MOTHMAN

The legendary Mothman from the 1960s has come to Glen Hartwell to kill innocent people

                   Donald and Daisy Duckett, and their lover Michele Mousel were driving along in their lime green 1974 Holden Torana, looking for a place to picnic in the forest outside Lenoak Township in the Victorian countryside that Saturday, the 21^st of February 2026. It was surprising cold for February, traditionally the hottest month of the year in Victoria, but global warming had thrown off the seasons a little over the last decade or so.
         “I am so looking forward to having a picnic lunch in the forest,” said Daisy, thirty-two, a tall curvaceous honey blonde, with 34DD breasts.
         “Especially now that the brats have all gone back to school,” said Michele, thirty-five, a short French-Australia with raven hair and a long black moustache.
         “Why Michele, I am shocked at you,” said Daisy: “I’d love to give birth one day; wouldn’t you?”
         “Since I’m a man, I can’t give birth.”
         “So now you’re claiming to be a man, you pretty boi?”
         “You can be such a sexy bitch sometimes.”
         “I’m sexy all the time; but only sometimes a bitch. What about you Donald?”
         “Yes, I’m sexy all the time too,” teased Donald, thirty-six, a tall, athletic redheaded man: “But almost never a bitch.”
         “No, you sexy Dingleberry,” said Michele: “She meant are you looking forward to our little picnic?”
         “Yes, but I’m really looking forward to fucking the shit out of both of you. Especially, now that everyone else is either back at school or at work.”
         “Yes, I hate it when gawkers keep watching us while we’re trying to have an innocent Ménage à trois.”
         “Unless, of course, they pay for the right to watch,” teased Daisy: “Then I charge twenty bucks per gawker, plus two bucks for each picture they take, or two bucks per minute for any videos that they make of us.”
         “Daisy you are so wicked,” cried Michele; not as shocked as he pretended.
         “After all, business is business, as they say.”
         “Absolutely wicked,” teased Michele.
         “Actually, I think she’s giving you the business right now,” said Donald.
         “No, but I’ll give him the business later, while you’re buggering him half to death.”
         “Wicked, but sexy.”
         “I’ll settle for that,” said Daisy, making them all laugh.
         “Ah, this looks like a good spot,” said Donald, parking the Torana in a small clearing.
         “Yes,” agreed Daisy, “small and secluded for us to have our picnic.”
         “And then for Donald to bugger me half to death while I’m fucking you,” added Michele.
         “Ooh, I just love it like that,” cooed Daisy.
         “Don’t we all, honey,” said Donald making them all laugh again.
         A few minutes later they were seated upon a Bulldog’s Football Club red, white, and blue throw rug, having cups of chardonnay, along with a green salad with cold lamb chops cooked by Michele the night before.
         “Ooh, Michele you are such an excellent cook,” enthused Daisy.
         “It is my French ancestry,” said the raven-haired man: “We French are all born chefs.”
         “Yes, those French pastries that you made for Donald and my anniversary last week were simply divine.”
         “Yes to die for,” said Donald, unaware how prophetic that would be: “He certainly deserves a bloody good bumming for the way he feeds us.”
         “Ooh, you are making me blush.”
         “I know I tease you sometimes,” admitted Daisy: “But he’s right you are a bloody good chef, and do deserve a bloody good bumming for your reward.”
         “I look forward to it with anticipation,” said Michele
         “So do I,” said Donald, giving his lover a squeeze high up on the thigh.
         “If you go much higher, I will have to call the police.”
         “More likely you’d call ‘Please don’t stop!’” teased Daisy making all three of them almost choke upon their food as they laughed.
         
         Inside the front room of the Mitchell Street Police Station in Glen Hartwell, they were all seated around the large blackwood desk, enjoying hot tea or coffee, with scones with cherry jam and real whipped cream. All accept for Sheila Bennett, who was sitting a short distance away strapped up to a small mechanical device.
         “My name is Sheila Bennett,” said the Goth chick, Chief Constable of Police in the area: “Hey, it says I’m telling the truth.”
