine! I’ll talk to her. But, I want you to promise me, if I get her to agree to meet you, that you’ll stop staring through this door like a lost puppy. Okay?” Confusion painted his face for a moment. “I’m no lost puppy,” he said. “I’m Charles.” With a heavy sigh, I nodded. “Of course, you are. Give me about twenty minutes.” If he started literally counting the seconds when I left, I wouldn’t have been surprised. However, he simply nodded then stepped back, walking over towards my car. Turning, I stepped into the cool air of the super market, and grabbed a cart to begin shopping. The grocery store wasn’t some hi-tech marvel, but it had everything I was coming for at reasonable prices. Shelves stocked high with goods in crowded isles that were placed with just the right amount of space between them to get two carts to barely squeeze through: all so they can bring more goods to you the consumer. I rounded through the produce isles with their fresh fruits and vegetables stacked in as many arrays of pyramids and slanted display cases as they could possibly hold and grabbed a couple things. Then, maneuvering my way through the next isle, I found her. Nancy’s blonde hair was brushed backwards and allowed to fall down the back of her pants suit. She had selected one that, to me looked as if she was trying to be a stand in for Hillary Clinton at an appearance somewhere, but I guess made sense for her. She was staring at a list as if it seemed to mystify her with its’ confound nature. “What are you looking for?” I asked. “I cannot find this,” she said, pointing to the top item on her list. “It was nowhere in produce.” It’s not good to make fun of Hulderfolk. There has been more than one incident that has occurred when someone had been foolish enough to make fun of their unique nature. However, at times it is REALLY hard not to do it. “That’s because Apple Jacks is a breakfast cereal,” I said. “Come here, let me show you.” We went a couple isles over and I grabbed the familiar green box off the shelf. “Here you go.” “Jason, you are always such a great boon to one such as me when I’m in a time of calamity,” she said. It seems to me that hulderfolk will purposefully use larger words when they feel dumber. A sort of safety mechanism against a world that is, in all honesty, a bit harsher against their kind than seems reasonable. Anyone could make a subtle joke about them and laugh at their expense, but to me that is a bit like kicking a lost puppy. Especially when they’re so good at the lost puppy look. “Charles used to do all the shopping. May his toenails grow fat and fall out,” she cursed. I nodded. “You pay the bills?” She smiled. “Yes. I used to feel his was unworthy of my attention and time, but I see that shopping can be quite difficult.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps you’d like to help me finish my shopping list? I can make it worth your time.” At some point in time, that would have been an easy yes. Accept her offer, help her shop, go back to her place, bring in the groceries, and well, you know. But seeing the lost look in her eye, it awoke the protective instinct in me, I guess. Or maybe I’m getting softer in my old age. “It sounds like you and Charles make quite the team,” I said. “Please do not speak his name.” She snarled. “So what if I had intercourse with the mailman, and the gardener. And the pool boy. So, what! It’s not like he hasn’t had his flings either. To hear him talk, you’d think it was my fault for having sex with so many people.” “I know I’m going to regret this,” I said. “But how is it not?” I looked down and rubbed my eyes in preparation for the batshit insanity that was coming. I wasn’t disappointed. “Cause Charles was always too tired to give a good performance. I like more,” “Okay!” I interrupted. “Let’s not go that far. I don’t need a picture.” “What. It’s not shameful. I like it when a man gives me his full attention. And full,” “But all I am saying,” I said, talking over her. Look I know it’s rude, but standing in a grocery aisle next to the kids cereals is just NOT the place to be talking about how you enjoy having sex. “Charles seemed to handle more things than you give him credit for. One half of a whole team doesn’t work.” It wasn’t Shakespeare, I admit. Still, she paused in thoughtful reflection. “I believe you maybe right. Let us talk, me and Charles. You bring him to the house, tonight.” “Seven o’clock,” I asked. “Sure,” she replied. With that, she was done; walking away from me down the isle, staring at her grocery list as if deciphering it could give her the keys to life itself. I finished my shopping and to my complete lack of surprise, Charles was standing by my car. “There was some lawn gnomes who tried to come by,” he said. “I made them flee in fear, though. Told them that they’d better not mess with my friends’ transportation mobile or they would have to answer to me.” “Okay, well thanks.” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about at the moment, but I didn’t ask. I was afraid I’d get an answer. “Tonight, at seven. We will meet at her place.” “It used to be ours.” Charles whimpered. His bottom lip quivered a moment, then he snarled. “I will bite her thumbs!” “You’re going to need help tonight, aren’t you?” He nodded. “okay,” I sighed. “Charles, I’ll go with you tonight. On one condition.” “Name it,” he said. “If it is within my possibilities to make this come true, I will.” “Stop with the weird and creepy threats.” “Done.” Charles nodded. “I will not threaten my beloved beautiful Nancy. Even if she betrayed me.” As I began to load the groceries in the trunk, he opened my passenger door and sat down. Remembering my zombie adventure, I grumbled, “I should just start a damned super natural taxi service,” and climbed in next to him. When we got back near the house, Charles insisted on climbing out in front of the drive way. “If I go back onto your property,” he said, “werewolf will eat my head.” I didn’t doubt that in the slightest. The last meeting between Crash and Charles didn’t go all that well. So, I let him out, and he sat at the stop sign at the end of the street, staring fore longingly at his own home, waiting. What did I do? I brought in groceries, then gave him a couple bottles of water. Saying our goodbyes, I told him I’d meet him there. I expected him to go back to where he lived, but he just sat there. When I asked why he didn’t go home, he said “I couldn’t figure out how to pay the rent. So, I lost my home.” Not much more I could have done from that point. And no amount of asking would get him to come into the house. Crash was on one of his day shifts, so he wasn’t around to give Charles permission – so there he sat. I did check on him every couple of hours, stepping out and having a conversation with the man. After a couple of refills on the water, a few strange conversations that would make any passerby believe he was dying of heat stroke or something, and a candy bar that he got somewhere, seven o’clock finally came. And with it, the dreaded meeting. Nancy, for her effort looked beautiful. Her hair was pulled back behind her head in a beret. She was wearing a blouse that complimented her hair and eyes. A skirt that seemed perfectly cut, and a smile that made you feel more at ease. However, Charles looked as if someone kicked him in the gut. They stared at each other for a bit, then both looked away. “Alright, I guess we should start this off with,” I began. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t perform.” Charles said. “But the scent of other men in here, on you. It made me ill.” “I grew bored Charles,” she said. “I just don’t want to perform intercourse the same way over and over again.” “But, I thought you were pleased!” “I was, but I wanted to try new things.” I held my hands up. “Okay! Before we go down that little road. How about this. Why don’t you Nancy write down some of the things you want Charles to do.” “That part is easy,” she said. “I wanted you to go away. And never come back.” Charles face fell at that comment. “But!” She shouted, looking at me. “It’s like what you said, Jason. One team cannot do what one person makes.” “Yeah,” I replied. “Or, something like that.” “We’re a team, Charles. I thought I was smarter than you cause I pay bills and you take care of the house. But maybe I’m wrong. It is very difficult to take care of this place without you.” Charles nodded. “Exactly! We are a team. We cannot do what one person makes. We must do together.” She had a pen and paper in front of her. To take notes with, I guess. She wrote down some, well, let’s just say explicit things that she happily showed me before she showed Charles. He didn’t seem to mind one bit. Charles added one addendum that seemed to be apropos on his part. “The only thing I want, Nancy,” he said. “Is for you to respect me. Not hate me because you have a better job and pay bills.” A tear formed in her eye for a moment. I sat there unsure of what was about to happen. But she walked around the table, and kissed him. Deeply. Then said, “I will, and always will respect you.” I think they forgot I was even there. The shirts started coming off next, and that’s when I turned and left. And that’s how Charles and Nancy re-united. Two halves of the same coin. They seemed to work out a system thanks to that little notebook. If she wanted to try something different, she wrote it down and kept it in that drawer next to their bed. If he did, it was the same thing. Communication on a different, yet strange level that seems to work for them. This little mis-adventure stuck in my mind for a bit, due to the strangeness on the surface. Yet, after a while, like anything with hulderfolk, it began to make a strange sort of sense. She cheated on him because she was bored. But really it was because she didn’t respect him. Didn’t think Charles was, well, troll enough because her job and role seemed more important than his in the relationship. Mutual respect is a earned and given thing. It’s not something you just automatically have. One party has to prove themselves to be worth it. And then the other party has to give it, and sometimes more than their fair share of it to see things through. Just because your role in a relationship may seem more important to you doesn’t automatically make your role better, or make you the better partner for having it. It’s that kind of ego and pride that erodes and destroys a relationship. And that’s what I see broke Charles and Nancy up. Ego and pride. Not just hers. Charles’ too for not talking to her, for not listening to her. Nancy’s for not talking to him. For placing herself upon a pedestal that shouldn’t exist between them. They do really seem like they’re happy together again. Charles is back at it, mowing in his boxers, trimming the occasional hedge. And Nancy is back at it as well. Occasionally, I do see someone enter their house at night and either Charles or Nancy or both answer the door. The way I look at it, it’s not my business. I don’t ask questions. Not because I’m afraid they’ll get offended. But because I’m afraid they’ll tell me. |
