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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. |
| Why does trouble always find me? Why does trouble follow me around like a lost puppy searching a home? Why does trouble seem to always want me involved to solve it’s issues? And why am I such a damn sucker for all of it? Give me some sad, puppy dog eyes and I’ll always cave. Just ask Crash, who has used it to my detriment on more than one occasion. In wolf form or human, he’ll stick that lip out just so, curl those eyebrows over his eyes, and you can almost hear “hearts and flowers” playing in the background on the world’s tiniest violin. The invitation I had received in the mail I politely wrote I “No thank you” on it and dropped it back in the mail box. Part of me hoped that would end everything, but of course that’s not how life works. Especially in my little corner of the world. Can’t simply just say “no” and go about living life. No sir. Instead, they come up to you, give you those sad, dead, puppy dog eyes, and away we go, wrapped up in another crazy adventure. In the effort to avoid such an outcome, I found myself, well, it’s embarrassing. But I pledged to not hide this kind of information from you or anyone I’ll go ahead and tell you what happened. Our local town has a thrift store. It’s not attached to Goodwill or Salvation Army. It’s just a local run shop that a lady does out of the kindness of her heart. It’s a kind hearted supported place ran out of an old two-story building that looks like it was built almost a century ago. I’ve been frequenting it a couple times a week now. I want to go as John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever for Halloween. That means finding that white polyester leisure suit. And if I’m going to find one, I know this is the place to start my search. Nothing so far had proved to be fruitful, but I was hopeful. After all, people in small towns tend to hold on to trends longer than people in the city, relying a bit more on “what I like” versus “what other people think and wear.” You can find unique things being tossed out of closets in small towns. So far, I had found parachute pants, a shirt with puff-out paint on it, slap bracelets, a ruffled shirt that I swear is either from the sixties or the set of “Austin Powers”, and a pair of Doc Martins. But so far, no leisure suit. As I was searching through the pile of dead fashion choices and bad decisions, a stench of death wafted up at me that wasn’t caused by the MC Hammer pants or the bedazzled belt buckle. I looked around. One other lady was inside shopping. Though she swayed unsteady on her feet I was quite certain she was alive. Mainly cause instead of groans she asked me “do you smell a dead cat somewhere?” She moved on, mumbling something about talking to the owner of the place about it. I turned, and looked outside, and of course, there stood right at the window of the thrift store, a zombie. His pasty white flesh stood in stark contrast to the colorful makeup that was on his face. I could tell he was groaning, but couldn’t hear it, swaying back and forth in front of the window. I froze, holding the shirt in my hands for a moment. There was a sad, lost look on his face. One that tugged at my heart strings for a moment, until I remembered the smell. Oh God, the smell. Three-day old roadkill magnified by a billion. Quickly, I walked towards the back of the store. The owner was back there in her office talking to the old lady about the smell when I walked by. “Uh, you mind,” I asked, “If I go out the back?” “I don’t hun, but why you need to do that?” The owner was a bigger lady, with a large heart and a kind smile. Her cheeks almost dimpled when she smiled, almost like an overgrown cabbage patch kid, complete with adoption papers. I smiled back at her, and shrugged. “Saw my ex, don’t want to talk to her,” I lied. “Go ahead, darlin,” she said, then continued her conversation. I knew once I was out the door, they’d be searching for this mystery woman that could vex my heart so. Such is life in a small midwestern town. Everyone is friendly. Everyone wants to help. And tell everyone else about it after they’ve done so. You combine that with meth and questionable teenage pranks and you have midwestern life in America. Technically the line about seeing a woman I didn’t want to talk to wasn’t a lie. There was a woman. Sure, we hadn’t dated before. Tell you the truth, I’m not certain we ever met when she was alive. But alive she was, no longer. She was now a corpse, standing near the street, wearing an old dirty dress, mussed up hair, and maggots. I saw this blushing former beauty as I rounded the old building and started making my way towards the path back to home. She was standing near a curb, in a fairly nice dress with some dark brown smudge stains on it that could only be dirt, and two clouded over eyes, and pale white, dead skin. Thankfully, she didn’t see me as I raced by. Midwesterners are curious by nature. They love to know a little bit of gossip about their neighbors especially when that neighbor is alternating between running between buildings, slowing down in the street, and literally doing a high crawl in front of his house to get around seemingly nothing. If you don’t know what a high crawl is, think Rambo. The scene where he’s under the huts in the village trying to get back soldiers? That’s it. That’s the high crawl. What my neighbors saw was typical craziness from the crazy house on the street. Lord knows what they even think about us at this point. What I saw was a zombie standing between buildings. A zombie on a street corner, moaning and swaying, staring at me. And a zombie in front of the house, watching the front door, like it was waiting for me to come out. That’s why I crawled from the street corner, down the road, across the drive way, to get to the side door. At times scraping my face against the ground, trying my hardest to be low. To be unnoticed. To be ignored. Into the driveway. Passed my car. Up the hill towards the side door. Then I hear the shuffling gate behind me. The low moan of someone trying to say something, but not knowing what to say or even how to speak. The stench of death. I stood and ran, yelling the entire way, and slammed the door shut. “What’s wrong with you,” Zack asked, yawning. It was his day off at least. “Zombies,” I said. “They’re going to get you again,” He laughed. “No they won’t,” I grumbled, then walked towards the front door to look out. The zombie was gone. As was the rest of them. In their place sat a single bottle of one of the most expensive liquors I’ve seen. Jack Daniels has some very expensive bottles and if you get the right year and make, you can easily spend over one thousand dollars on a single bottle. What was left on our front porch next to our mailbox was one of those bottles, with a note attached. The bottle, the note it all was dirty of course and had a feint smell of death. Inside the note was a single word: “Please.” |
| Never has a strange, dirty invitation ever filled me with so much dread before in my entire life. It arrived in or mailbox at an odd time, had a scent of death upon it, and dirt smeared at the edges. Like the individual who had written it had crawled out of the ground before they had written it. It was beautiful, and reminded me of an invitation to a wedding. Though, there was no names on it other than my own, and didn’t have a location written upon it. The only thing this invitation had was a notification that I had been cordially invited too….well something. It didn’t really go further into information than that. I was invited to this grand event that they felt the need to put it on special paper, to smudge the edges with dirt, and to run it across a dead animal’s carcass before dropping it in the mailbox. The first word that came to mind filled my heart with dread a little bit: zombies. Now, zombies aren’t the armies of the walking, perpetually starving dead that want to eat your face off like they always portray in those old films. In fact, I kind of wish they were. That would be easy to deal with, by a bunch of the old school scissor type hedge clippers, sharpen the blades, mount them all around head height around the house. Wait for zombies to decapitate themselves while I drink a cup of coffee and watch. Maybe make popcorn. These zombies are more like what Crash called them: soul wrappers. After they die and the soul leaves the body, the flesh can sometimes mourn its separation I suppose. They miss the individual that used to reside in them. They wonder about who they used to be. And they hold a get together on Halloween, where they have a semi-party, semi-group therapy session. Think of it like a high school reunion of dead, rotting corpses. Last year, I ended up roped into things. Normally I’m all for getting involved in such matters, after all I’m kind of known by now for sticking my head into places where it doesn’t belong, but that is an experience that I do not want to relive. No sir. No ma’am. No way. No thank