         “So now we know her name really is Sheila Bennett,” teased Wendy Pearson, an attractive honey blonde in her late forties.
         “All right, my name is Suzette Cummings.” She looked at the print out and said: “Now it says that I’m lying.”
         “Thank goodness,” said Suzette, a short raven-haired teen: “It would have got confusing with two of us in the same station.”
         “I am thirty-seven years old.” She looked at the read out, before saying, “Now I’m telling the truth.”
         “Not surprising, since you are thirty-seven,” said Colin Klein, a tall redheaded Englishman, married to Terri.
         “I am a hundred and seven years of age,” said Sheila: “Now it says I’m lying.”
         “That’s a relief,” teased Deidre Morton, a short chubby brunette who had provided the cuppas and scones: “The retirement age in Australia is just sixty-seven.”
         “They would have owed you forty years of back pension, if it had said that you were telling the truth,” teased Suzette.
         “The cheap bastards don’t pay back pensions in Australia anymore,” Colin pointed out.
         “I am the second top cop in the BeauLarkin to Willamby area,” said Sheila, peering in puzzlement at the read out: “Now it seems to be undecided. The needle shot up, but only halfway.”
         “How did she even get the lie detector?” asked Terri Klein, a beautiful ash blonde, and the Senior Sergeant of the area.
         “She must have crept along behind us while we were hiding it last time,” apologised Alice Walker, a forty-seven-year-old athletic brunette.
         “Sheila sneaking up on someone is about as plausible as an elephant following you without you hearing it,” insisted Terri.
         “Hey, most of this weight is solid muscle; I go to the gym most Saturdays.”
         “Then why aren’t you there today?” asked Wendy.
         “The Muscle-Up Gym is closed for two weeks for renovations. They promised to add two weeks to our memberships, and had better do so, or I’ll arrest them for lying to the second top cop of the area.”
         Again the lie detector needle rose halfway.
         Sheila thought for a while, before saying, “I am Chief Constable of the BeauLarkin to Willamby area. Ah, now it says I’m telling the truth.”
         “It was the suggestion that you’re a top cop that it didn’t like,” teased Colin.
         “Very funny!” said Sheila: “Oh, now it says I’m lying.”
         As everyone else laughed at her, Sheila took a generous bite from a huge scone that Deidre had handed her.
         “These scones are divine as always, Mrs. M.,” said the Goth chick.
         Deidre leant across to check the lie detector, “Good, it says she’s telling the truth.”
         This time everyone, including Sheila, laughed.
         “I have orange-and-black striped hair,” said Sheila: “Now it says I am telling the truth. Okay, I have black-and-orange striped hair. That’s strange, now it says that I’m lying.”
         As everyone else laughed, Terri said, “Well if we’ve all finished eating and drinking, we’d better get back to work.”
         “Can’t I play with ... I mean test the lie detector for another half an hour?” pleaded the Goth chick.
         “No way!” insisted Terri: “Get out to the Lexus, I mean Jeep, and start the motor; Wendy and Suzette, hide the lie detector again, this time better than last time.”
         “Oh, but I was just getting started with it.”
         “Go,” ordered Terri, pointing at the door, “Alice and Colin can come with us as we patrol the Glen.”
         “Oh, damn it,” said Sheila reluctantly disconnecting herself from the lie detector: “Just when I was having fun.”
         “Come on, mad Goth chick,” said Colin taking her by the left arm: “Let’s get you outside, so you can’t see where they hide it this time.”
         “Treating me like a child,” sulked Sheila as they all headed toward the front street. Looking at the white Jeep Cherokee parked in Mitchell Street, she said: “I still expect to see a pale blue Lexus, not a Jeep.”
         “So do we all,” admitted Terri as the three of them climbed into the front of the Jeep: “But the Jeep is more practical for country policing.”
         
         Donald, Daisy, and Michele had finished eating, and now were ready for fun.
         “So who’s up for a bloody good fucking?” asked Donald.