| I have a rule about war stories. I don’t repeat war stories unless the person who owns that story gives me permission to do so. Even then, I’m not likely to talk about it. Simply because, it’s not my story to tell. I’ve heard my fair share of these kinds of stories. IEDs. Friend stepping on a landmine. Schoolkids being used as human roadblocks. Those images and scenarios that stick with you, and demonstrate the depths humanity can and will go to at times to bring a version of hell to life here on earth. I am not relaying those stories here. Those stories belong to those individuals who lived them and I’m not going to betray them by stealing their thunder. Instead, I’ll tell a story that I do have permission to tell. One that shows even werewolves can have those moments of weakness, doubt, and pain. Crash came home that morning in a mood. Normally when Crash comes home in “wolf-mode” as I’ve called it, he starts to shift back to human, will maybe grab a cup of decaf coffee or something then go to sleep. This day was different. A thunderstorm was pouring down Armageddon upon our little county. The rain formed puddles and streams in our yard, pooling and pulling in directions that grabbed leaves and loose grass and twigs toward ditches and the forest. Crash stepped through the door, soaking wet. He went to the shower, and shook himself off, his fur slinging water droplets every which way. When he had gotten himself reasonably dry, he toweled himself off as best as he could, then came back in. Dry, but still very much dark. At this point, I’d already poured him a whiskey and gotten myself a glass as well. It wasn’t a time to drink alone. He took the proffered glass, and took a small lap at it, werewolf version of a sip. His ears were folded and his eyes downcast in the worst bout of depression I’d ever seen. Picture your dog when he looks as if he was thinking over all of his life decisions, all of the bad ones. That’s the look that Crash had on him then. The weight of the world had dragged his nose, ears, and tail to the floor, and he wasn’t fighting back. “I messed up,” he sighed. He looked out to the woods. “Look at me. I’m strong, quick. I can almost leap over the second floor of this house. Yet, I still couldn’t…” he drifted off for a moment, his face scrunching up in pain. I put my arm around him as best as I could. He didn’t say anything for a bit, just sighed and said, “let me tell you how this happened.” “It was an ordinary assignment. Just a simple stalk and check. I sniff around the property, make sure nothing is going on and disappear before the homeowner ever knows. A cop was called over thank to a nosey neighbor who kept close tabs on all the comings and goings of the couple and noticed that for the past week or so their habits had changed. Instead of going outside to do the yardwork every Saturday or so for a couple of hours, the man seemed to avoid it. A new guy showed up and did it every day. It looked as though he had lived there, never leaving the house and even sometimes driving the man’s car. When the cop went to check, he said the woman seemed nice enough, the husband to, but the new guy and their relationship just felt, ‘strange.’ This new guy was massive, neighbor’s words, not mine. He had this wife beater on, showing off these huge arms of his. Cop was pretty green, didn’t know the ins and outs of what we did as much as the more seasoned officers, so instead of reporting it back like he should have, it was an almost end of the shift thing. So, it was almost midnight when I got the report. The home sat in the middle of a new suburb being built. Blue paint, white shutters. A literal white picket fence. The all-American dream, being lived out by a couple whose only crime was running into the wrong person. I could see a light on when I went around back. Stepped by their perfectly selected patio furniture for their perfectly landscaped lawn. It was more than cared for, it was cultivated, sculpted. Looked like a work of art. That was my first clue of what I was dealing with. You see, minotaurs have their own way of doing things. Part of their religious expression is in lawncare and gardening. It’s part of the way they give back to their deity so to speak. Another part is being outdoors. When I was told that the new guy was always outside and seemed doing something, I should have raced over immediately. But I don’t know if it would have been soon enough. Their religion also dictates that being outside is better than being in, so they tend to be outside almost all the time. Plus, minotuars are always nice, pleasant creatures. Still, it just didn’t click when I ‘clocked in’, I guess. Or maybe it did and I knew it was too late? Who knows. Second guesses. Regrets. These are the things that destroys a werewolf. Silver bullets and second guesses.” He took another sip, then set the glass back down on the counter and stared out at the storm. “I don’t try to destroy property. It makes it messy with paperwork, which is I can’t stand doing, and leaves a bad impression of what we do. So I walked over to the sliding glass door in the back and just lifted it off the rails and yanked it open. It slid open easy. The scent of copper and fear hit me like a sledge hammer when the door opened. When I stepped through the door, I heard a snort from my left. Looking over, standing by the bar that separated the kitchen from the dining room was him. His fur was as dark as mine, with gold glowing eyes. His horns glistened with red blood dripping down. A thick growl built in my throat. I twisted and was hit when the guy charged me, horns down. I crashed through an expensive dining table behind me. Tables don’t splinter like they do in the movies. They crack, snap, and break. Jagged edges slicing into you like knives. He lifted his head, and thrusted it down, on top of my head, stunning me. Then he stood, his tail swishing a bit as he walked away, a chuckle in his throat. “I knew you’d come,” he said. “I told them you’d be here. You’d be far too late, but you’d be here.” We heal quickly, us werewolves. The pain from the broken boards stabbing through me had already begun to subside. The blood loss didn’t bother me much. I wasn’t even dizzy. The wounds had begun to close and heal already. “You want to see them?” he taunted. “I’ll bring you to them.” Then he walked over and grabbed my foot. The dining room slid by, then the hallway. The coppery scent that I smelled when I first opened the door had reached a fever pitch. When we got to that room, I planted my other foot right at his tailbone and kicked as hard as I could, knocking him into it. He stumbled forward, his foot hitting the pool of blood that I knew would be there and slipped. His head crashed through the wall. Standing up, he snorted, then shook his head. “Tricky vicious beast,” he growled. “Angry that I stomped on your pets?”” He paused a moment, then looked at me. “Do you want me to go into the gory details?” “You know, I’ve seen, done and heard far worse,” I said. “There’s no judgement here. You go as deep as you like.” He nodded. “They were brutalized. That much I’ll say. Most minotaurs are peaceful creatures. They stay outside more than in, are the ones who will be first to invite the whole neighborhood to a party, are generally mainly vegetarians though they’ll eat meat here or there. But this guy, he was none of those things. I could tell from his laugh, from his stance, from his growl. I could see it in his eyes. Hell, I could smell it on him. He was insane. He stomped his foot, then dragged it on the ground, like a mad bull. I stood, my claws in front of me. He bent his head down charged forward. I stood still, prepped, ready. A growl rising in my throat. Everything happened in slow motion. His horns bent down, I jumped, grabbing them, then landed on his back, and wrenched. The snap sounded like a board breaking in half. First his neck went. Then, I took his horns. He lay limp beneath me with me holding his two bloody horns in my paws, growling, snarling. “Do it,” he snarled. “Do it for Gaia’s sake. Just do it.”” He paused again, taking another lap at the whiskey. “Well, did you?” I asked. “I already did,” he sighed. “Your sentence,” I growled down at him, “is to live the rest of your miserably long life knowing that those you despise enough to destroy will be the ones who are caring for your every need. They’ll be feeding you. Washing you. And making your every decision for the rest of your days. And you’ll have no power to move or hurt anyone ever again.” I stood to leave, to call this in. I almost left when I heard a chuckle. “You think I did this because I despise them,” he asked. “No. I did this because I love them. I love humans so much, but they just never love me back. Like that couple. Absolutely adored me until they saw what I was. Now, they can never leave me. They’ll always be apart of me, no matter what.”” I had a hunch. “He ate their hearts, didn’t he?” Crash nodded. “If I had just come earlier. If I’d just went directly there. Would they be alive? If I hadn’t waited. If I had been told earlier. If, if, if. During the waking hours, before the sun dawns. When I’m walking through those woods making my way home after a long, hard day’s night. No matter how much I try, I’ll still have all of those ifs. They’ll always haunt me.” We finished our whiskeys in silence, staring out the kitchen window out the porch and the storm. After a refresh of our drinks, we both made our way onto the porch as the rain slacked, then thinned. The drops growing thinner. “Look,” I said, “here comes the sun.” Crash gave me a look. His ear twisted in that way as if to say ‘really?’ “You were waiting to say that, weren’t you?” I smiled. “Yes. You started it, Mr. ‘hard day’s night.’” There was another brief pause as we both watched the beauty of the coming day grow and slowly cleanse a piece of that hurting part of our souls. “Dude,” I said. “You’re a werewolf. You can almost leap over this house. Stronger than any creature I’ve ever seen probably. Faster than my car.” He laughed. “You drive a Topaz. Turtles are faster than your car.” “Very funny. You bought me that car, remember,” I said. “Still, you can do all of these things. But you’re not God. You can’t be everywhere at once and see everything. There’s still only so much even you can do.” Crash nodded. “I know.” “But still the ifs,” I asked. He sighed. “Still the ifs.” “Come here,” I said, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “You see that sunlight over there?” “Yes,” he said. “That’s what you’ve been for my life. Always remember that. I was literally committing suicide with alcohol. You saved me. No matter what ever else happens in your life. You did one thing right. You saved my life.” He smiled, “thank you,” he said. “You know, you saved me too.” I shrugged. “All I did was talk to you on the phone.” “Yes,” he said. “That small gesture, it meant so much. The small things you do and the small things you don’t do in life matters.” I nodded. “True. But if ‘If was a fifth, we’d all be drunk.’” “Huh,” Crash replied. “You can’t be everywhere, Crash,” I said. “You can’t do everything. Despite all of your natural born gifts, you still can’t save the world.” He smiled. “I saved you.” I smiled back, raising a glass. “And I saved you.” The glasses made a small tink as the collided. “You know, that makes us family,” I said. “More than that,” Crash replied. “That makes us a pack.” |
| We don’t get door knockers. No door-to-door sales people. The local Mormons leave our particular house alone when they go door-to-door recruiting. There’s no cult on the outskirts of town but if there where, I know they’d just give our little house a wide berth. It’s the natural thing that comes with living a werewolf that you grow to enjoy. You don’t have to worry about dealing with those modern annoyances in life. Afterall, no one wants to piss off a werewolf. Even if they don’t know about werewolves, there’s a subconscious thing about it. People seem to naturally know not to bother us. But that doesn’t mean we don’t get accosted when we’re out and about. Every one of us living here has a story about how someone stopped us and asked “can you get Crash to look into this?” Sometimes, (usually trolls or ogres), will give us WAY too much information when they stop us. For these people personal privacy simply doesn’t exist. After all, everyone has sex, right? And pooping is something that everyone does. So, if someone wants to combine those acts, well, why wouldn’t your neighbors want to hear about it? In detail? In Wal-Mart? In front of the children’s toy aisle? With a mother staring horrified onward clutching her kids ears while this complete stranger goes into every excruciating, disgusting detail to you so you can accurately describe the problem to Crash? Honestly? I’d rather have the Mormons. At least then I can tell them no thanks and shut the door. Plus, they don’t give us creepy, graphic stories at random. But it’s one of those little details of life that you have to go through when you live with a werewolf who also works for the local government. One such occurrence happened at a local fast-food chain. It was one of those places that lives in the fast food strip that exists in every small town in America. It’s practically Americana at this point. It happens like this: you get one McDonalds in the center of town. And like a rash, Burger King springs up. Then before you know it, you got a Hardee’s/Carl’s Jr a chicken finger place, a Chicken sandwich place, a Rally’s/Checkers, a buffet of some kind, all crammed together on the same strip of land running through the center of town. The guy behind the counter looked to be normal enough. Tall, broad shouldered, friendly smile. He was wearing a name tag that said ‘Mitch’ on it. He handed my food to me, then gave a subtle sniff before telling me, “tell Crash I said hi. And he still owes me that hunt.” Two things ran through my mind at that moment. First was, how in the world did this complete stranger know I lived with Crash? Second was, do I stink? When I told Crash what happened that night, he grinned. “No you don’t stink. No worse than any normal human, anyway. And that’s just Mitch. He smelled my scent on you.” “I mean, how,” I asked. “I bathe every day. Wear clean clothing. We don’t sleep in the same bed, we’re not screwing, so how is this guy smelling anything on me?” “First, you’re lucky we’re not screwing, I’d break you. Second, you live in my house! The scent is all over the place. Think of it as a cost of membership in my pack. You get to smell more like an awesome werewolf, instead of like a stale, boring human.” “I don’t think you’d break me, I’m more durable than I look,” I grinned. “After all, I took that Camaro almost dead-on the hip.” Crash laughed. “Yes, and you needed to go to the hospital afterwards. See? I’d break you.” We laughed and the conversation moved on, going into work related things for him and writing related things for me. From there, it didn’t really come back up until a few weeks later when we were back in that same town, this time looking for a part for the dryer. They laughed and hugged, greeting each other like long lost friends. “When are we supposed to party?” He said, his own voice going loud. I guess it’s a werewolf trait to forget their volume? Crash smiled. “Soon. How about this weekend? I have a night off, we can make a night of it. A few beers, and stalk some game through the woods just like old times.” They promised each other they’d get together, then Crash grabbed his food tray and mine, said his goodbyes and came back to our table. “It’s been too long since I seen that guy,” Crash said. “Party?” I asked. “Oh, he means hunting. We’ll go stalk some game. Probably deer,” Crash replied, unwrapping his burger. I head tilted. A trait I picked up from him. “Oh? Werewolves hunt deer? I thought you hunted people.” He smirked. “Only those who go crazy do that,” he replied. “Most just want to live their lives. Pay their taxes, raise their kids, you know same as you.” “So, deer is more fun to hunt than people or something?” I asked, picking up a fry. He shrugged. “Well, deer is more of a challenge. They don’t stomp through the underbrush like you. They’re smart, they hide, they’re a heck of a lot faster. They’ll even try to walk upwind and avoid you.” A thought occurred to me as I looked over at the counter. The werewolf was helping another customer, then. “What’s life like in a wolf’s pack that isn’t working a government job?” Crash shrugged. “A lot simpler for you. A lot more complicated too.” “What do you mean,” I asked. “That Kheid incident for instance? It would have taken longer to get Larry out there. Paperwork, reports, incidents and interviews. The regular police would have to determine that it is, in fact, a supernatural incident and therefor goes into my jurisdiction.” I nodded. “But how would it be simpler?” “That Wal-Mart incident would have never happened. Trolls would just leave you alone.” The conversation kind of died out for a bit there as we concentrated on eating our food. After a while, I glanced back over at Mitch. He had the same jovial grin on his face, working the counter like any manager would, greeting customers with the same award winning grin that some fast food workers seem to have. I know most just have the general face of “I don’t get paid nearly enough for this crap,” but a select few seems to be almost eternally cheerful. It got me to thinking, and well that prompted the next question. “Does Mitch have a pack?” Crash shrugged. “Yeah, why?” It was my turn. “I just didn’t notice a wedding ring or anything, and wasn’t certain.” “Oh,” Crash said. “He’s adopted a family nearby. Their kids call him ‘Uncle’. He’s like the crazy Uncle Ernie from that movie Christmas Vacation’.” “You mean ‘Cousin Eddie’,” I corrected. He smirked. “Well, I don’t know movies all that well.” I laughed. “This coming from the guy that can list the actors in some obscure blood and gore horror comedy like ‘Redneck Zombies’.” Crash laughed as well, “Okay, so I have priorities.” The conversation went on from there, twisting around Crash’s favorite horror actors. The big revelation though was being ‘adopted’ by a werewolf. Apparently Crash had did it to me and Sarah, adopting her through me and I didn’t even know it. Mitch had done the same to this other family. He was even polite enough to go through a checklist kind of to determine if you’ve been adopted by a werewolf. Do you know someone who is jovial and large framed? Perhaps they show up at random times? Are present at every Barbecue and maybe at most important family events? If so, count yourself lucky. Cause you’ve been adopted by a werewolf. Werewolves can’t prevent every tragedy from occurring, but they let ghoulies and other mythical beasties know that you and your family is not to be trifled with. They’ll do this by borrowing certain items and then returning them, or giving you things. You won’t be able to smell it, but it has their scent all over it and in turn will soon be all over your house. This is better than what they used to do in the olden times. As Mitch explained to me one evening while he was waiting for Crash to go “change”, “in older times we’d mark the houses of those we protected physically with our scent.” I gave him an incredulous look. “So, werewolves would pee on your home?” He laughed. “Yeah! Kept the vampires at bay.” “So, what makes you adopt someone,” I asked. Mitch shrugged. “Mutual interests is where it starts. There has to be some level of acceptance there for other people. A slight love of humanity, whether they admit it or not.” I nodded as he continued. “It makes sense why we do it though. Cause loneliness kills. It’s perhaps the biggest killer of werewolves out there. Far more than silver or any curse. Far more than any strange