you! I almost vomited in my car when that zombie decided to hitch a ride. Not to mention all the trouble I went through with getting the smell out afterwards. Then there was the get together itself. The largest drunk therapy session I’ve ever had. And the only successful one I might add. Thing is, alcohol needs to be involved for another event like that one. There’s no way you can expect that I will do something similar again without being drunk. But I’m sober! I’ve been sober for almost a year now, and I don’t want to fall off the wagon thanks to a bunch of rotting corpses that can’t accept the fact that they’re dead. It really would be easier if they’d just desire to eat my face off. If they’d just crave human flesh. Cause then all I could do is decapitate them and call it a night. But in reality, doing such a thing may free me of my obligation, but I was never one to throw puppies into a sack and toss them in a river. Decapitating these walking dead would feel just like that. Like I was just killing the innocent simply because I could. Crash has liked my newly minted sobriety. Talks of me getting a steady job has started up again. I’ve even typed out a few applications, though I haven’t gotten any callbacks yet. Maybe it’s my resume? Perhaps I shouldn’t have “recovering drunk” down as my current occupation. Hmm… Zack, Kris and Shawn has even commented on me being a nicer person now that I’ve stopped partying with Jack, the Lord, and their Captain. Drinking on that night to deal with what I must do would possibly toss all of that away. The chance at an actual job. At a kinder relationship with my roommates. At a different kind of future. But maybe I’m just overthinking things. No one says I have to drink to do that. No one says I have to do it at all. What was it that Kris said? Lock the door and don’t ask questions? I could do that. But I’m not that kind of person. It’s part of the reason I joined the military in the first place, after all. I was never one to just duck my head in the sand and pretend that things would magically get better. Either you accept the world is crashing down around you or you jump head first into the mess and try and fix it. But this year, my therapy couch is closed. Maybe that’s what I should write on this stinky invitation. No thank you, I’m done. Once was enough. I don’t need a repeat performance. No way! You’re not getting me. You hear me zombies? Not this year. No! Not This Year! |
| I'll give a state of the blog. First, the reason. This week was going to be a brief posting on AI and a small rant from Jason that was mainly about how bad the images where, (cause I had bing do a few images and they're bad), but instead I'm having a fight with back pain this morning which is shattering most of my concentration. Guess that's what I get for waiting until last minute to write it. Usually I start the post on Tuesday or Wednesday, then make corrections until friday and post. The blog itself: Well, I've had a total of about 50 posts, 8656 all time views as of this posting, including 4257 this month alone. From all of those views, I've made a grand total of: $.46. Lol, I definitely don't do this for the money. Advertising: Well, I do advertise it in one area and have been spending around $20-30 a month on it. Good thing I'm not in this for the cash. Characters, well I've introduced several which I'm not certain who the favorite is so far as far as characters go. Anyone got any ideas? Who's yours? I've had a total of 15 comments so far. And 2 subscribers. Can't help but feel I'd have had a lot more if I'd have just gone with blogger to start with. Ah well, you live, you learn. I do have questions for you guys though if you're willing to answer them. Who is your favorite hero? Who is your favorite villain? Who is your favorite side character? Is there any quests you'd really like to see? Any other mythical creatures you'd really like me to tap into? Just curious. I'd be grateful if you answered, but of course answering is not mandatory. Thank you all so much for reading. |
| Orange and black season is almost upon us! Tis the time of year that everyone begins to pull down their Halloween decorations from the attic, dust them off and put them up, stock up on huge bags of slightly over priced candy, and get spooky! You’d think that given the events that has happened in our little town recently most people would want to ignore Halloween and go right into Christmas. You’d be wrong, of course. After having just experienced something so traumatic, especially for those who have been mentally held prisoner by the meth-headed blood sucker, it seems to be more important, not less, that people get into the holiday spirit. Paper ghosts, jack-o-lanterns, zombies, and of course werewolves. There has been quite a bit more werewolf stuff around town. Claw marks, werewolf heads, card board cut outs, all sorts of things. But no vampires. Not even sparkly ones. One house put up a vampire statue of sorts, one of those plastic lawn ornament things that sing and dance. But in the middle of the night someone be-headed it. Cops are “looking into it”, but I’m sure they’re going to not find anything. Not that I blame them for not looking too hard. I wasn’t thrilled about it being up myself and probably would have destroyed it if someone else hadn’t got there first. For the most part things have been returning to a some-what normal stasis. The poison is taking a little longer to get out of Crash’s system than he’d like. But he’s at least been able to be human again for a couple days, something he’s missed. He’s also been able to eat a couple more things than before, but he’s not back to normal yet. It’s strange. Certain things now upsets his stomach or causes him to break out into an itchy, scratchy mess. Other things have no effect. Crash is certain that after six months it’ll be gone. I just hope he’s right. It’s getting old sweeping up bloody fur clumps in the morning because he’s had a bad night at work. Gary’s been, well, Gary. He has chatted with Zack a little bit. But he’s not come back around and talked to me again, yet. I think he’s afraid I’m holding some sort of grudge about how everything went down. I can understand that thought. After all, he did threaten my life several times, lead a mad posse on a chase after me through the woods in the dark that thankfully he didn’t get injured or killed in, a miracle by itself. That would be enough to make anyone upset. If I hadn’t been through so much living here, and of course there’s my previous occupation in the military, I would have been just a bit upset. Zack hasn’t really said much, other than that Gary seems to be “apologetic” about everything. But the thing is, I’m not mad at him. Perhaps I should send him a card that says sorry you’re upset? I don’t really know. If I can catch him on one of his walks, then that will make things quite a bit easier to talk to him. It could also be the whole werewolf thing. The cat maybe out of the bag in that regards. Vic was supposed to suppress everyone’s memories of what happened, but it seems that some people might actually still remember. Crash, on his limited excursions into town says he seems to be a little more popular than before. Even Kris and Sean, two individuals whom everyone ignored at the best of times, and sneered at in the usual “eww” manner in the worst of times, seems to be getting more smiles and nods than glares. We’re not the most popular people in town. We really don’t wish to be. But more people seem to be going out of their way to be nice to us. The werewolf things seem to be out and about more around our house than anywhere else in town now that I think about it. Even Gary seems to have a werewolf thing around his home. Maybe the townsfolk are embracing their furry protector of sorts? Maybe they’re just subconsciously dealing with the ramifications of what occurred? Maybe they’re just clueless as to what happened, what is occurring and who we are, and just subconsciously like werewolves now? It could be one of those things. Or, it could be Vic, who enjoys his practical jokes, decided to play one on Crash by having everyone around him love werewolves all of a sudden. That would be my guess. From what little I know about the guy he loves playing those practical jokes, especially on Crash, who enjoys teasing and joking with him right back. So, of course he’d seize this opportunity to prank him. From what I can tell everything seems to be going well. Though one of our new neighbors down the street seems to know a little more than she lets on about things. I’ve spoken to Marissa twice now. She seems nice. Taller lady, with a farmer’s daughter sort of build. A smile on her face, and a laugh in her heart. She’s the kind that can talk your ear off. So is Crash, so of course they’ll get to going on and on and on and on. When we first met her, she began a conversation with me about her small house, her yard and things. Crash came outside to see what the hubbub was, found her, and well, after ten minutes of not getting a word in edgewise I walked off. Neither noticed. But things seem to be winding down back to normal now. I’m glad I can put all of this behind me. Can enjoy a spooky season without any rotting corpses following me around like a lost puppy dog. Unlike last year, with the dead brigade dragging me into their strange party or whatever it was. This year I’m not doing ANYTHING like that. Nope! I’m following Zack’s and Kris’ advice and keeping my butt in the house. May play some video games or something, but I am NOT going to be helping the dead brigade in their quest to learn about who they used to be. No way, nuh uh! That is not happening this year. |