         “Me!” cried Daisy and Michele.
         “Well, actually ... I’m not sure if I’m in the mood,” teased Donald.
         “Oh really,” demanded Daisy, hurriedly stripping naked to parade before him: “Now are you in the mood?”
         When she got no reaction, she said to Michele, “Your turn, beautiful.”
         Michele quickly stripped out of his clothing and paraded in front of Donald, poking his perfect bubble-butt toward the bisexual man, before pulling it away.
         “Okay, I’m in the mood,” admitted Donald.
         Grabbing Michele, he gave him a gentle nip on his perfect behind, and then physically bent him so that he was kneeling upon the throw rug. Then, without bothering with lubricant, he rubbed the glands of his penis against the Frenchman’s anus, before penetrating him to the hilt in one thrust.
         “Aaaaaaaaaaaaah, that is so good,” cried Michele.
         “Hey, I thought we were having a threesome,” complained Daisy, feeling left out: “How do I get involved?”
         “Lie on your back and squirm under me,” offered Michele, still loving the pleasure and pain of being sodomised brutally.
         “Fair enough,” said Daisy doing as instructed: “Now down Michele, I don’t want you to hover half a metre over me, while you get all the cock that’s going.”
         Reluctant to pull away from Donald’s cock, nonetheless Michele slowly lowered himself toward Daisy who was bending her lower body up toward him.
         “Time to get aboard,” teased Daisy: “And don’t forget to try to rip my huge tits off my chest while fucking me; you know I like it rough.”
         “Ruff, ruff,” teased Michele, doing his best to penetrate Daisy’s vagina, without letting Donald’s manhood slip out of his rectum.
         When they finally finished round one, Donald asked, “Who wants to suck my cock clean, so that I can fuck Daisy next.”
         “Not me!” cried Daisy and Michele as one.
         “Then I suppose I’ll just have to bum Daisy also.”
         “Sooner that than suck your shitty cock,” said Daisy.
         As the two men climbed off her, she got onto her hands and knees.
         “Room for one more,” teased Daisy, and for God’s sake, this time one of you really attempt to rip my tits off while I’m being bummed; Michele barely tried.”
         “Michele go around in front of her,” suggested Donald: “She can suck your cock, while I’m bumming her.”
         “This is my lucky day,” said the chesty blonde: “All three of my holes getting fucked, is it my birthday or something.”
         “I only know two ways to shut up a nattering woman,” teased Donald, “and since Michele is too much of a gentleman to punch a lady in the face, he’d better stuff his cock into your mouth immediately.”
         “Besides, if he did punch me in the face, I’d flatten him,” teased Daisy.
         They were almost finished the second round, when the sun came out at last, and something flashed into the faces of Michele and Daisy, making them blink.
         “What the Hell was that?” asked the honey blonde.
         “Something shining in the sun,” suggested Michele, “an aeroplane perhaps.”
         “No, if it were close enough to blind us we would have heard it,” said Daisy.
         After a moment or so, they did hear something, the sound of flapping.
         “Whatever can it be?” asked Michele: “Some kind of bird.”
         “Well, this kind of bird, wishes her husband would hurry up and flush my bowels in hot sperm.”
         Normally they would have teased her, but the two men were too busy watching the flapping thing as it approached out of the sun, holding a hand up before their faces to avoid being blinded by sunlight.
         “I think it’s some kind of silvery bird,” said Donald, having given up upon sodomising his frustrated wife.
         “Do we have large flighted birds in Aus?” asked Daisy: “I know we have the emu and the cassowary, but they’re both land bound.”
         “Certainly,” said Donald: “There’s the Australian Bustard, also called the silly bustard. Then there’s at least one or two species of eagle, and of course, the massive and majestic black swan.”
         “Well, this thing is silvery,” said Michele, hunting around for his clothes.
         “If I didn’t know better I’d say it was a flying man,” suggested Daisy.
