%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
Adventures In Living With The Mythical |
|
A military veteran is adopted by a werewolf and brought into his pack. Insanity ensues. About "Life With A Werewolf" Life with a werewolf is a dramatic blog. As such the characters in this blog are not real but maybe loosely based on real people. The situations represented are not real but maybe loosely based on real things that have happened in my life. There are a multitude of ways to view life, this is simply one of the ways I have chosen to view mine. Updated Every Friday unless I can't or don't want to. If this is your first time reading this...start here: https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1040400-Welcome-To-The-Pack The first year is available as a compilation in print and on Amazon Kindle: https://a.co/d/gBLLL7E The first year is currently available on audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/B0G3SMJGFN/?source_code=AUDFPWS0223189MWT-BK-ACX0-482... My book, "Dreamers of The Sea" is available now on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0uz7xa3 |
| Thanksgiving is one of those truly underappreciated holidays. For some families, at least. For others, it's a time to set the ropes up, get the guys in the corner limbered up and ready. It's a time to ensure that everyone understands the three knock down rule, and to respect the ref at all times. At one point in my life, I was the guy who would not only start these kinds of festivities at a get-together, but I'd be the one who to throw the first metaphysical, and sometimes literal, punch. People who run from their hometown are always running from something. I, in a way, had been running from myself. It's a flight that took me halfway around the world and left me buried in the bottom of a liquor bottle waiting to drown. That's one of the things I'm truly thankful for. To have a roommate, a friend, a pack member, who not only can see through the cantankerous shenanigans, but give it right back to me. Who, with a joke, a poke, a turn of phrase, can pull a smile out of me. That snarling, walking, talking, overgrown child's nightmare has literally saved my life. For that, I'll be eternally grateful. Another thing I'm thankful for is my roommates. Zack, Kris, Sean. They're their own versions of crazy, it's true. But it's a version of crazy that we all need. A version that seems to lean on each other and, in some strange way, keep us all sane at the same time. After Zack's recent adventure, I've tried my best to show him that he's loved and appreciated around here. After all, it's not everyone who find an indie party game and get all of us together, screaming and shouting together. But, Zack is more than the video game guy. He's the guy who will come out with that strange hidden wisdom when we're all too stressed to see it. There was that time when Crash got really sick and Zack called the doc. There was also other times that I haven't talked about publicly before. When I was getting really into myself, walling myself off to the rest of the world, and Zack was the only one who sat me down and talked to me about it. We both discussed heavy things that day. I'm grateful for him doing it. Kris and Sean are the regular odd couple. Two guys who seem to be polar opposites, but when they get together, they begin zinging and riffing in their own colorful playful way. I swear they could put on a stage show. That is if Sean didn't get stage fright and Kris didn't, well, lash out in his own unique Kris manner. That is, I'm thankful for everyone in our makeshift pack. I'm thankful that I get to interact with each of them in our ways. Thankful to have everyone of them in my life. And I know they're thankful to have me as well. Thanksgiving this year was done a little different. Instead of sitting around our poor, neglected dining room table, we instead sat around the television and watched a movie. I did spend much of the day hiding in my room, watching old Thanksgiving specials from my childhood and being grumbly. There wasn't any one thing I could put my finger on then. But, I understand it now. I suppose Crash understood it better than me. Darn werewolf hearing, he could hear the grumbles I was giving myself in my room. I, for one, thought I was being quiet. So, I did jump a bit when Crash shoved the door open. He was in his human form (which he always is during Thanksgiving, unless he's called to an emergency call). He sat down on the bed next to me, and patted my shoulder. It was one of those strange situations that felt comfortable, yet foreign. I wanted the pat on the back, the bro hug as it where, but still I turned away, grumbling about "touchy, feely werewolves". "Look, Jason," he said, standing. "The past can't be re-written. So why keep planning for it? You're loved and appreciated here. Forget about yesterday. You're missing today." It wasn't exactly Shakespeare. But he had a point. It sunk in slowly as I was watching an old Garfield cartoon. It was then that I stepped out of the room and joined everyone else in what was going on. I didn't get a chance to say what I was thankful for yesterday. So, I'm doing it here. One of the things I learned a long time ago: If you want to apologize or be grateful to someone: don't wait. You don't know if you'll ever get the opportunity to do it again. So, guys, just know that I am thankful for you. I don't always show it, but it's true. Thank you for being you. |