| There is a strange, surreal nature to having a group of people shouting your name and chasing you through the woods. My impromptu gardening, spurred on by the thought that it was somehow responsible for Crash’s predicament, sat abandoned. Gary and several others I didn’t know were shouting my name and chasing me; stumbling through the woods in the darkness. My heart pounded; my pulse quickened as I tried to move through the trees. I could tell I was being herded in a direction, moved closer towards buildings and town itself instead of away from our old house on the edge of the woods. Soon, I had spilled into a roadway that would eventually become main street. The hills on either side of the road had houses on them, the squat kind that felt more manufactured than purpose built. Short buildings loomed ahead in the darkness. Street lamps cast a feint glow upon the pavement holding back the harshest parts of the darkness. Dozens of people began to fill the road behind me, all shouting my name. Gary at the front, called out to me, saying that he was promised my death would be quick, that it would be nice. That I was going to get the nice, happy death. Whatever the hell that meant. The only sensible thing to do was to run. To ignore the darkened store fronts that had faces glaring at me out of them, and to keep running. Don’t look back. There may be something after you, after all. Every small town is built the same. There is one main intersection that the rest of the town exists upon. It is human nature to design them like this. No matter if it’s a third world country that’s seen more war than a Kardashian has seen shoes, the towns and villages, what little of them there are there, are still built around a single intersection. Ours had two story buildings on all four corners, with two of them being department style stores and apartments above, one of them being a bar of some kind with apartments above, and the other being a local restaurant. With apartments above, of course. I ran straight towards this intersection, knowing full well what was coming. It was a classic pincher movement. Lure your enemy into an area, close the gap around them and now they’re surrounded. This time it was dozens, if not a couple hundred people versus little old me. Without my pistol. Without Crash. Without even so much as a prayer. The only way out of it was straight through. If I could run faster than they expected, then perhaps I could blow right by them and escape; get far enough that I could…. well, I didn’t know. At least get away and time to make another plan. Ten feet. Five. My legs burned. My lungs ached. There were scratches on top of scratches from running through the woods half blind. I put everything I had into my legs and sprinted. A tangle of bodies sprinted after me, like a hoard of zombies in an AMC TV show. Someone grabbed my arm, I twisted yanking on it, someone else grabbed my waist. Down I went. I thrashed, I writhed as the horde of not AMC zombies grabbed my limbs and pulled them taught. I looked up, glaring at everyone, but not threatening anyone. After all, I knew who was behind it, didn’t I? If given a choice, I figure none of them would even be there then. But that was just it, they really didn’t have much of a choice. Something else was controlling them against their will. The mass of faces parted. I looked up as much as I could to see them clearing a path in the street. A white pickup truck backed up through the crowd. In the truck bed was an expensive lazy boy recliner of some kind, and seated upon it like it was his throne was the one and only, king of the meth-headed vampires, Mitch. His black greasy hair was combed back. He was wearing some sort of Kid Rock T-shirt with a big grin on his face. “There he is, there he is,” he smiled as the truck stopped a couple feet in front of me, clapping a few times in mock cheer. “My, my, my. Why, me and my fam here ran you like a wild boar, didn’t we? But here you are now, just as pretty as a picture.” “Lee Roy! As I live and breathe,” I smirked. He stepped off the truck and knelt down on top of me, snarling. “Lee Roy was my brother,” he growled. “I’m sorry Lee Roy,” I said. “I keep getting you two mixed up. How is your brother these days?” He grabbed me by the throat and pinned me down, growling in my face. I could smell the stench of his unwashed body, the sickening beef like coppery scent of blood on his breath. And of course, the sweet scent of frequent meth abuse. “Oh,” I gasped. “Still dead I see. Sorry about that.” “Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” he snarled in my ear. “See, your death is going to be a long one. A simple suicide isn’t enough to pay for what you done. I’m going to cut on you. Bleed you all night. My fam here will be dining on you while you scream. And every time I feed from them; I’ll get a small part of you. You ugly sumbitch are going to spend hours bleeding and screaming, and I’ll get to watch. You’ll get to watch me feeding on all your friends. Best of all, your werewolf pet cannot save you this time. He will die knowing that he. Could. Not. Save. You.” In times like this, you cannot give in to what they want. Mitch wanted me to crumble, to break down and cry. So, I had to do anything I could to not give him that. Some accomplish this by being stoic. I had never been the stoic type. “Damn Lee Roy,” I said, “I didn’t know you cared so much. You could always just send flowers, you know. Or do what every redneck does and talk shit on TikTok.” He rolled his eyes and stood. “Prepare him,” He shouted “Gary, you get first….” He never finished. As he turned, he looked towards the sky and froze. Crash in full werewolf form had leaped over the truck in a single, snarling bound, and crashed down upon the meth-head. They collapsed into a heap next to me, with the vampire pinned beneath four hundred plus pounds of snarling, angry werewolf. A single clawed hand held his throat.. Crash’s fangs glinted deadly in the thin light. Crash denies it, but he did drool on the vampire. I know what I saw. I hadn’t thought it possible for the vampire to go even whiter than what he was. Mitch stammered, “I-i-it’s impossible! You’re supposed to be bleeding to death! Th-the wolfsbane! I-it should be b-burning you alive! You should be a ball of whimpering pain!” “A werewolf’s life IS pain,” Crash snarled then raised a clawed hand up. Mitch was about to be beheaded, and I, thanks to my wonderful neighbors still holding me down, was going to get a front row seat. “Wait!” Shouted the vampire. “If you kill me, it will kill all these folk!” A groan of pain began to fill the crowd around us. People started grabbing their heads as if something was trying to claw its way out from inside. I had no idea what Mitch was doing or how he was doing it. “I swear it’ll be my last act on God’s green earth.” “You sick bastard,” Crash snarled down on him. Then he looked up. His expression changed briefly staring at the growing pain that was on everyone’s face. “Run,” he said. “You have exactly one hour to get out of my county. Then I’m coming after you. And I WILL find you.” Crash stood and let the vampire up, who didn’t waste any time. He raced over to the truck and pulled out some skinny teenager from the driver’s seat and jumped inside. Tires squealed. His recliner thumped forward. And with that, he was gone. As he left, the collective groans, which almost became cries of agony finally stopped. As the tail lights disappeared into the night, Crash knelt down, shivering. A pained whimper rose up in his throat. And then he collapsed in the road. I stood. I was numb. Unsure. Tired. All feelings I had been used to in my previous job. Feelings I was used to. That old familiar instinct kicked in. “You,” I pointed at an on-looker, “You got a car?” He nodded his head. “Good, get me,” “I have an ambulance.” I turned. It was the sheriff. Will wonders never cease. “Good, I need,” “Don’t worry,” he said, cutting me off. “I know what to do.” There isn’t much more to tell from that night. Sherriff kept most folks in the area. A few wandered off. Vic came down with Crash’s boss, and one at a time worked on the people there, doing whatever sort of mental trickery that vampires do. He managed to hold back the meth addiction in most of them as well as suppress their memories. Of course, a few of the more addictive types had a new chemical dependency they had to worry