werewolf disease. And it kills just as many people as it does wolves.” That much I understood, from first hand experience. I had pushed everyone out of my life, even tried pushing Crash out, but he refused to go. Instead of taking my distance as a sign of me attempting to work things out, or my own general miserliness, he took it as a cry for help. Without him, I literally would not even be here now, typing this out. Mitch has a similar story with the family he adopted. They knew no one when they came to town. He met them, introduced himself, and helped become the conduit through which they grew to know the entire community. They’re growing to be pillars, owning the restaurant that Mitch works in, as well as working on another one and even have plans to develop a park. All of those things because Mitch more than a decade ago, brought over a tuna casserole when they moved in and ignored their polite insistences when they thought they wanted him to leave and instead helped them unload their moving truck. He also helped later when that ghoul began stalking them, though the family knows nothing about that. If you have that individual in your life. That one person who always has a smile, is always around even when it sometimes feels annoying to have them there, don’t shun them. Don’t lock your door on them or cut them out. Cause they just maybe curing their own loneliness. Or, they just might be a werewolf, and you maybe lucky enough to soon count yourself among the lucky few: those of us who have been adopted into a larger family. And if you’re very lucky, that werewolf may open themselves and their lives to you. If that happens, well, not only accept them, but embrace them. Because you’re about to embark on a bumpy, wild, fun ride. One that has it’s ups and downs, true. But one that has been a blast for me, and one I wouldn’t trade the world for. |
| Strange things have been happening in the garage. Last week I went to change my oil in my Topaz and the wrench I needed wasn’t there. Instead, there was this strange, tiny ceramic wrench in its place on the wall, on a small ceramic hook that somehow held its own in the ancient pegboard. Other tools had been slowly replaced as well: a hammer. A saw. Nails had become giant and ceramic. As if something was changing them or swapping them out for something else. Something that might have had red beady eyes hidden behind a ceramic pair of sunglasses. When I saw this, a cold chill ran down my spine as I remembered the previous year. The spring where I nearly lost my mind and freedom to those tiny pointy hatted terrorists. I made my way, with a steady, yet dignified…. yeah, okay so I ran shouting Crash’s name the entire way. Through the kitchen, past the bathroom, on towards his bedroom. “Crash!” I shouted bolting inside, slamming the door behind me. He was laying atop the covers, still in werewolf form. His tail hung limply between his legs, hiding his dignity, (thank God) since he had taken it upon himself to sleep naked. Of course, he probably hadn’t counted on a half-scared roommate barging in and interrupting his rest. “What,” he groaned. His first set of eyelids were partially peeled back, revealing a second set beneath that he was staring at me through. “That’s kind of creepy,” I muttered. “Well, I’m a man-eating monster, what do you expect? And what do you want?” He grumbled. “And don’t even mention me being naked. This is your fault for barging in.” Well, he had me there, still I looked down and blushed. “Okay,” I grumbled. “Sorry. Maybe I over-reacted a bit.” “What, did the neighbors get a gnome,” he asked. “Our tools are becoming ceramic.” He sighed. “They’re exchanging tools. Cause they’re building something. And that means we have an infestation in our garage.” The garage is a detached three car garage that sits next to the property. There is quite a bit of stuff stored within it in the rafters and in the corners. Like most people’s garages, we tend to store things we hardly used within them. Christmas and Halloween decorations, for example. Those strange tools and appliances that only seem to do one thing, and that being something you don’t even need or care about. Strange relics from the past that you don’t like enough to keep in your bedroom, but don’t dislike enough to throw out. Since we had five adults in the house our pile had grown to being quite big. Large enough in fact that it was plausible for a creature as small as a lawn gnome to hide, building their little projects here and there, and then…I don’t know. Sell snow cones? Launch cat turds at the old troll house and blame it on us? I had no idea what they were making, but I knew it could be nothing good. “I’ll call, Larry,” Crash mumbled, and began fumbling for his cell phone on his night stand. I nodded and walked out, heading back towards the garage. Look, I’ll admit to being freaked out by lawn gnomes now. Thanks to Kheid and his unholy brood of ceramic psychopaths, I don’t ever want to see another stone hat or vegetable again. However, at that moment in time, I looked at them like I looked at wasps. Let’s say you have a massive wasp nest on your property. You have one or two options. You can either stare at it and hope they don’t sting you, or you can get poison or pest control or something and remove them. I know, I know. I can hear a thousand pest control professionals out there shouting at me “don’t do it! Don’t do it!” But, of course, I did it. I backed Old Betsy out of the garage first, figuring she could be out of the line of fire. Then slowly began to pull items back out of the massive stuff pile. I worked through the Christmas decorations, past the Halloween stuff and over the old weed eater that Crash swears he’s going to get working someday. (No, you’re not! Throw it out!) There was a blue tarp hidden in the corner. Beneath which I could see the tiniest ceramic foot sticking out. “No, you don’t you little,” I shouted, then threw the canvas back. Something hard hit me in the head, knocking back onto the floor. When I awoke, Crash was standing over me, now in human form, holding back a laugh. “Are you alright,” he half-chuckled. “I’d rather have squirrels,” I groaned, then grabbed an offered hand to stand up. I had a black eye from…something. And my face they painted with rosy cheeks, eye liner, and red lipstick. Crash said when he arrived they were putting a pointed hat on my head, but he managed to scare them off. “I came out here to help,” he said. “Larry told me he doesn’t do garages. But if we flush them out in the open, then he’s happy to have another buffet.” I pointed at the canvas in the corner. “They’re working on something back there. I think they intend to take out Larry with it.” Crash nodded, then walked over and pulled the canvas back. Something struck him in the face, sending him flying backwards, and landing on his backside. I winced in sympathetic pain as he sat up, shaking his head. “Did they build,” he began, then climbed to his feet, and looked again. Shaking his head. “They built a trebuchet and a ballista.” He said, in amazement. I scratched my head. “The giant roman crossbow thing?" I got a dumbfounded look from Crash. “Yes, the giant roman crossbow thing. And the giant slingshot thing.” “I guess to take out the giant flying lizard thing,” I groaned as I stood. “What are we going to do.” Crash raised all the doors to the garage. “Get rid of them,” he said, and began slowly moving things outside. We started with the Christmas decorations, then a few things we’ve meant to throw out. As we slid the first few items around to get room to move the medieval siege weapons, something hard and round hit my shoulder. “Ow!” I cried, then looked down. “Crash,” I said, “It’s one of your sockets.” “Incoming!” He shouted, and more sockets and wrenches began to fly downward towards us. There was a table by the wall that had more junk on it. Crash cleared that table, and set it up as a shield for us to hide behind. The table rang out with a thwack, thwack! as larger sockets and wrenches crashed into it. “Keep them busy!” Crash shouted. Here’s where those snow ball throwing skills really came into play. I had the strange image of kids outside their houses having a snowball fight behind snow forts in the thick of winter. If things weren’t so deadly, it might have even been fun. But as I began to advance my attack, they somehow managed to get ahold of the screw drivers, and started throwing them. For my effort, I grabbed as many tools as I could and began to throw them back. There was a lot of clattering, an occasional cry, but nothing else, really. Crash was banging around in the back and soon returned wielding a shovel with a metal handle, wielding it like a barbarian would wield a battle axe. But we weren’t the only ones with plans. As Crash came running back from the far wall of the garage, the ballista went off, and a 2x4 struck Crash in the chest. He made an “oof” sound, then fell backwards, falling to the floor. The 2x4 clattered behind him. What did I do? Well, I certainly didn’t cry out his name in shock and horror and stopped what I was doing to check on him. No. That gets people killed and really only works in the movies, where they have that magic “war buddy’s hit so they can’t hit us now” spell. Since I didn’t have that “war buddy got his so they can’t hit us right now” magic, I kept throwing, trying to keep their heads down as I worked my way slowly back towards him, till I could grab his shirt collar and pull him back towards the table, dodging missiles as I went. Some would call that heroic, I guess. I say it was just luck and a calculated move on my part, counting on their bad aim. For any human being they’d have to go to the hospital right then. But for Crash? “Those bastards,” he growled, standing up. Racing over towards the siege weapons, he kicked them over on their sides, then stomped on them, snapping boards and ropes. “I’ll get you!” He shouted, then started banging the roof with the shovel. Ceramic feet clattered and scraped against rafter boards. CLANG! CLANG! The shovel rang out as Crash beat it against the roof. I was essentially doing the same thing with my 2x4, banging upwards in as many varied places as I could. My efforts were to try and break them up so they couldn’t regroup and counter-attack. We ran through the