| A while back I asked Crash to hear some werewolf music. At that time, Crash would send me things like Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark At The Moon" or Metallica's "Of Wolf and Man", or other songs that reference werewolves in some way across rock, country and blues. At the time, I'd given it up, figuring that there either wasn't any such thing as werewolf music, or that it was Crash's way of saying "I don't want to share this with you right now." Turns out, there may be such a thing as werewolf music though. And it came from a slip of the tongue from Crash. We were watching a documentary one evening on YouTube about a style of rock called, "Psychobilly". This genre of music is a blend of punk, of hillbilly, of country, and its a fantastic, chaotic, wonderful madness of music. It's Jackson Pollock on LSD and speed, ramped up to 200 bpm. During the documentary, one of the popular bands, one of the originators of the genre in fact (no I won't say which one), came on screen. Crash pointed and said "he's a werewolf." Crash does this from time to time. There's a lot more famous people who are werewolves or vampires than you'd think. And the occasional minotaur. But very rarely trolls though. I guess being in the public limelight doesn't interrupt their own unique lifestyles or whatever. I don't know. I just know if I ever happen to catch one of them at a convention in an elevator or something, I'm asking how they balance all that. But, it makes sense for psychobilly to be a sort of werewolf style of music. It's aggressive, yet playful. Has it's own snark and attitude about it, yet it's strangely respectful of it's own roots, unlike some other musical styles which actively try to shun their roots the moment they rise slightly above them. You can figure which genres of rock and country I'm talking about, I won't go naming names here. Yes, I may be stirring the shit pot today, but I'm not licking the spoon. Even the clothing, the torn off sleeves, and the jeans. The stylized hair, it makes for easy shifting if you think about it. Plus, if you do manage to tear up your clothing a little in the midst of a shift, who could really tell? Wouldn't it just add to the aesthetic? Put some safety pins in it to hold it together, and keep rockin! All in all, this just makes me want to attend a psychobilly concert. I'd like to see some of these groups in action, to see if I can spot a werewolf or a vampire on stage singing and crooning while most of the crowd is oblivious to what's going on around them. Come to think of it, much of the subject matter in psychobilly - the songs of vampires and werewolves, of dark love and fantasies, actually fits right in to the entire mythical life style. Perhaps it's a musical style tailor-made for mythicals? Mythicals singing about things that they'd be able to relate to, but done with enough sarcasm, snark and fantasy to hide the truth between the lines in the song? Who knows? Crash wasn't very talkative when I asked him about this. Though he did get that look on his face that said I was close to something he didn't want me to be close to just yet. So, I don't know if my idea is accurate, but it works for me for now. And if psychobilly is really built for werewolves, vampires and the like, then I say I hope they enjoy it. I hope their musical style is fantastic. And I hope they don't mind me listening along too. Cause some of those songs are pretty catchy. And it's a small ear into their real culture. Into how they'd interact and know each other without the knowledge of a regular human being around. A small ear into them being themselves, in other words. Themselves that this world rarely ever gives them a chance at being. Come to think of it, how many times do any of us get to be ourselves? That side the world rarely ever sees? We all have the friendship side that our friends know. The family side only parents and siblings could know. The work side that's only brought to the office and the service side that's only brought into other professional settings, like a doctors office or a grocery store. They're all different versions of a person presented in different ways. But how often can someone be that other side, the one that doesn't see the light of day all that often? This isn't necessarily that side that wants to be painted lime green and run down the street naked holding a red ball on your head while screaming "I'm an olive! I'm an olive!" I mean, it could be. And if you have that