         “Possibly the R.A.A.F. has got around sixty years after the Yanks to testing jet packs,” said Donald: “You have to wear silvery fireproof suits to wear those; otherwise the exhaust flames would cook you.”
         “Yuck, that’s one meal I won’t be cooking,” said Michele.
         All three of them hurriedly dressed as the shiny, man-shaped object winged its way toward them.
         “Let’s get back to the car,” suggested Michele, and all three of them started running toward the Torana, abandoning their picnic utensils and throw rug.
         As they ran, the Mothman gave out chirps, clicks, and squeaks of excitement as it closed upon its prey.
         “What the Hell is it?’ asked Michele, just before the Mothman landed in front of them.
         “Oh my God!” cried Daisy.
         She had finally found something that shocked her as she stared at the three-metre-tall, silvery humanoid with massive wings and glowing red eyes. It was covered in fluffy silvery fur and had six feet ending in lethal-looking claws, as well as long antennae on its round face from which protruded a large curved beak or snout.
         Chirping, clicking, and squeaking again, the Mothman looked over the three terrified people as though choosing a side of beef in a butcher’s shop. Finally, raising itself up again it hooked its back talons into the shoulders of Donald making him cry out in agony, before flapping its wings furiously to fly high into the sky, back the way that it had come.
         “Come back!” shouted Daisy, before starting to cry.
         Michele half led, half carried her across to the Holden Torana, and then with difficulty managed to start the engine to drive through the forest toward Glen Hartwell.
         
         Driving along the sweet smelling, Lemon-Scented gum tree-lined streets of Glen Hartwell, Terri said:
         “Now isn’t this wonderful, I think I enjoy riding in the Jeep more than I did in the Lexus.”
         “Yes, and it’s almost a week since our last monster attack,” said Colin: “That’s almost a record for the Glen.”
         Almost crashing the Jeep, Sheila said, “Don’t say things like that, you could break the spell.”
         “She’s right,” agreed Wendy: “That’s a good way to call the latest monster down upon us.”
         “Are you two really that superstitious?” asked Terri.
         “Yes!” said Sheila and Wendy as one.
         “Seriously ...” began Colin, stopping as the lime green Torana came racing down Mitchell Street toward them: “What the Hell?”
         “I think that’s Daisy, Donald, and Michele’s Holden Torana,” said Sheila.
         “Well, let’s go find out,” said Terri as the Torana weaved back and forth across Mitchell Street.
         “Yes, definitely,” said Sheila as they pulled up the car. Looking inside she asked: “Where’s Donald?”
         At which both Michele Mousel and Daisy Duckett burst into tears.
         Finally Terri got Colin to drive the Torana to the Police Station, while Sheila drove the Jeep.
         Inside the station, they sat or stood around listening to the tale told by Daisy Duckett and Michele Mousel, while Sheila recorded it.
         After Daisy and Michele had been taken away to the local hospital, Terri asked, “Well what do you make of that? A Mothman swooping down upon them?”
         “Wasn’t there a legend of a Mothman haunting Southern America back in the eighties?” asked Wendy Pearson.
         “Actually it was North America,” corrected Colin: “The Mothman is a legendary West Virginian winged creature, famously reported around Point Pleasant between late 1966 and late 1967. It was described as a three-metre-tall humanoid with massive wings and glowing red eyes. Sightings ceased after the tragic Silver Bridge collapse on December 15, 1967, which killed forty-six people, cementing its reputation as a harbinger of doom.”
         “And they never solved the Mothman case?” asked Suzette Cummings.
         “Well, I always thought the solution was obvious. The first successful, working experimental jetpacks were developed and demonstrated in the early 1960s, primarily through the efforts of Bell Aerosystems under U.S. Army contracts, with the first tethered and free flights with the Bell Rocket Belt.
         “Following the successful public demonstrations in the 1960s, the Bell Rocket Belt was used in a sequence of the unaired pilot episode of Lost in Space circa 1965, as well as in the James Bond movie ‘Thunderball’ also 1965, as well as at the first Super Bowl in 1967.”