garage like mad men trying to catch a squirrel, banging, shouting, occasionally dodging a socket wrench or a screw driver. Finally, Kheid, showed his face. He snarled threats at us in gnomish, that although I understood, can’t really print here. Let’s just say he told us to go do something disgusting with feces and sexual relations. He stared out from the ceiling at us, glaring one last time before he ran off through the door. We chased them through the yard, as the gnomes shouted, fleeing in shouts of terror as they ran towards the woods. Kheid was in the back. He stopped at the entrance to the woods, and took off his glasses, glaring his beady eyes at me. “This means war,” he growled at me in gnomish, then disappeared into the woods. Me and Crash stood at the entrance of those woods, huffing and puffing, Crash with his hands on his knees, me with my hands over my head. We stood there for a minute as our heartrates slowly fell down to reasonable levels. “Great,” I huffed. “Now we got a mess to clean up.” “No,” Crash said, “You got a mess to clean up. I got to get to sleep. I work in the evening, you know.” I nodded, not bothering to argue. “Are you going to catch Kheid and his brood,” I asked. Crash shrugged. “I’m waiting till I go in before I tell Larry.” “Why,” I asked. “Well,” Crash said with a smirk, “he’s done it to me. So, payback. Plus, I think a dragon should occasionally have to work for their food. And third, cause I don’t want to fill out a report. That’s going to take hours. Right now, I want to sleep.” “Fare enough,” I said, walking towards the garage as he went inside. Clean up took far longer than I wanted it too, but at least it’s done now. Topaz’s oil change can wait till tomorrow. Zack, Sean and Kris will just have to wait before they get their turn in the garage bay. Besides, I’m not exactly going to do nighttime car maintenance. I think you understand why. |
| Things have been a little less hectic lately. That’s something I’m not quite used to anymore, but it is nice to drop back into a routine that doesn’t involve a troll trying to kill you or zombies taking you to a Halloween festival of their own. I get a chance to slow down and enjoy the finer things in life. And there’s really nothing finer than sitting at the kitchen table by the window and watching the sunrise. I know some people would prefer Caviar and an ivory-white beach on some completely nude French island somewhere, but me? I'll take this sunrise. When I was in the service and could run, running into the sunrise was one of the few things that I enjoyed about that job. Running into the sun in formation with other people doesn't sound like a lot of fun. However, there was a lot of freedom in that. The wind in your lungs and on your face, the feeling of the pavement beneath your shoes, and of course, the stunning view that you always got every morning with every run. Some days, that was the only enjoyable part of the job. Now, running is pain. After a few steps, it shoots up from the heel to my hip and flares up there for a while before settling into its nice home in my back. Heck, long walks along ivory-white beaches in French nudist colonies are pain these days. As much fun as casual nudity is, it would be ruined by that aching, searing reminder that I’m injured. So, the closest I can get to recapturing that feeling of morning freedom is pretty much the kitchen window, a good cup of coffee, and the sunrise. The window doesn't face Crash and his path back toward the house. So, a lot of times I don’t see him when he gets home. That morning he was already in human form when he got through the door. It was rare but not unheard of. There are times when being in his larger, hairier form makes his job more difficult. Like when more diplomacy is required than growls, threats, bites, and howls. As he trudged inside and began making his evening cup of old man decaf, he let out the most God-awful burps I’ve ever smelled. When I say this burp stank, I mean it. The stench wafted from his side of the kitchen towards mine, peeling paint from the walls, curling tile, staining anything white a sickening brownish-green color. Birds fell from the sky at one whiff of this. Plants withered and died. The president nearly called a national emergency because of it until he forgot what he was doing and called for an ice cream cone instead. The power of the stench and the revenge of whatever meal the werewolf had eaten the previous night was immediate and apparent. "Oh, God!" I cried, trying to fan the stench away from my nose. "That is just awful!" Crash made a face, and said “bleh, that tasted a lot better last night.” Then he looked at me with another of his pearls of unique werewolf wisdom that will only ever apply to him. “Remember, if you bite it, you have to taste it.” That had me thinking about Crash’s little nuggets of wisdom. On the rare occasion, he has a sour stomach, we'll get the odd "must have been someone I ate" of course. But there are also always others. Those sayings and phrases that really could only apply to werewolves themselves and their unique culture. Things like: “Werewolves can’t get electrocuted. We just get new hairstyles”, or “never eat someone you need or like”. Crash has a whole collection of these things. I honestly don’t know where he gets them from. One would have to think that somewhere out there is a “Poor Richard the werewolf version” or something that every werewolf mother reads to their little pups at night before putting them to bed. However, someone by now would have seen a book like this. Wouldn’t someone have come up with something like that sooner or later? I'd collect them all in a book of my own if I wasn't afraid of Crash getting in trouble for it, or him getting angry at me over it. So, here are a few that we've collected over these past few days. One's Crash is particularly proud of, (like that 'if you bite it, you have to taste it' one) and ones he didn't even recall saying at the time. They're in no particular order here. “If it tastes terrible in the night, it will taste even worse in the morning.” This was said one morning after getting terrible indigestion from whatever or whomever he ate the night before. I didn’t ask, not because I was afraid of the consequences, but because I was afraid he’d tell me. Which, in a way, I guess means I was afraid of the consequences. Hey, I’ve never claimed to make sense. It took me the longest time to understand one of his lesser-known favorite sayings ‘makes as much sense as marking a skunk.' Werewolves have been known to use scent markings for different things, such as claiming ownership. Since a skunk already smells, and uses that smell as a defense weapon, putting your scent on it to claim ownership makes as much sense as well, as marking a skunk. The scent will be lost and you’d just end up stinking. “Blends in like a skunk in a trash can at a sewage plant”. He's used this when talking about something he doesn't like going with something else. Like if a lead singer of a band he's not fond of plays with another band he doesn't like. Or when the farmers relative to our town decide it's the day to spread manure on their fields, and we're throwing out rotten food or something the smell will, well, blend in I guess. Or when someone wears a shirt that is just weird and disgusting, and they're not that pretty of a person to start with. I've heard it used in both scenarios. Crash isn't forthcoming on where it came from, though he says he knows the original story. He ain’t talking yet. Ah well, maybe one day.” “Don’t go getting your kibbles and bits stirred up.” Kibbles and bits are a euphemism for a male werewolf's uhmm…ahem….family toolbox shall we say. And this one is in general telling someone not to get too worked up over someone (if you catch my drift), though I've heard him use it as well in the same sense we used to use "Who pissed in your cornflakes?" “They’re all kibble and no bits” You'd think we'd hear "they're all bark and no bite" more, but Crash prefers this one to the latter. Knowing what ‘kibbles and bits’ are, you can get some idea of how this one came into being. This one is usually talking about someone who is all swagger, no swing. All bark, no bite. Someone who talks a big game, but doesn't have the gumption to back up the words. It intrigues me to think that out there somewhere is an entire werewolf family, composed of individuals who use these phrases back and forth all the time. Friends who are werewolves tease each other with these phrases and sayings. A werewolf girlfriend telling her boyfriend 'you're all kibble, no bits' on their date after their first kiss when he's a tad reluctant to go much further, either because of nerves or because of uncertainty. Those are all the ones I’ve collected so far. This may seem a bit frivolous, but collected sayings and phrases are part of a culture's flavor. It's the salt and pepper of a people. These few collected nuggets of wisdom give us a tiny glimpse of a subculture that is werewolves. Perhaps one day we'll get more. I know I wouldn't mind seeing a version of Poor Richard with Crash. Maybe 'Poor Crash's collections of life lessons and nuggets of wisdom' or something? I don't know. I’ll think of a different title sooner or later. Right now, I’ve got to get out to the garage. It’s one of Crash’s rare days off. We’re working on his Cadillac today, as well as possibly trying to clear out a strange infestation. Apparently, some of the tools that we regularly keep around in there have taken on a more ceramic quality to them. Instead of a regular hammer, we now have one that resembles one used by a certain type of statue. Could Kheid be back? I don't know. Let's hope not. |