side, more power to you. But that does mean you're crazy. Or live in Florida. Or both. No, this is that side that maybe likes those things others may find strange or embarrassing. This is that side that may attract silent judging instead of jokes. As the ages creep up, it's the silent judging that hurts more than jokes. After all, zingers can always be swatted back with another good zinger. Silent judging? Any zingers back at silent judging, only gets worse silent judging. Which could be another reason that psychobilly very well could be werewolf music. Or mythical music, anyway. What better way could there be to hide your culture than to hide it in plain sight with old B-grade horror movie references sprinkled in here and there? To be able to talk about your struggles to the public without the public ever knowing? It'd be a blast to go to a psychobilly concert, having this knowledge on my side, and these unconfirmed suspicions. The entire concert would take a different level for me then, and hold a complete different meaning. Maybe I could talk Crash into going? Well, if the overworking oaf could wrangle some time off, that is. |
| Hey everyone, it's Zack. Jason is forcing me to write this. He says if I want him to ever forgive me, then I have to do the update. I feel a bit like Gordon Freeman in Half Life, but I understand in a way. I do owe it to everyone to explain what happened. Mainly cause it's kind of my fault why this update has taken so long to get out. When Milton's men jumped me, I'd nearly died. I had just left my shift when it had happened. I still remember looking up at the sky completely exhausted, rubbing the back of my neck. Then something solid hitting me in the gut. I hit the cement as blows rained down on me, that bastard's mocking laugh in the background. When I awoke in so much pain in that parking lot, without any idea of my friends had lived or died, I vowed then that I'd get my vengeance. Normally, I'm a pretty easy going person. I try not to get in anyone's way, and it takes a lot for me to make a vow like that. If I make a vow, like I did that day, I'll do everything in my power to keep it. But, I didn't get the chance. Jason and Crash, like usual, handled everything. And this time, I really wished they hadn't. My goal in life is to get through life. When you grow up like I did, with the insane family that I had, you learn to keep your head down, get your chores done, and just try and get through with whatever escape you can find. Escapes like video games, for instance. They're a way for me to lose myself into something else for a while, to not worry about the world and it's troubles for a few hours. But this time, video games wasn't working anymore. I'd play a game and get frustrated as something reminded me of that day. Of those blows raining down on me. Of his mocking laughter. Jason must have seen right through me from the start. Wanting to go to the range with him, to learn how to shoot, to, well, everything. He had such trouble wrangling the zombies it was easy for me to sneak the pistol out of the house on occasion for some additional practice. He keeps a close eye on that pistol, but he's not perfect. I was careful. Well, I thought I was being careful. To be honest, it's a wonder I didn't kill anyone. And despite whatever mojo working that keeps the zombies and the werewolves and things away from regular public's knowledge, they still know a gunshot when they hear one. Whenever I took a practice shot at a zombie, there wasn't anyone behind the it; nothing back there but trees. We were outside of town, there was no housing near us. It's not like anyone is going to go hunting or anything in the middle of the week, right? Besides, there was literally no one for miles around other than a couple of zombies doing their dead man shuffle towards whatever thing they constantly do on Halloween that Jason has to get drunk for. They're just dead meat anyway, who cares if they go back to the grave with a few extra holes in them? Not like anyone was going to dig the corpse up and check, right? I considered it live fire target practice. The corpse shuffled, slowly along, almost ignoring me. It turned to me once, gave a smile, then kept moving, it's expensive and rotted coat flapping in the cold breeze. I pretended it was call of duty, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. The report was as loud as I remembered it in the range. I opened my eyes, and a zombie was glaring at me. There was an extra oozing hole in his arm from where I'd hit him. He gave me the finger, and kept shuffling forward, going where ever zombies go to do whatever they do. That wasn't the only Zombie I shot that day. There was others. An old woman in a gown shuffling towards a graveyard. An old man that looked as if he'd been the victim of a fire. I was stalking this teenage zombie that must have died in a car accident before Crash grabbed me by the collar and dragged me home. He didn't say anything nearly