         “See all those years of journalism have paid off, my hubby is really knowledgeable,” cooed Terri.
         “Well Mothman or psycho in a jet pack, let’s go check out the site Donald and Michele pointed out on the local map of the countryside outside Lenoak,” suggested Colin.
         “You know if we posted Suzette out at the Morcambe Street Police Station in Lenoak, she could regularly check out things like this for us,” teased Sheila as they headed back outside.
         “Nah-ah,” said Suzette, not seeing the funny side.
         As they climbed into the Jeep, Terri added, “The other possibility is to convince Hilly Hindmarsh to go from pro-rata to fulltime employment like Alice and Wendy did.”
         “Isn’t she a decade or so older than Wendy and me?” asked Alice.
         “Fifty-eight this year,” admitted Terri: “Still she could stand in as our missing full-timer for nine years, before going back to being pro-rate again after that if she likes.”
         Starting the Jeep, Sheila said, “Then we could post Suzette and Hilly permanently out at Morecambe Street.”
         “Nah-ah!” protested Suzette as they started out.
         “We are supposed to have two officers permanently posted at Lenoak.”
         Half an hour later they found the site where the picnickers had spotted the Mothman. There was no sign of David Duckett, however, there was a blood spatter leading off into the forest.
         “This looks like a job for Super Elder!” teased Sheila.
         “If you mean our mate, Bulam-Bulam, you’re right.”
         
The Goffin family had set up their campervan awning, a tent attached to the side of their red and yellow Jayco Jrvcampervan in the forest a few kilometers outside of Perry Township. They also had meat and fish frying upon their Stainless Steel Portable Gas BBQ Sizzler Deluxe 2.

         “Who’s ready for some fish fillets or steak sangwiches?” asked Kingston, fifty-two, a tall, stout, slightly balding raven-haired man.
         “Honey, we’re all ready,” said Alexi, forty-nine, a tall redhead with a perfect heart-shaped behind, but flat chested.
         “Dad, we’re bloody starving,” said Caron, seventeen, a tall honey blonde, with her mother’s perfect behind, but already much larger chest.
         “We should have just bought some fish and chips in town,” insisted Darlene, fifteen, a medium height, raven-haired girl with wire-rim glasses.
         “Yeah, I really could go for some tatter cakes,” insisted Ewan, thirteen, a short blond boy with a slight hunch and fidgety nature.
         “Well we did bring some potato cakes and fishcakes with us,” admitted Alexi: “But we weren’t sure if the barbeque could handle them.”
         “Nonsense, woman-type person,” said Kingston: “The Sizzler Deluxe 2 can handle anything ... within reason.”
         “Okay, let’s cook some tatter cakes and fishcakes on it,” said Ewan.
         “Anything for my handsome lad,” said Alexi racing across to the Jayco to take out a packet of potato cakes and another of McCain’s tuna fishcakes.”
         “Just be careful not to overcook them,” said Caron.
         “Girl-type person, you are talking to the fasted skillet in the West.”
         “Are we even in the West?” asked Darlene.
         
         With Bulam-Bulam, a full blood Elder from the Gooladoo Tribe sitting upon the bonnet of the Jeep, they followed the blood splatters for more than eight kilometres before coming to a pile of human bones, surprisingly free of entrails, organs, or blood.
         Taking out her mobile phone, Terri rang for an Air Ambulance helicopter for the bones.
         “Surely that can’t be all that’s left of Donald?” asked Colin: “There hasn’t been enough time for anything to pick him clean to that extent.
         “Besides, who ever heard of a carnivorous moth?” asked Suzette Cummings.
         Before Sheila could answer, they heard the whir-whir-whir of rotors as the Air Ambulance arrived.
         “Holy Moley, who is that supposed to be?” asked a paramedic, Daniel.
         “Well, we were searching for Donald Duckett,” said Terri: “But we don’t think he’s been missing long enough for anything to have reduced him to that.”
         “Well let’s get the bones to Jesus at the hospital to find out,” said Daniel.