| Well, January was the frozen month at home, so we sort of bunkered down while we waited the weather out. In truth, I mostly bugged Crash about how he remembered things happening and compared them with notes of my own. Even Sarah, for her credit, was willing to throw in a bone here and there, so to speak, so we could piece together the story as much as we could for it to be as accurate as possible. As I was gathering the information for that, I also started a little side project. I’ve collected a few questions for Crash to answer, in an AMA style thing. Now, this is something I’ve never done before. I’ve never done an AMA, much less on this blog. I’m still getting used to Crash reading it and seeing this thing, to be entirely honest. It’s like writing notes about your teacher while your teacher is reading them over your shoulder. Only in this case, my teacher is a werewolf, I already know that, and technically have been telling the entire world what’s been happening. Doing this is especially strange since he’s currently in my room, “getting his steps in” on his smart watch. Nothing more strange than watching a werewolf walk in place while answering questions. Were you always a wolf (born)? Oh, yeah. Hmm, maybe this could be if he ever thought of himself as some animal? Yes. We’re all animals. Did you ever play sports? Which ones? Tried to. You know there’s some places that tell you you’re too big to play football? I played baseball. I’m not very good at playing baseball. But I can throw a bat a long ways. Do you have any artistic talent or enjoy any of the arts (music, painting, dance, etc.)? I do. In all weird things I find interesting stuff interesting. Even messed around with finger print portraits for a while, using different finer print paints to do a portrait. Did it for an art class. Even did some paintings with my claws too, get some interesting effects. Though I’ll never share how I got those effects…or did I just share that? What do you do to have fun? I do music. Took piano classes. Picked up odd instruments. Got invited to tour with a bluegrass band playing the washboard, cause I played the washboard at a party. Still don’t know why I didn’t take them up on it. Do you have favorite books or movies? Lots of them. I like werewolf literature, even though a lot of it is horrible. I don’t get into werewolf romance stuff, a lot of that is horrible. But I like the classics, like Stephen Kings “Silver Bullet”, “Hunter’s Moon,” and an older one titled “The Hairy One’s Shall Dance.” I also like HP Lovecraft. Do you believe that UFO's are real? Well, yeah. Anything you can’t identify as flying, is an Unidentified Flying Object. (Jason: I think they mean aliens.) (Crash: That’s no way to talk about them. They’re just misplaced.) The supernatural in the blog takes on a more natural presence despite the associated dangers of the uninitiated (Thinking specifically of the garden gnomes here). Would Crash say that normal people just ignore the presence of this underlayer of life, or are there active efforts to keep it secret? A combination of both. Because some of them have beliefs they shouldn’t be seen by humans for different cultural reasons. Others its just easier for day-to-day life to just not be noticed as other than a normal human. It’s been taken as a general rule as you don’t make it super publicly known. Do werewolves date? If so, do they care in what form (human or transformed)? Yes we date. Whether if its in our transformed form it generally depends on the relationship and who we’re dating. And forgive me if I have missed this if explained in the blog, but how did Crash get his nickname? Or is that his real name? It’s a nickname, and part of that depends on which time. In grade school I totaled a bicycle and a BMW. And walked away from it. Kept it through high school. Then in college I totalled my buddies S-10 car surfing and walked away from that. So, after that I just accepted it. |
| Walmart indeed has all the supplies you'd need to make homemade C-4 and other fun explosive devices. What's more, they wouldn't bat an eye if we purchased all of the things in their necessary quantities to make such things, as long as we did it properly. But making explosives takes time and that was a luxury we could not afford. The things we did get however made it look like we were playing a real live version of that old game, "Which three or four items would you buy at Walmart to shock the cashier?" A taser. Garlic, both garlic powder and in the squeezable tube. Snake shot for my pistol. A pair of pliers. The elderly woman who was ringing us up didn't even blink. "Looks like one hell of a party," she said, then gave us our total. "Vampire hunting," Sarah said with a smile. She gave Sarah a knowing wink, then said, "good luck." As we made it to the car, I said, "Now think. Where would they be?" "Is this plan even going to work," She asked. There was genuine fear on her face. She wanted reassurances. Promises. Something that had been ingrained in me to never give. Don't promise what you're not certain you can deliver. It's one of the first things I learned in the military. You don't say, 'It's going to be okay', and you never say 'you'll get out of this alive'. You say, 'we're doing everything we can.' You say, 'help is on the way', then you give them an order to distract them from their impending doom. The look in her eyes screamed she needed me to hold her. To hug her. To tell her, 'everything will be alright.' Instead, I began to drive the car out of the parking lot. 'A bad plan is better than no plan,' I said. "You know how to fill those?" I pointed at the ammunition with my thumb. She gave me a weary sigh and said "I think I can figure it out." Distraction. It does work from time to time. Using the pliers, she pulled off the plastic caps on the snake shot one at a time. Then, dumping the pellets out she put inside each cap a mixture of powdered and diced garlic. After which, she stuck the caps back on each round and wiped them clean. It took her a full clip of ruined rounds before she got the hang of it. Good thing we bought almost four hundred rounds of it. She filled as many as she could, then after getting the first couple of rounds backward in the magazines and having to pull them back out, she started to fill the magazines properly as well. "Not gonna get a lot of shots out of this," I grumbled. "It'll probably gum up after the first ten rounds or so." She sighed, then looked at me. "So we only need one?" "No," I replied. "Do them all." After all, distraction. Besides, I couldn't quite tell if we would need them. Sarah directed us in a somewhat meandering direction towards a trailer home out in the middle of nowhere. Trash had been strewn all over the property, shoved between the smattering of trees that were scattered across it. There were some obvious half-hearted attempts at making booby traps, but aside from a few pits with railroad spikes sticking up out of them, there wasn't anything I was concerned with. Besides, I didn't have to worry about sneaking inside. Especially since as soon as our wheels touched the dirt road leading towards the diner, the look of fear in Sarah's eyes changed back into the blank look I saw on her in that diner. "Far enough, moron." She growled. "Is that you Leeroy? Why only this far?" I asked, pointing up at the hill. "What if I made it this far?" "What if my brother sawed off your werewolf boyfriend's arm and ate it," she said. "First, he's not my boyfriend, and second, I'll tell his replacement to shit on your doorstep." She motioned with the gun while grumbling about how disgusting werewolves were, and lead me up the property, towards a metal building near the back. That's what was going on outside her mind. Inside her mind was a completely different story. Sarah's mental keep wasn't a castle. Hers was a car. She felt safest in her father's automobile as a child. She took road trips with him constantly. It was a connection they both maintained, and during the marriage would still do the occasional road trip to this random meet-up or convention or whatever. For months the monster drove with her trapped in the trunk of her mental vehicle. Completely away from everything. It had taken a sheer force of will, and a reminder from me to break her out of that, to give her the will to shove the monster onto the street. She was given control of her mental car, but when she got within a certain range of the toxic twins, something opened the driver's door as if it was unlocked and violently shoved her aside and took the wheel. The creature she would tell me later resembled much of the one I described for my mental keep. Tall, thin with white skin, red eyes, and long claws and fangs. She no longer had control, but unlike last time, wouldn't, and couldn't be locked in the trunk. Outside the windows was the world, the movements her body made. The monster did not move toward the glovebox of the vehicle, didn't even look at it. Just let the seat back and stomped the throttle grinning out the windows as it assumed full control. Sarah did her best to stare out the windows as well, avoiding every thought or glance towards that glovebox. If the creature wanted to, it could have ripped the glovebox open, and torn through the contents. Then Sarah would have been done for. And with Sarah gone, all our hope would have been gone too. She watched as I walked in front of her, pretending to be scared. She was trying in vain to not think about the glove box in front of her. Which is really hard. You ever try and not to think about something? The harder you try to not think of something, the more you end up thinking about it. It runs through your mind, tantalizing you. Teasing you. Especially if it's something horrific. The more you try to not think about it, the worse details you end up imagining by accident. Which is exactly what was going on for Sarah. The more she tried not to think about the glove box, the more it ran through her mind. So much so, that images of it began to flash in the rearview mirror of her mental car. So, as we reached the metal side door of the building, the creature inside her said something like "what's in the glovebox?" And made a reach for it. At the same time, I opened the barn and flicked on the lights by the door. Crash was wrapped up in a chain that was coated in silver. Pretty poorly coated, I might add. Something had melted down cheap silver and poured it over the chains. They weren't thick, but the burning and weakness he got every time he tried to break them made escape impossible. I tried not to look at the bloody instruments near him, though there was a handful of household tools there being misused as torture implements. He was chained to a pillar of some kind, near a beaten and bloody heap in the corner must have been the sheriff. I didn't know what could cause a werewolf to shift back to human, whether he did it voluntarily, or