the entire time. When we got home, he half shoved, half tossed me through the front door, then glared at me in that manner in his human form that makes me think of his werewolf side. A chill ran through me from that glare. I think I'm more afraid of that human glare than I am his werewolf snarl. Call it a product of my upbringing. Jason was waiting for me when I got home. He can yell when he wants to. He's got his normal "I'm mad at this game, or this or that" volume, then he's got this whole other volume that he calls his "military mode". That second one is what I was hearing when I curled up on the edge of the sofa. Their words washed over me as I made little fists and glared at the television. When I was younger, I'd retreat into a video game fantasy, or think about a new level, character, a new product coming out. But, right then? All I could think of was blowing that meth headed vampire's head off. If Crash already killed him, I was going to settle for the damn corpse, regardless of what they said. Jason's actions broke me out of my fantasy when he waved the butt of the pistol in my face. "I should beat you to fucking death with this! Are you even listening to me?! Do you know how fucking reckless that was!?" I looked up at him. I didn't answer him then. I just glared at him. "He's not listening," Crash grumbled. I still didn't answer. They both stormed off after that. Then Jason changed the hiding spot for his pistol and Crash effectively told me if I touched a gun again without his permission, he'd use my gaming console for a chew toy. I threw up my hands after that. "Alright, alright. I won't go shooting any other zombies. I promise." Any other except for Milton's corpse of course. That meth headed rotting bastard of a vampire's corpse. Of course, when Halloween came, and the zombies picked Jason up, I broke that promise. I didn't know what he was thinking at the time, but I suppose I was so angry I wasn't thinking clearly. The hiding spot Jason had chosen was easy to figure out, and he never uses a trigger lock on his weapon. And of course he keeps it loaded, cause according to Jason, "a loaded hand gun is treated with respect. An unloaded hand gun you treat as loaded? You forget sometimes. Accidents happen." So, I didn't bother checking the ammunition inside. It felt full, at least what I thought full feels like in a pistol. I followed them at a distance, being careful not to approach Jason and his rotting entourage too closely. I stayed out of sight as the zombies walked with Jason, shuffling along after the trick-or-treaters had gone home. Bile rose in my throat at the thought of him, that mouth full of rotten meth teeth to go along with his rotten face. I swallowed it down with a helping of bitter anger, the weight of the pistol in my hand comforting me. We passed the darkened houses, porch lights going out as candy runs dry or as families go to bed, leaving the night to the wild and the dead. We left town, pressed on towards a familiar place. It was a local cemetery. It was the one Crash had found Jason in the first year he moved in. Very close to our house. Close to town and populated centers. Not that I cared in that moment. It was also where he was buried. And where he was currently wandering around, holding his head in his hands, literally. The world grew blurry. When did the world get so damn blurry? I was holding the pistol, my hand shaking. My breath was catching in my throat. It shook as I aimed, gritting my teeth hard. I'd hit two zombies along with him, and God only knew what else behind him. None of that mattered in that moment. "I was wondering when you'd get here," Jason slurred. I snarled and whirled on him. "Don't stand in my way. He's dead, he can't feel this." I raised the pistol again. "How about the folks behind him? The innocent people beyond those trees over there? You think they'll feel it," he asked. "I....I...." I began. I didn't give a shit at that moment. All that mattered was vengeance. All that mattered was the liquid magma in my veins that was my own pain. It pulled the trigger on the pistol before I could think or say anything else. The pistol barked loud fire, the shell was throlwn out the side. That bastard had been in my sights! And...nothing. He didn't go down. He didn't react. There wasn't even a new hole in his body. I looked at the gun, stunned. "Blanks," Jason said. "I figured you'd try this." I cried in anger, wheeling the gun back on him. He shouted at me, and knocked the pistol out of my hands. "What the hell you doing!? Just because it's a blank don't mean it can't hurt, ya bastard! They still throw out particles and shit for a few feet. You trying to blind me or somethin?!" "You fucking bastard! You can't even let me have this?!" I punched him as hard as I could in his bad hip. He cried out and collapsed, grabbing it. I kicked him in his back for good measure. It felt good at the time. "You asshole," he screamed out in pain. The zombies crowded around