about. Or worry about again, whatever the case maybe there. But that was nothing new for the town or the local cops to deal with. The sheriff had the ambulance take us home, even had the EMTs bring Crash right back to my bed. The sun had risen and I was ready for some sleep by the time Vic came around to check on him. He looked in on Crash, the two joked as per their usual banter, though I didn’t go into the room at that time. I waited in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hands, watching the sunrise. Soon Vic came in, a heavy sigh in his throat, but waved down the offered coffee. I didn’t even know if vampires touched that stuff, but it never hurts to be polite. “You finally know what happened,” I asked. “You were right,” Vic said in that plain vanilla midwestern accent of his. His brownish blond hair was almost on fire in the early morning light. “It was the wolfsbane. But that son of a bitch was smart. He didn’t just plant it around the house and hoped it would get him sick. He put itching powder over it, and just about everything else in the vicinity of the woods.” “I don’t get it,” I said. “Itching powder? Why that?” “Cause,” Vic said, “Crash would scratch. With a claw. That will eventually draw blood, and get the wolfsbane pollen and other chemicals he spread around, in his system. Which will cause him to scratch more.” “Oh,” I said. “So the more he scratched,” “The more he was infecting himself,” Vic finished for me. “You were pretty smart too,” Vic said. “That bit with the dawn and stuff is probably what saved his life.” I smiled and shrugged. “Worked on oil-soaked penguins.” Vic arched an eyebrow and clapped me on the shoulder. Some people have no sense of humor. “I gave him a shot. He should be up and around in a day or two. And you,” he said, pointing at me. “No more fights with vampires. I mean it! If Crash hadn’t been there,” “I’d be dead and fed to the masses, I heard.” “No, it would have been worse than that. Far worse. He wanted to keep you alive for days. Weeks if possible. I’ve seen some of the plans he had from the memories of his food. Slowly bleeding to death would have been the least of your torments.” “That sick son of a bitch,” I grumbled. “Yes,” Vic replied. “No more fights with vampires.” “I swear,” I said, “I will not start any fights with vampires.” That was a couple days ago. Crash is back up and around again. Certain foods have upset his stomach, but I hope that’s just a side effect of the shot and not a permanent thing for the poor guy. But we’ll see what happens. Most of the towns people has forgotten what had happened or pretended to. They look at Crash as that weird guy who lives near the woods with those other weird guys again. No one has threatened me in a while, which is nice. I can get used to this whole having a normal, boring day thing. But Gary hasn’t looked me in the eye for a while and hasn’t come over to talk cars since. Which, honestly, is just too bad. Cause I’m not mad at him. After all, it’s like he chose to do those things. But we can’t change what we remember. We can’t change what had happened. All we have is the present day, and even that, for some of us, is sketchy moment to moment. We have but few pleasures in this world: whether it’s cars or music or movies or games or what have you. When someone manages to steal the pleasure out of one of those things for you, they’ve stolen a part of you. In which case, if Gary truly did lose that sense of enjoyment he gets from old station wagons, that would be just too bad. Cause that would mean, at least in some small way, that meth-headed vampire jerk did win. |
| Dead weight is twice as heavy as regular weight. Anyone who has tried to lift an unconscious or dead body knows what I’m talking about. It pulls, it heaves, it hangs in so many awkward ways and always feels like you’re lifting something that’s twice as heavy. Now, make that weight the body of a werewolf far heavier than you. “Oh man, he needs to go on a diet,” Shawn grumbled as we dragged Crash into the bathroom. Both of us had given up on lifting him. He was just too heavy for regular humans. Now, if we’d been involved in dead lifting competitions and tough man contests like they used to play on ESPN before they decided the P stood for politics, then we might have had a chance. But right then? “Crash, you hear me? You’re going on a diet,” I shouted down at him as we slid his body into the bathroom. We had decided the best course of action was me grab one arm, Shawn to grab the other and we just lift and pull backwards. Yes, with my bad leg and back. He’s lucky I didn’t fall on him. It was a struggle getting him into the tub. In the end we lifted his head and rolled him in, dumping his body at an awkward angle. We struggled and strained, heaving his heavy body up and over the edge of the tub until we Crash finally rolled into the tub at an awkward angle. Thankfully, it was less difficult to arrange him into the tub so he wasn’t laying on his head. But I think that was because he was finally helping us. “Okay,” Shawn asked me. “Now what?” “Grab the bag of soap.” Shawn took too steps backwards like he was going to follow my instructions. But the confusion on his face reminded me of a toddler trying to get a mystery item for his parents. “I had it when I came through the door,” I half said, half chided. “Oh yeah,” he shouted as the light dawned. Then he was gone. He came stumbling in a few moments later, bag held aloft like some trophy in a strange internet game show. I snatched the bag from his hands and pulled the bottle of Dawn from it. Looking down at Crash who had gone back into whimpering mode, I said “you better pray you’re just an oil-soaked penguin.” Dawn makes a lot of suds. A LOT of suds. When applied to a werewolf who is bleeding profusely from multiple scratches all over himself, the suds come up more pink then white. As we began scrubbing with rags, with green scrub pads, with whatever we could get really, the pink suds started changing colors. Thick, yellow, mucous like puss began to flow, and sudsing up, turning the bubbles into a sickening yellowish pinkish sort of color that at times faded into orange. The smell. Oh God the smell. It was the scent of full body sweat sick. Of someone trapped in a bed for two weeks with fever funk mixed with an underlying stench of rot and decay. As the yellow pus began to bubble up, Crash began to shiver, as if a fever was taking over him. “What’s causing this,” Shawn asked. “I don’t,” I began. Then I remembered. It was one of those powerful punch type memories, as if God or the universe or whoever was trying to tell you something. We had been standing outside, in the wooded area. Crash was scratching, showing me the wolfsbane flowers. “Come on,” he said, as he scratched more. It was as if he was getting worse. “Shit,” I grumbled. “I have an idea. Let’s get him cleaned up first.” Rinsing Crash was harder than scrubbing him. It took several rinses, water splashing all over us, all over the floor, all over just about everything in the bathroom. It really felt like I was scrubbing a dog for a while. We attempted to lift Crash once or twice, but gave up after a while, and tried to dry him off in place. Shawn got paranoid and began wiping up the water on the floor, for which I was grateful to be honest. Cause although may have been comical, it could have been disastrous to fall with several hundred pounds of whimpering werewolf crashing down upon you. The werewolf’s eyes fluttered open. He took a couple of heaving gasps, then looked down at the mess. “Crap,” he muttered. Several of the wounds he had scratched into himself trying to scratch at whatever had attacked him was now closing. He stood. Swayed. But stayed up. Crash used our help to get out of the bathroom. Then it was off to his bedroom, where we paused. “No,” I said, turning him around. “Sleep in my bed.” “Huh,” he asked, looking at me. “Wha?” “Look,” I said, “whatever’s got you scratching up is obviously all over just about everything in your room. That includes your sheets. You sleep in my bed. We’ll strip your bed and begin cleaning things.” He didn’t fight, just grumbled, his ears folded back in distress. He hadn’t been in human form for days now, constantly walking around the house on his time off, scratching at everything. Bleeding all over everything from his constant thick clawed scratching. It had taken countless hours of restless sleep, of sweat induced days, of bleeding for countless hours on end but Crash was finally at the end of his nub it seemed. Worn down to the point where fight had fled him. When he collapsed on the bed, he grumbled, but didn’t say another word. And mercifully, he didn’t scratch. “Zack’s not gonna be happy,” I said looking at Crash in my bed. “Why,” Shawn asked, looking at me strangely. “Cause I have to sleep on the couch now.” He gave me a look of confusion at first before it dawned on him. “Oh yeah! Cause Crash,” he muttered. Now, there was an old movie called “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” that