if he was just dead, and I didn't want to contemplate it. Crash was still in wolf form, weakened, terrified. When he saw me enter, a look of despair crossed over him, as if he'd just been defeated. The meth heads were nowhere to be seen. "Shit," I growled. Inside Sarah's mind, the creature placed a claw on the glove box, at the same time Sarah pressed her hand to it, clamping it shut. It glared at her, red eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. "You cannot deny me," It snarled, and a thick black fog began to fill the car. "This place," she cried, "is mine!" Outside, I walked forward a couple more paces, standing in the center of the room. My arms were still up. Sarah was holding the pistol on me. A sick smile was on her face. A tear or two streamed down her face. It was as if inside she was battling against the world, and the world was winning. "Sarah," I said. "Don't," she whispered. The pistol shook in her hands. "Do," Leeroy said. Or was it Mitch? I could never tell. "Kill that moron." He entered the room, walking towards her. Mitch (or was it Leeroy?) was right along behind, a train of meth, glassy-eyed and black-toothed smiling, their teeth and very faces almost completely rotted out from the drug. "Don't kill him." He said. "I want him to see his boyfriend and the sheriff die first. Then we feed on what's left." They stood on either side of Sarah, triumph painted on their faces. Shoot him in the leg first," the one on the left grinned, showing off all of his rotten fangs. A mouth full of death and tooth decay. Inside her head, the creature banged and pulled on the glove box. While another outside started pulling on the door handles to her mental car, trying to force their way in. She shoved as hard as she could with her shoulder against the monster in the driver's seat, forcing it back for a second, long enough to grab the object out of the glove box. To this day she never told me what that object was, and I never pried. I know it was something beautiful, memorable, and precious to her. A singular object that encapsulated a time of happiness and purity, the only weapon we have sometimes against the darkness. The creature temporarily recoiled from it, the brightness hurting its eyes. The driver's door to her mental car opened, and with two swift kicks, she shoved the creature out, slammed the door, and locked it. What we could see outside is both Leeroy and Mitch turning to her, a look of shock and anger on their faces. She swung the pistol as fast as she could, and pulled the trigger, right in Leeroy's face. Leeroy gave an unholy blood-curdling scream, falling backward, clutching his face. She turned towards Mitch, who grabbed her arm. She fired anyway, a spray of burnt garlic powder and blackened sizzling diced garlic spread out, causing him to gag and choke. While that was going on, I raced over toward Crash. His ears were pinned against his skull as he looked at me as if I was crazy. "This was your plan?" He growled. I shrugged. "You have a better one?" I started to look for the lock that bound the chain. "It's a key lock," He said. "you gotta get the key from Mitch." Both vampires were gagging, coughing. With lightning-quick slashes, they blindly swung, searching for their target, which was still firing the garlic bullets at them, sometimes at point-blank range. The scent of burnt garlic and gunpowder filled the room. She pulled out the taser, and held it in her other hand, getting it ready as she kept firing. I grabbed a bloody hammer from their torture tools, and the closest thing that I could find that resembled a chisel, a fat flat-tip screwdriver, and began striking the chain next to the lock. It took three hard strikes to break the link. "Get back to the car!" I shouted at Sarah. "Get back now!" I unraveled Crash's chains as fast as I could. He stood, then looked at me. "I got this. Help the Sheriff." The gun in Sarah's hand had two more shots in it, then jammed. I have to hand it to Glock. After nearly a full clip of shoving out half-cooked, half-burnt diced Garlic and Garlic powder through its barrel, it finally jammed. That is one durable pistol. Sarah dropped the pistol and sprinted for the door. She got two steps before Leeroy (or was it Mitch?) grabbed her and pulled her back by her collar. "That wasn't very nice," He snarled. She turned and pressed the taser against him. It crackled and sizzled. But did nothing else against his flesh. He just grinned at her as he threw her down to the dirt, and climbed on top of her. What happened next, was confusing for me for the longest time. One moment, a meth-headed vampire was telling Sarah that he was going to skin her alive, then next, faster than you can blink, its head was missing and its body collapsed on top of her. All of the vampire movies and shows have it wrong. They don't just turn to dust when you kill them or crumple up like burnt paper. The vampire's body began to leak blood over her face. Sarah gave a blood-curdling scream. "Leeroy!" the other vampire shouted in horror. Crash threw the severed head down on the dirt floor and looked over at Mitch, blood dripping from his claws and muzzle. The vampire then looked at me of all people, and snarled, "you're gonna pay!" and disappeared. "What did I do?!" I shouted after him. Of course, I got no answer. Thankfully the sheriff wasn't dead. He was passed out however from whatever they had injected him with. Crash had been injected as well, which is how they captured both of them. Crash, it seems was brought back so they could torture him, probably for fun, which was why we found him the way we did. There is a substance relatively unknown to me or most humans that will incapacitate a werewolf. Neither Crash nor the sheriff told me what it was, and I did not ask them. One of the things I am learning from all of this insanity is that certain things in life we, as humans, are simply not meant to know. The sheriff once he got his bearings and was given a working cell phone was able to call in the "special task force" as he called it to help clean the site up. I'm told that Leeroy was given a proper burial. Mitch was never found. The long slow process of cleanup had begun. The sheriff's "special taskforce" arrived, and took us back to the sheriff's office. We sat outside, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups while watching the sunlight as it gently kissed the horizon good morning in a splendid display of gold and reds. "For a moment, I never thought I'd see the sun again," Sarah said. I shrugged. "We all die sometime." She turned to look at me. "You're always like that. What did they do to you in the military?" I laughed, then said "that's my secret. I've always been this way. The military actually toned me down." "So what now," She asked. I sighed, rubbing the back of my head for a moment. "I was going to ask you the same thing." "I can go to my dad's. He has a room for me he told me before, whenever I want to come back." She was staring at the sunrise again, watching the rays play off the surface of the Earth. "I'd need to find a job, I guess," I said, "but maybe afterward, we could," Sarah turned to me then and smiled a sweet, sad smile. "Don't." "Don't what?" I asked. "Just don't." I swallowed a lump that had risen in my throat. "Weren't we in love? Didn't we have some good times? Wasn't there one point you were happy with me?" She hugged me so sweetly then. It was the sweetest, saddest hug I've ever received in my life. "We had fun." She said. "But we were never happy. Jason, you spent most of our marriage drunk." "That was because, the job, you know? The stress and everything." "No, it wasn't." She gave my cheek a gentle touch. "We were both miserable. You wanted out of the barracks; I wanted your benefits. Neither of us really knew each other all that well. We had a mutual physical attraction that had some financial and emotional benefits. But that isn't love." I rubbed my eyes, the world burning for a moment. "I suck at showing it," I said. "But I did love you once. I still care for you now." Then, I turned towards her and gave her my own sad smile. "If you ever need me. You tell me." "Jason," she smiled, "I promise. I'll be fine." "But still," I replied. "I'll be fine." In my hand, she placed a knife that was well-known to me. When my father died, I didn't get much. He didn't own a lot in this world, and what little he did have had been divided up amongst my relatives, my other sibling, and myself. What I got was an old belt buckle, his wedding ring, and a knife. That knife was the most special to me cause it was the one thing that reminded me most of him. Whenever he went fishing that knife came out. It was a small switchblade with a wooden handle. On that handle was an engraving he had done for his father when his father was in the service, of a military dog sitting in front of a flag. I guess his dad was an MP of some sort. But it was something he never talked about, and I hadn't asked. "I hid this from them for months," she said. "Thankfully they never searched my pockets all that well. If they ever saw it they never cared. I never wanted to dump you like that. I wanted a clean divorce, you could have had the apartment, we divide the stuff, and I was going to be gone and out of your life. But Leeroy came along, saw I was depressed said he would cheer me up. I agreed, and before you know it by the end of the day, he had a moving van in front of the apartment and I was happily moving everything out so we could sell everything and I give it to him, despite every fiber of my being actually not wanting to do any of that." "You saved this," I said. "I'm sorry, it was all I could," she began. I cut her off with a long, tight hug. Sure, to the rest of the world, it looked like a ratty old pocket knife with a faded image that now more closely resembled a bear or something staring at a tree than a dog in front of a flag. But to me, it was fishing trips and camping. It was long nights in front of a bonfire learning how to roast marshmallows and make s'mores. It was a piece of my family that I thought was gone. And I had just got it back. After dropping Sarah off at the police station with the sheriff, we decided it would be best to just get a start that day, find a room to sleep in or if need be, sleep in the car again. Since it was an hour after noon before we ran out of energy to drive anymore, we found ourselves at a rest stop sleeping near the highway. The sounds of the trucks passing by on the interstate as we snored away at the rest stop were more comforting than it was the first time we did it. We finally made it home a couple of hours after midnight. I was holding the switchblade in my hands, turning it over with the memories of times gone by in my mind when I felt Crash's heavy hand land on my shoulder. "I know this was hard for you." He said. "I didn't expect you to save me this time. Let's get you inside and get you wasted. I think you've earned it." I smiled at Crash. "It's alright," I said. "You can have the beer, but I don't want any. I really don't need it anymore." |