me. They were giving that low moan / growl thing they always did. Zombies creep me out. They always had. I backed up, unsure of what was going to happen. Then I felt it: the cold flesh of a dead head pressing me in the back. I whirled around and faced him. I'd never gotten the chance to see what had happened. Crash mauled his head, literally biting and ripping it off. muscle tissue and neck bone stood up out of the wound. Maggots fed in the open socket. I cried out, the fight leaving me. I was surrounded! There was no escape. Jason was no help. He was still moaning on the ground, calling me a cheap shot bastard. The circle of zombies got closer. They're growls and moans grew louder. I stood tall, though my pulse was pounding in my ears. I gave two dry swallows, and said. "You're gonna kill me now? Fine. Go ahead, you asshole, finish the job you started two months ago." I closed my eyes, and waited. Then I felt dead, cold arms wrap around me. The head was pressed against my back, and his body pressed against my front. Inward, I was giving a full body revulsion. Outward, I kept a stone face. Then he let me go. Stepped back and looked at me, almost head tilting. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick his head a thousand miles and make him go searching for it. I wanted to burn the entire cemetery down with every zombie in it. "It's his apology, you asshole," Jason said. He was seated on the ground somewhere behind me, that much I could hear. I heard him take two large gulps from something, and he grumbled, "you expect him to jump in a time machine and go back, undo everything? re-write the past like some giant fucking editor of life? No, he can't do that. It's not even really Milton anyway. He's burning in hell, or reborn as an ant or whatever happens to assholes when they die. That's only his fucking corpse. The flesh can only mourn what the spirit has done." I didn't know what to say. I closed my eyes then. Part of me wished that my parents had visited after they'd gone. That they had tried to hold me the way that Milton's corpse did. That they had apologized for the neglect, the shouting, the tricks and schemes. I didn't get any of that. All I had was Milton's corpse, looking at me in that confused manner that zombies usually have on their rotting faces. "I can accept, I guess," I said. "If you can forgive me for trying to kill you again." Milton's corpse held his head up to me. The face was smiling. The zombies opened the circle, letting me leave. I'd walked over to Jason, but they stepped in front of me again. "I don't want to fucking talk to you, right now," Jason said. He was taking another long pull from a dusty and cobwebbed bottle of booze. Someone had been buried with it, it seemed. It explained where the zombies kept getting liquor from. What else, could I do? I went home. I showered, feeling the weight of a thousand mistakes upon me. I'd done the thing I'd swore I'd never do. I took advantage of someone's friendship. I even literally kicked them when they were down. After I got out of the shower, I looked myself in the mirror, and said, "I guess you are your father's son." I didn't know what else to do. When Jason was up, I tried to not be. It seemed like a good idea to simply just not be there when he was around. It's how everything was handled in my family growing up. Life was a giant game of "hide the evidence and pretend this never happened". When you spend four days trying to avoid someone, they tend to notice. I spent the days going from work, showering, eating something, then straight to my bedroom. I couldn't look him in the eye in the rare occasions that we did happen to be in the same room. During those times, I did my best to just get the hell out of the area as quick as I could. He threw the door open on my room one night, growled at me, "get your ass up so you can apologize, asshole." "What the actual fuck," was what I said, or something to that effect. "Look, be an adult, apologize for attacking me." I sighed. I looked at the floor at his feet as I rubbed my neck. I muttered, "I"m sorry. For hitting you. And kicking you. And using you, and trying to shoot someone with your pistol without your permission and, well, everything." "Good," Jason grumbled. "You write the end of this damn blog then. If you want my forgiveness, you have to confess to everyone. You do that, we're square." And that was that. Things are kind of returning to normal. Though, Jason has found these candy bars somewhere that are in the shape of zombies. I don't know where he got them from, probably Amazon. He cuts the heads off them, then leaves them, head on top of the body, on a plate near my controller in the living room during the day. I suppose I have it coming. I'll have to figure a way to get him back. Maybe I'll plaster his car with Minecraft stickers? |
un: 
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Community Feed
Puzzle Hub
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