briefly came to mind. And although having Crash wake up in that situation would be hilarious, I didn’t have it in me to prank him when he was like this. “Come on,” I said. “You do laundry, I’ll do gardening.” “Uh…” Shawn said, then turned to Crashes room, scratching his curly brown hair. “Okay.” He walked into Crash’s room and began pulling sheets. When Kris got home from his job, he’d grumble but he’d help I knew. Zack would help as well if there was anything left to do. And right about then, we needed one of Zack’s cleaning tears. Now, among the hobbies I that I do have, gardening is not one of them. However, even me, in the back of my brain understood that if these plants were the things killing Crash, then I would need gloves to rip them up. The gardening gloves belonged to who knows who, but they were in the back of the garage, so they were snagged. They didn’t fit at all, but at least it was something. Then, I went to the woods and began to pull. It didn’t take long before I was covered in dirt, mud and lord only knew what and had a pile of these rotten things at my knees. I felt an itch working it’s way inward, an itch I ignored as I ripped up the deadly things. Working my way through, I tore every single flower that even slightly resembled one of the blue belled hated things that Crash pointed out to me earlier. The sunlight fades faster in when you’re in the woods. And, although I didn’t notice the light going down, I did notice how dark everything suddenly became. My pocket rang once, and I answered, half huffing, exhausted, but happy about the work that I had done. It was Crash’s boss. I’m not sure if I ever revealed his name, have I? Well, he’s not the type to want to be in one of these things. But he did ask if Crash was done with his investigation. To which, I told him some jerk had planted wolfsbane all around the property in the woods and I was cleaning it out. That Crash had almost scratched himself to death and I had to scrub him down and sent him to bed while we wash everything. He told me that didn’t happen from Wolfsbane. Apparently, it’s only dangerous if somehow the chemical that they make get under the skin. Even breathing in the pollen, although isn’t pleasant, won’t hurt them. They have to eat it, get it inside themselves somehow. When I told him what Crash had revealed to me about the vampires, I looked up. A pair of glasses seemed to glint in the dying light. “I got to go,” I said to him. “And I might be in trouble.” |
| I took my neighbors warning with as much gravitas as was needed for such a situation. Which means of course I turned it into a joke. That’s all you can really do in these situations. You make them jokes. Beneath the dark humor is a layer of darker reality. An understanding of the harshness that can and perhaps will befall me and Crash himself. “I have to kill myself in three days or he’s going to murder everyone apparently,” I had told Crash who was seated at the kitchen table. “What’s for dinner?” Crash shrugged. “It’s Zack’s turn. He said he’s picking up pizza. Scratch, scratch, scratch. “Can I have your pistol?” “No. I’m going to give it to Zack.” He gave me the most pitiful face I’ve ever seen on a sentient creature. “You’re no fun.” I laughed. “Well, Zack will want it, besides you’ll probably be killed beside me.” Crash shrugged. “Are you kidding? I’m lighting the ceremonial torch.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “On yourself? And will you stop scratching, you’re making it worse!” He looked at me, his ears folded in discomfort and pain. “Ever have an itch so bad it physically hurt? Multiply that by a thousand. That’s what I feel right now.” I sighed and leaned against the sink. “What does your doc say?” “He came in, got a skin sample, then said to try, and I quote, ‘every soap known to man, I’m not even kidding. Use Dawn if you have to.’ End quote.” “But, you look nothing like an oil soaked baby penguin.” He gave me a puppy dog look, then lolled his tongue out for a second. “No, I’m cuter,” he replied. I gave him a smirk. “In a horrifying nightmare that would eat Freddy Kruger sort of way, yeah. Much cuter.” It went on like that for probably another fifteen minutes. Jokes and insults going back and forth until finally Crash, scratching a new spot on his arm, said “office got wind of Mitch a bit ago. They’re working on it they say.” I sighed, “what does that mean?” “Generally,” he grumbles, “that means I handle it. But given your situation. My situation and this whole damn town going to pot, not sure at this moment.” I sighed. “What will we do?” “What can we do?” Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch. “Can Vic, you know,” I began. Crash head tilted for a moment, until it finally dawned on him. “You mean, kick Mitch out of the brain of everyone in town? He’s good, but he’s not that good. He’d have glamor just about everyone, then mentally kick Mitch out one at a time. That would require a lot of willpower and strength, and Mitch will get tired of fighting and use one of his victims to just kill Vic.” “Or have Vic arrested,” I suggested. “Or dozen or so other ways of getting out of it.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “It wouldn’t work.” “Well, you have any idea what’s causing your itching? You’re bleeding all over the furniture.” He shrugged. “Were-mange?” He grinned at his own bad joke. “No clue.” He went from a snappy sardonic grin to pleading puppy dog eyes in about three seconds. “Could you please pick me up some…” I sighed. “Yes, I’ll get the dawn.” And death threats I thought. “Thanks! And a candy bar.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “Isn’t chocolate bad for dogs though,” I asked, then ducked as he threw a kitchen towel at me. “Okay, okay,” I chuckled, I’m going!” The town has a smallish grocery store, with a few isles that crowd in the necessities near some of the more profitable sugar products. It has all the feeling of a store that should be torn down and rebuilt but is reluctantly being kept open by its owners who hopes that the building will just one day rot into the ground so they don’t have to worry about it anymore. Some of the craters in the parking lot are larger than ones I’ve seen in warzones. The brick façade outside is more dingy gray than red with white mortar. But at least it doesn’t smell sour or stale, so the place has that going for it if nothing else. I squeezed down the cleaner isle and grabbed the big blue jug of Dawn. From there, I started looking at others, seeing if perhaps Borax or something else would be a good idea too. As I was searching, A kind old lady, one whom I’ve never seen before looked at me with a sweet smile. “Made your last plans, murder?” She asked, then moved on by the isle. “What,” I asked, turning towards her. “I’m gonna have fun dragging you and your pet dog outside,” another voice behind me said. I turned to look at a guy three times my size who had a sour disposition on his face. I clenched my fist, preparing for a fight. “You’re gonna die screaming and cursing his name,” said a voice behind me. I turned again, and there was a teenager glaring at me from behind his very wide mother who apparently didn’t hear a thing. “Say your prayers, write your will, don’t try and stop me, because nothing will.” It was a good thing I didn’t have my gun on me then. I turned and grabbed the lapel of the guy who growled it, shoving him against the shelf. It rattled from our weight but didn’t topple over. A couple of items clattered to the ground from behind it. “What did you say,” I snarled. He held up his hands. “Look sir, I want no trouble,” he stammered. He looked to be about the skinniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Obvious meth head with short gray hair. I looked up into his wrinkled face, the sunken jaw with obvious rotted out teeth, and sighed dropping him. Yes, I could have turned him into hamburger, but it wouldn’t be worth the hip pain. A lot of fights just aren’t worth the hip pain. “Stupid nursery rhyme death threats,” I grumbled letting him go. He shuffled away from me quickly. By the time he got to the next isle, I was certain he’d already forgotten the encounter. These things seemed to go that way. I figured dumb, drugged and creepy wanted me scared, but didn’t want me arrested. After days of this madness, it was finally starting to work. The checkout counter was never a more welcome sight in my life. Of course, I expected a death threat of some kind. Was on edge for it. With fists clenched and eyes wild, I began putting my groceries on the belt. Waiting for something. “Find everything you’re looking for,” The girl asked. She had to have been just out of high school. I nodded. “Think so,” I mumbled, looking around. There are times when you need a kind smile and a good heart. I didn’t get any of the teenage angst or disconnected melodrama that you can expect at times from teenagers. Instead, this woman who couldn’t have been older than nineteen gave me the most sincere, caring smile I’ve ever got. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “Yeah,” I sighed, leaning against the check counter. Now it just holds the credit card reader, but that was the original purpose of it – to give you a place to write your checks. “It probably will,” I replied. “You just got to believe it,” she said sweetly. I nodded, and gave her the cash she asked for. I really was feeling better when she gave me the change, and in just as sweet of a voice said, “because we really do want you to enjoy your last two days on Earth.” I snarled a thanks at her, then grabbed my bags and left. You could say there was a bit of a mood about me when I got back. I set the bags on the counter, was prepared to begin slamming things around, until I saw Crash. Shawn was standing over him, a confused look in the surfer dude’s face. “I found him like this,” he muttered. “We got to, uh, I don’t know man. We got to do something.” There was a blood around him. He was half grumbling half whining in pain. “Let’s get him into the tub,” I said. “Then what,” Shawn asked. “We scrub,” I said. “And if you’re religious, pray.” |