| I was pinned against the cheap wall of a local diner in a tiny town in the middle of Arkansas. The dawn was far off, and thanks to the encroaching darkness that pressed in at the edges of my vision, it felt as if it would never arrive. As I hung, grasping at the hands that were choking the life out of me, Sarah stood and turned towards a vision of someone else that stood in the doorway. In hindsight, it resembled the meth-headed vampire that was trying to kill me. However, at the time it could have been King Kong Bundy for all I knew and could see. My life was being drained literally by a vampire with rotted-out fangs and red glowing eyes. When Leeroy’s eyes began to glow was about when everything faded to black. If you will humor me but a moment, picture in your mind a door. A draw bridge of a door. This draw bridge is sturdy and strong and protects the castle of your mind that holds everything you are. Your identity, your memories, every lever and pully that your spirit uses to run and operate who you are. Now picture a massive, fierce beast of a creature outside of this draw bridge. It has pale white skin, is rail thin, and has massive claws. It exists in a dark grey cloud of some sort of smoke that slowly begins to drift over your castle. That demon that towers over the draw bridge has its claws on it and is pulling downward. The chains holding the drawbridge wrench, squeal, and fail, collapsing into the darkness that was the ground below. Normally, when this happens, you’re done for. The demon, in this case, the vampire, pretty much has control of the keep. Every lever, every pully. Every memory and feeling even your every thought is at its command. Everything you are is no longer under your control. Not everyone has the image of a draw bridge. For some it’s a car, others it’s a house. For me, it’s a castle. I suppose it goes back to my military training, and love of history. I won’t turn this into a history lecture, but medieval castles at the end of that age were some of the best-built defensive fortresses around. Even the stairs were designed to thwart invaders and made it nearly impossible to penetrate. I guess that’s why my mind picked that to represent the interior battle that was being waged. I needed security and defense. So my mind picked the best defense it could conjure on short notice. When the invading demon that was the meth-headed vampire in my mind wrenched down the drawbridge of my mind, instead of stepping inside and enslaving its sole resident, me, it met a massive wall of muscle, fur, and fangs. What happened afterward I only have glimpses of in my memory. A shove with my feet to break a hold. A pistol in my hands, and rapid gunfire in a diner, far faster and more accurate than I could ever have been capable. Two angry monsters in a rearview mirror give chase as I and Sarah race away in Crash’s Buick, leaving small town main street Arkansas behind us. When I came to, I was sitting in a Walmart parking lot. The car parked to take up about six spaces, parked longways in one of the slanted rows. The blue and gray façade of the store resembled a bit too much of the mental castle, so I looked away, and stared down for a moment at the dashboard. Sarah sat beside me, her eyes wide with terror, her hair looked as if it had been in some sort of wind storm. “Are you back? Jason! Are you here?” I took two deep breaths and nodded. A headache was coming on. But at least I was alive. And free. Kind of. “What the hell was that?” I asked, a note of slight panic in my voice. Sarah exhaled loudly as she looked toward the sky. “Thank God!” “I’m serious, what the hell was that?” I asked. A note of panic crept into my voice. Okay, so my voice squeaked like a scared twelve-year-old girl. But it was my first time being possessed by anything, so sue me. Well, the second time. There was that entire thing with the lawn gnome. But that all happened when I was asleep, so I don't think that count. “Drive.” She said. “Where?” I asked. “Where are we going?” “Anywhere.” She said, waving her arm at the road. “Just get us as far away from Arkansas as possible. Go northeast towards Chicago. I hear there are plenty of werewolves and things there. We’ll be safe.” “As fun as this random road trip sounds, I need a bit more information than 'drive',” I said, stepping out of the car. “Jesus, are you stupid?! I just barely escaped those monsters. They nearly ate you till your pet werewolf took over.” She was near hysterics, waving her arms as she spoke. Behind her eyes sat months of hell that she went through, a pain that was only communicated in wide-eyed terror and furtive glances as she spoke, as if she was a caged animal with a predator circling outside. “Look,” I growled, leaning on the door of the convertible. “Let’s play pretend. Let’s pretend I have no clue as to what the hell is going on. Would you please, for the love of God, start from the beginning and explain it to me!” Then it happened. The glare that I had been used to getting all of those months ago, back when we were unhappily married and still pretending that we had a thing for each other. Back when it was just the two of us in that apartment complex, existing but despising each other. “Why do you never trust me.” “Look, I trust you, but I don’t know what the hell I’m running from. I don’t know what the hell just happened. I prefer to know what I’m fleeing before I just start running.” I growled. She laughed, then said, “You don’t know a meth-headed vampire when you see one?” We had been together for almost ten minutes now by my calculations, and already things were approaching a boiling point. I clenched my fists hard, turned to her, and said, “I know about the damn vamps. I also know that something was trying to crawl around in my brain before something else kicked it out, so if you know what the hell is going on, I would love a little understanding, some fucking courtesy, and an explanation!” That last bit was said louder than I’d have liked. I didn’t want to fight. I wasn’t trying to make her feel bad. She did just escape a horror that I couldn’t begin to understand. Anyone in such a circumstance might have started crying. Any number of guys would have just punched me to avoid the tears, preferring a physical fight they could win to an emotional one they can’t. Sarah did none of those things. She just looked down at her hands for a moment, rubbed them together, and said, “Crash kicked them out. It may have been his dying act. He took control of you, fought them off, and got us out.” I swallowed hard. “Dying act? Nothing can kill him! He’s a werewolf!” She looked down at her hands for a moment then rubbed them together. “Yes, something can. Silver is poisonous to them after all. Especially when it’s in bullet form.” She swallowed. Took a couple of deep breaths, then began speaking again. “They’ve been planning it for months. They didn’t know I was starting to gain control back. The meth clouds their thinking, it weakens their abilities a bit. So, the higher they got, the crazier their plan became, but the more control I had over myself. They were selling meth and other drugs, buying up cheap silver trinkets online, melting it down into bullets. Building an arsenal.” “What for?” I already knew the answer before she said it. For war. She explained their plan, in shaky, horrified words. They had one crazy idea. The meth just gave them the will to do something that most others in their position would have been too terrified or too smart to try. Take out the local protections. Leave the regular civilian stuff. Take control of them. There were no vampires in the area other than them. No other real mythicals besides the resident sheriff. No one else to help the poor unsuspecting citizens if the sheriff were to be captured and killed. The people would become their cattle, for only God knows how long. “And no one can stop them.” She said, more horrified. “Nothing. Not even the meth can stop them now.” “Almost no one,” I growled, clenching the butt of my pistol tighter. In the past, especially with my training, I’ve learned that if you have a choice between anger or panic, always choose anger. Anger can be tamed; honed. Turned into an attack dog to be used on those who would destroy you. As long as you know how to keep that dog on a leash, anger can be a very effective weapon. If you lose control of that leash, your attack dog will turn on you, and destroy your very life. Crash, the werewolf who had saved my life, the subsequent creature that had adopted me and done everything he could to turn me into a respectable member of society instead of letting me rot and die like the rest of the world said to do needed help. He needed rescuing. I could panic. I could cry for my friend, or be afraid for him. But none of those things would save him. Sarah looked at me as if I was crazy. “What the hell can you do?” “Look,” I said as I ejected the magazine from my weapon. It was empty. Nothing in the chamber either. Crash had used every round I had in his effort to save me. I slipped the magazine into my back pocket as I looked back at Sarah and spoke. “I’m a crappy boyfriend. I’m a worse husband. I know. But there’s one thing I was actually decent at doing when we were together.” “What’s that?” She asked, in a tone that said she already knew the answer. “A soldier. Come on. We gotta stock up on supplies first.” I turned towards the Walmart and began walking towards it. “Supplies?!” She cried. “For what?” “For going to war.” |
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