| The cashier smiled oh so sweet at me as she told me “That will be eleven dollars and eighteen cents. Murderer.” I’ve grown used to the accusations by then so I simply swiped my card, smiled back, grabbed my bag and left. I tried not to make it obvious that I was carrying. These days I carry everywhere I go. When you get idle threats pumping gas, walking down the block, going into the Dollar General, you tend to make sure you’re protected. If I went to church, I’d even carry in there at this point. Not that I go out much anymore. What did I have in my bag? A couple things for the kitchen and doggy shampoo for Crash. Specifically stuff that was supposed to kill mange. We’d tried everything else and was growing a bit desperate. Soap and water came first. Then came changing laundry detergent. He sniffed around in his car, in his clothing, in the garage around the house. In the woods. Everywhere he could find, and couldn’t come up with much. There was a new strain of wolfsbane growing in the wooded area behind the house, but Crash didn’t give it much thought. “Wolfsbane doesn’t do much,” he grumbled. “I’d have to consume quite a bit of it for it to do any harm.” The blue flower was beautiful, but I was told “it is poisonous to you. Don’t mess with it without gloves.” We stood in the woods in the late evening as he pointed it out to me. He continued to itch, and pretty much was just a werewolf twenty-four seven now. His arms were in red patches, with ugly scraps of fur sticking out here and there. Some of it caked with blood. “Poison ivy. Gotcha,” I said. He gave me a glance that spoke of bemusement and exhaustion. “Not poison ivy. Wolf’s Bane. Poisonous, don’t mess with it.” I shrugged. “Poison Ivy. Gotcha.” This is the attitude that usually got me in trouble in the military. It was about then that whatever superior I was joking with would teach me in harsh detail the benefits of respecting authority. As they say used to say, there’s the smart, and the strong. I was always strong. I don’t play these games to be a jerk, I do it because my mind relies on associations. Associating the plant with poison ivy worked a lot better for me than trying to learn separately what it did and how it could harm you. “Whatever,” he snarled, and started scratching his arms again. We headed back towards the house, ignoring the encroaching plant. This was beginning to puzzle me, and when I started asking Crash about it, he snarled. “Don’t. I already know who it is.” “Kheid,” I snarled. Crash ear tipped me a smirk that made me feel as though I had just got the werewolf’s equivalent of ‘bless your heart’. “No. He’s in another county right now. Over ran a home.” “What?” “Yes,” Crash nodded. “Those poor people are gone.” When I asked Crash what happens when I lawn gnome gets inside, he gave it to me in vivid detail. At least there’s no blood involved. Life for the victims become a whole lot more…ceramic we’ll just say. I gave a shudder thinking about it. “You mean, when Kheid almost got inside, he was going to,” I asked, not finishing the sentence. “Yes,” Crash said. “You were almost gnomed.” The longer I live with Crash, the more I learn that it always pays to listen to your neighborhood werewolf. There’s a lot of crazy creatures out there that we don’t even know about some of them we don’t honestly even have myths for that these poor, overworked individuals keep at bay for us. We were no closer to an answer for him. I was so paranoid of outsiders at this point that I had nearly shot the poor mail lady. She at least didn’t call me a murderer, but did call me a psychopath. Guess I can’t blame her. But hey, she made an awful lot of noise with that mailbox when she dropped off the bills and that game for Zack. It isn’t completely my fault that I thought this sweet sixty something year old lady who was always kind to us was going to bomb the house, is it? “Arkansas,” Crash said, bringing me out of my memory. “Arkansas,” I asked, a little confused. “You mean an entire state of people want me dead?” “No,” Crash growled, that turned into a wolf like grumble as he started scratching at a spot on his leg. “Let’s get out of this forest first, please. I’m starting to get worse.” Seated at the kitchen table, with a complaining, grumbling werewolf who was scratching so much he was almost bleeding on the furniture, Crash asked me, “You remember when we went to Arkansas to get rescue your ex?” If you’re curious. It’s the “Saving Sarah” series chronicled on this blog. But to sum it up, Leeroy and Mitch were twin vampires with a taste for meth who had glamoured Sarah, my ex, into selling all of my stuff. Soon, she was running meth for them as well as being their food supply and all-around slave. Crash killed one, but the other got away. I looked over at Crash, and almost did his canine head tilt. “Leeroy?” “No! I killed Leeroy. His brother, Mitch.” “Huh. I thought the cartel had killed him,” I said. Crash shrugged. “Nah. Leeroy and Mitch was more into making their own instead of trying to buy it from someone else.” Yeah, that had been a whole thing too, now come to think of it. The vampire terror twins had a taste for poison after all, whether it was flooding the streets with meth or attempting to kill a certain werewolf. It was right about then that a thought occurred to me. “Could they make other people smoke meth? Under their influence,” I asked, thinking allowed. Then answered my own question. “They did it to Sarah already. So, how many people can they do that to?” “There was a vampire in a small town in France who controlled every citizen inside it for over fifty years,” Crash said. “From the youngest to the eldest. They all fed him, they all took care of him. They all gave a portion of their money and goods to him. He controlled their mayor, their every single thing. Nothing happened in the town without his say so.” “So, what happened,” I asked. Crash scratched at a new spot on his shoulder and shrugged. “We took care of it. The towns people weren’t happy.” I looked at him. “Why not?” “When you’re not alone with your thoughts in your own head for so long, you begin to grow comfortable with your visitor. This vampire was smart. He wasn’t a lord who went around punishing everyone. He made everyone happy in their subjugation. He was their friend who knew every thought, and when one had trouble made sure everyone else helped.” “How many was in that town,” I asked. Crash shrugged. “About four thousand. I heard it was a difficult operation, but the EU was happy to finally be rid of him.” Four thousand people. Mitch could easily glamour half that many I figured, with the meth baking his brain. Our county had at least that many living in it. Two thousand willing souls, providing blood and money for the meth that they now all craved. That’s not mentioning the ones who already took meth. I shuddered at the thought. “I don’t think he’s got control of the county,” Crash said. “He doesn’t even have control of the town. But he’s got a foothold.” That statement stuck with me. He’s got a foothold. One crazy meth head vampire had control of dozens, potentially hundreds of people. “Can you uh…kick him out? Like the way you did with me?” Crash chuckled. “No, that would take an entire pack of werewolves.” He sighed, and scratched at his arm again. Blood began to well up from it, and I stood to grab a towel for him. “Not to mention this whole town would have to be suddenly very close to them, and well, no. It isn’t possible.” “So, what can we do,” I asked. He started to shrug. That’s when we heard the knock at the door. Gary was there, and he looked pissed. Those coke bottle frames looked as if they were about to catch our poor, battered front door on fire. I opened it slowly and smiled at him. “Gary! It’s a pleasant surprise! What brings you here?” “Can the sunshine, murderer,” he snarled. “Mitch,” I grumbled. More under my breath than anything else. Gary scratched at his arm and smiled, “finally you guessed it,” he said. “This vessel is here to deliver a message. You are to go into the town square in front of everyone at midnight three days from now and kill yourself. A single bullet to the head. Or I will kill one of these people. And I will keep killing them and delivering their corpse to your front steps until you finally get the gumption up to do what you should do.” What could I do? I smiled as sweet as I could at Gary and said, “thank you, but I already have a religion,” then closed the door. Hey, it works for the Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Who was that,” Crash asked. Scratch scratch scratch scratch. “Mitch,” I said. “I have to kill myself in three days or he’s going to murder everyone apparently. What’s for dinner?” |
| It was one of those exhausted, drained days. You know the kind, the ones where you feel as though you’re walking around in a thick fog of exhaustion and disappointment. As if every conversation and interaction you’re having is on a VHS tape being played back in slow motion. You really can’t write well on days like that. Your brain isn’t operating in any capacity that could be called “peak” or even “good.” Since I felt about as lively as one of the zombies that I partied with last year, I decided that perhaps some caffeine and sugar would be in order. This wasn’t a hangover, mind you. For those, I generally want carbs, grease, and of course, salt and liquid; all in great quantities. But I hadn’t had one of those in quite some time. Alcohol hadn’t touched my lips for weeks and to be honest, I didn’t miss it one bit. No, it wasn’t alcohol that had drained all the energy from me. It was a lively late night gaming session that, although felt as if it was needed at the time, as of right now just felt like someone had drained about two pints of blood out of me. No, for that particular exhaustion, caffeine and sugar was needed, and lots of it. Small towns can be nice for somethings. Varieties of businesses aren’t generally one of them. If you live in the standard small town in America, you have Fast-Food Row: A McDonalds, A Burger King, A Hardees or Carl’s Jr that’s perpetually dead and you wonder how they stay in business, and probably one of those dual drive through places like a Checkers or a Rally’s. There might be a tiny burger place like a White Castle or a Krystal’s. There will always be two requisite chicken places of some kind. KFC and something else like Church’s or Popeye’s. But we didn’t live a town big enough for a Fast-Food Row. We had a local restaurant, and that’s it. It wasn’t anything particularly special or noteworthy. Just a place that served basic American fare and grease of any shade of brown you wanted it in. What I was desiring was a coffee shop. A place where I could get a nice, tall, steaming cup of caffeinated sugar water that they called coffee and pay eight times the fair price for it. But to get to such a place would require a drive; one that was going to take me almost an hour in one direction. Not worth it for a single cup of Mochafrappinated sugar milk water. So, instead I went down to the local convenience store and bought a cup of their sugar burnt bean water. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t good. But at least it was coffee. And that’s what counted, especially in that moment. It was like any other chain convenience store in the Midwest. Bright lights, an isle of just candy bars, and useless overpriced gifts shoved away incase on your travels through the middle of nowhere you forgot to pick something up for that special someone. In the back was the coffee maker that I had come to see. A black and red beast that could produce sugared burnt bean water in copious amounts. As I brought my purchase up to the counter, one tired worker gave me a small polite smile. I recognized him immediately, and for the sake of this blog, he will be called “RJ”. Now, RJ is a nice guy, normally. We’ve talked a little. He’s told me about his kids. I’ve told him about, well, nothing really, just gave him a few funny stories from the service. And that was just about that. As I set my purchase down, he sighed and asked if that was all in a bored tone. I nodded, and passed over the four bills for the cup of joe. “That’s about twenty two cents in change, murderer.” Murderer. He denies it to this day, doesn’t remember saying it, but I distinctly remember him saying that exact word. “Excuse me,” I asked him, half shocked, half getting pissed. Inside my mind the old veteran was raging against the bars of his cage, raring to get out and show him what exactly a ‘murderer’ was. “I said that’s about twenty-two cents in change, sir,” RJ said, blinking. RJ is not a strong dude. He’s got more of a drunk dad bod than a fighter bod, with shaggy, greasy hair that said he didn’t get it cut or washed nearly enough. It would be a confrontation he’d regret is what I’m saying. He looked genuinely confused as to my reaction. “Is something wrong?” Now, being someone who served in the military, I had plenty of people call me plenty of different things before. These days most of what I get is “Thank you for your service,” to which my standard reply is “thank you for your support.” But, I’ve been called colorful things before. (I lost rank because of the outcome of one incident. Still don’t regret it.) However, this is the first time anyone had called me ‘murderer.’ He lifted his forearm and casually scratched at it while I answered him. “I thought you said something different.” Then I grabbed my coffee and began to leave. As I opened the door, I distinctly heard him say, “Have a nice day, murderer.” Three things ran through my mind at that moment. A, the coffee was scalding hot and could be used for a lot of fun things. B, jail is not nice in a small town, though I’ve probably been in worse. And C, It would take Crash a few hours to wake up and bail me out. The guy behind the counter must have seen my glare, because he about jumped out of his skin and practically leaped behind the counter, pretending to search for cigarettes or something. I just clenched one fist, tried not to clench the other holding the hot coffee, got back into my car and drove home. That could have turned this little post into a rant about veterans and their treatment. In fact, that’s the way things seemed to be heading until two days later when I stepped outside to take the garbage can to the road. Gary was outside. Gary if you remember, is our neighbor who likes to talk about cars. He’s a gearhead who enjoys old station wagons, sedans and average style “mom mobiles” from back in the day. He doesn’t really care about fancy Lamborghinis or BMWs. He’d actually rather talk about my Mercury Topaz for instance, or his Buick Estate station wagon. The grin on my face hid my inner cringe as the fear of a thirty-minute conversation about door seals on Buicks burned through my mind. However, Gary just smiled sweetly, his coke bottle glasses and halo of hair giving him an almost Mr. Magoo look that evening and said, “evening murderer.” The shock of his statement allowed him to get by me without me even summoning a response. Me. Rendered speechless. It does seem impossible, but it can happen. Having a neighbor, someone I enjoyed their company and looked up to calling me a murderer would be enough to do it. As he approached the corner, I ran up to him and grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. “What’d you say, Gary,” I asked. “What,” Gary asked. “I said, ‘Evening Jason’. What did you think I said?” I guess it was the look on my face that gave him some alarm. Or maybe the way I grabbed him and tried to spin him like a top. “I’m not sure,” I lied. “It sounded wrong though, so I had to clarify.” Gary idly scratched at his forearm. I turned and as I was walking away, I distinctly heard Gary say, “he’s coming, murderer.” “Who’s coming,” I snapped as I turned back around. Gary looked at me as if I grew three heads. “Who,” he asked. “That’s what I want to know,” I growled. “You’re not making any sense. You, okay?” “I’m,” I began then stopped. I ran a hand through my hair as I took a deep breath and tried again. “I could have sworn you said ‘he’s coming’. In fact, I know you said that.” Gary shook his head and clenched a fist. “I said no such thing. I was just out on my evening walk and saw you there, and wanted to talk to you about the new parts I found for my Buick Estate. Then you had to go and get all weird. I’m going home.” I sighed, and shook my head, then turned to go back inside. As I walked away from my garbage can, I distinctly heard Gary say “murderer” again. Clenching a fist, I walked back inside. These are things that perhaps should be discussed with Crash. To tell the truth, I truly want to discuss them. However Crash has had a rough time of things as of late. Red splotches over his human skin, rough patches of fur when he shifts, like a dog ate up with mange. I’m just not certain what is causing those things in him. The hardest thing to do is to discuss something troubling like this with someone who is having far harsher troubles than yourself. Perhaps these are things I should just keep to myself for the moment. Afterall, it’s not like things are going to progress, is it? So, I get called a few things. Perhaps it’s just a summer blues thing? Perhaps something happened in the news and people are just taking it out on me because I served? I dunno, stranger things have happened. Hopefully things don’t get any worse. I’ll talk to Gary in a few days. I’m sure he’ll tell me what’s got him upset. That will at least give me a clue to this mystery. |
| It’s been a while, hasn’t it? These longer expeditions do take it out of me somewhat. Digging into information from my roommates, most of whom were understandably tight lipped. Zack’s description of events were, in a word: short. “I was tied to a chair and fed cold soup.” He said, and wouldn’t talk any more about things. It was a bit easier getting information out of Rodriguez pack however, which I was grateful for. The tension in the house felt like a windup toy wound too tight. If you keep cranking on that key, something or someone is likely to snap sooner or later. You must find a way to let that tension out. In the service a perfect way to let off a little bit of steam was with a prank war. After all, if they don’t prank you once in a while, are they really your friends? I, of course, have a couple of memories I could access for this. But, due to legal reasons, I won’t talk about it. In other words: “No sir, I still don’t know how your vehicle ended up parked like that. Or how the shaving cream got there.” Things started innocently enough. A little grocery run for a few necessities in the local dollar store. Shampoo, frozen pizza a couple of other things. I was just wandering through the store, glancing at this or that the way you do sometimes. That’s when I came across it: squeaky toys. Dog squeaky toys. All of them quite cheap. The dog food incident came up in my mind just then as I stared at it, and remembered something else he said when I discussed the possibility of getting a canine companion. “We already have a dog of sorts.” I suppose a werewolf could count in its own way as a family pet. And I did owe him for that dogfood thing after all. Luckily, he was at work that night, chasing down whatever it is that he was chasing for that week, so I had plenty of time. I attached a squeaky toy the arm inside the tank of his toilet, so whenever he flushed, a loud squeak would be heard. His seat, which he perpetually leaves down, I attached another small dowl rod to a squeaky bone. Then, I went into my room, giggling. Luckily, Zack was at work too, doing a late shift, so I was able to put a squeaky toy on his door. That was when Kris caught me. He didn’t say anything. Just giggled a bit, then grabbed the bag of squeaky toys from me and started going nuts. One attached to the trash can. One under the cushions of the couch. One under the gas pedal of Crash’s car. After all, when Crash is out “in uniform” as he calls it, he tends to not take his precious, beat-up Caddy. One under each tire of the Caddy. In every cabinet in the house, rigged so when you opened it, they squeaked and when you closed it, they squeaked. I’m still not sure how he did that one. Every surface, every angle, every possible thing in the house was booby trapped. It required two more trips to said store, which luckily the store manager was closing, and found it so funny she was even nice enough to dig out a huge box of the things from the back so we could outfit more. So, there you go Crash, that’s the other culprit. Our house looked as if the Home Alone kid did an eight ball and then went to town on the entire house. All of these tricks and traps are hard work, so I got about two hours of sleep before I heard the front door open and then the first victim, Crash, opened a cabinet door. Squeak! He grumbled. Closed the door. Squeak! Turned on the coffee maker. Squeak! Sat in his favorite chair in the kitchen. Squeak! With a screaming curse, he stood up, stomped to his bedroom, and slammed the door shut. Squeak! It grew quiet for a while. I was just about to drift off to sleep, until through my bedroom wall I heard another squeak and the roar of one, now slightly annoyed werewolf. I laid in bed, trying to silently giggle to myself. I knew that Kris was upstairs with Shawn trying to do the same. Then Zack came home. Squeak went the cabinet door. Squeak! Crash exited his room. A few stomps later, and it grew quiet. Finally, I stood and began walking to the kitchen with trepidation. And was pelted with a high-speed squeaky bone. Kris and Shawn upstairs cried out as Crash invaded, throwing Squeaky bones and other dog toys at them. Then it was on. Turning, I saw a giggling Zack, who reared back and threw another bone, which smacked me in the face. I threw it back at him and dove for cover behind a recliner. Zack is a great gamer, but a bad throw thankfully, and in his attempts to pelt me with the squeaking balls and bones of death and destruction just gave me more ammunition. I was tossing the balls and bones back at Zack who was hiding behind the couch. I heard a tumble downstairs followed by loud squeaks. “Eww! You don’t have to lick them,” Kris cried as he ran for cover to the bathroom. Shawn followed close behind, with Crash tumbling after like an over grown dog. Unfortunately, Shawn got locked out of Kris’ sanctuary, who with a shout of “not cool dude!” began to run for his life wearing nothing but board shorts and a terrified grin of one who had no idea of what he was just dragged into. An armload of ammunition. A target in front of me and turmoil behind me. I knew when it was time to get moving. Popping up, I threw two hard throws at Zack, forcing his head down. Then running, I began to make my way towards the front door. Splat! A squeaky ball splashed off my face and landed on the floor. Turning, Crash was grinning behind me still in werewolf form. “Eww dude! That’s like being licked by you,” I cried. He only replied by turning his head like a silly over grown dog, grinning with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. I jumped back and threw a bone at him as hard as I could. With speed he rarely demonstrated to me, he dove forward, caught the bone in his mouth, spit it into his hand then pitched it back at me, splatting me in the chest. My jaw must have been open, because he splatted a bone against my forehead next. And Zack, seeing an opportunity, threw a wet one at my back. I don’t know if he picked one of the wet ones Crash was throwing up, or if he started licking them himself. I don’t really want to think about it. “Aah,” I shouted, diving for the doorway to the dining room. “Help, Kris!” “Save yourself,” He shouted back from behind the door of the bathroom. Crash was quick enough to cut off my escape. Zack was behind me now at a distance even he couldn’t miss me from. It was over. I curled up into a ball as I was peppered with squeaky toys. “Alright! I shouted, “Alright! I give! You win! Enough! Cease! Desist! Uncle! Uncle fuzzies bunny numpkins!” Crash and Zack paused at that one. “What?” They asked each other in unison. “Did get you to stop,” I said from the floor. Then I was pelted once more by each of them. Crash broke into the bathroom next. I didn’t see, but I heard Kris shout “Eww! Don’t lick them!” Then cried an unholy high-pitched scream as Crash began to pelt him with squeaky toys. “Now we’re even,” he said. Zack laughed behind me. “That backfired,” he said. I gave him a grin and shrugged. Crash grinned back. He didn’t have to wink or nod, but I knew he knew what I was doing with all of those squeaky toys. For less than seventy bucks me and Kris did what hours of therapy wouldn’t have been able to. We found a way to let off some of that stress and steam. To unwind the spring a bit, so to speak. Not every major issue needs to be discussed on a comfy couch with a Doctor Phil. Sometimes the best therapy is to grab a water gun, hand your spouse one, and tell them they have a ten second head start. To hide squeaky balls around the bedroom of your best friend. To do the funny things to each other that for some might seem mean spirited at a glance. And to get those funny things in return. As long as everyone knows when to quit, it’s the best therapy. Shawn entered a few minutes after the fire stopped. “Is it safe to come back in, dude,” he asked, looking at me. “Come here,” Kris shouted, picking up some squeaky toys, “You were supposed to defend me,” and began chasing him around the house and up the stairs, throwing squeaky toys at him, shouting “come back here you coward!” Crash patted me on the back afterwards. “That was fun,” he said. “No more squeaky toys.” I nodded. “No more.” “Disarm the house, please.” He replied. To which I nodded. After all, it was the least I could do, so that’s what I did. But he never did say anything about disarming the garage. Hey, I could always blame his car on Kheid. After all, that lawn gnome loves messing with vehicles for some reason. |
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