         An hour later they were all standing around watching as Jesus, Elvis, and Tilly examined the pile of bones.
         “How much longer, Docs?” asked Sheila.
         “It won’t take any less time with you bugging us,” said Tilly Lombstrom, a tall attractive brunette in her mid fifties.
         “We’ve taken DNA samples and sent them off to Melbourne by Air Ambulance,” said Jesus Costello, a tall thickset man in his fifties.
         “So when will we find out?” demanded Sheila.
         Sighing deeply, Tilly said, “He has relatives in North Melbourne apparently, so they’ll need to take DNA samples from them to test against his.”
         “And how long will that take?” insisted the Goth chick.
         “It’ll take as long as it takes,” said Elvis Green, nicknamed due to his long, black sideburns.
         “What a pack of grouches,” said the Goth chick.
         “You’re as bad as my nieces when I take them for a drive,” said Tilly: “‘Are we there yet, Aunty Tilly? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’”
         “I didn’t know you had nieces, Tils,” said Sheila.
         
         Outside Perry, the Goffin family had finished eating and were relaxing.
         “Think I might go for a lie down in the campervan,” said Kingston.
         “Me, too, I’m a bit tired after that lovely meal,” lied Alexi, stretching widely.
         “So if you see the van a rockin’ don’t come a knockin’,” said Kingston.
         While Caron dipped a finger into her mouth to simulate gagging, Darlene said, “Ooh, wrinkly sex.”
         “You’d think they’d be past it at their age,” said Ewan.
         “We are not wrinklies,” said Alexi.
         “And no man who is a man is every really past it,” insisted Kingston.
         “What does that even mean?” demanded Darlene.
         “If we hadn’t just eaten I’d suggest we wander down to the Yannan River so we can’t hear the old folks going at it,” said Caron.
         “Well I’ve got my MP3 player,” said Ewan putting on headphones, “this will drown out any old foggy rutting.”
         “Whatcha listening to?” asked Darlene.
         “Kanye West’s greatest hits; I’ve been trying to get the original version of ‘Heil Hitler’, but after Adolf Albanese banned Kanye and Bianca Censori from coming to Australia, ‘Heil Hitler’ has been impossible to get a hold of.”
         Putting on her own headphones Caron said, “Well, I’m gonna natter to Suzie Carmichael. That ought to drown out the ‘humpin’ an’ a bumpin’ at the high school hop’ as Dad says sometimes.”
         “Yes, I’ve often wondered what he means by that?” asked Darlene: “I mean, I know what high school is; but what the heck is a hop.”
         “Maybe it’s a high school for bull frogs,” suggested Ewan, making the three teens laugh again.
         “Or else it’s time we called the blokes in the white coats to come and collect the poor old fellow,” said Caron, making them all laugh again.
         Barely half an hour later Kingston and Alexi came out of the campervan adjusting their clothing as they approached the teens.
         “Wow, that was one refreshing nap,” said their father.
         “Must have been a power nap,” teased Darlene, “since you were only in there about half an hour.”
         “And it can’t have been too restful,” teased Caron: “The way the campervan was rocking and rolling we thought it was about to turn over.”
         “All right you three smarty pantses,” said Alexi.
         She started to walk across toward one of the two remaining deck chairs, but stopped as something flashed in the corner of her left eye.
         “What is that?” she asked.
         She tried looking in the direction of the flashing, but had to shade her eyes with one hand against the glare of the sun.
         “Don’t know, honey,” said Kingston also struggling with the glare of the sun.
         “Some kind of a bird, I think,” suggested Darlene.
         “It’s bloody big for a bird,” said Alexi: “Pardon my French; or as they say in Fronce, ‘Pardone my In-glish’.”
         After a moment or so, they could clearly hear the sound of flapping.
         “Certainly sounds like a bird,” said Caron: “Do we have eagles or condors in Australia.”
         “Not to my knowledge,” said Kingston.
         As it neared Alexi repeated, “It’s bloody big for a bird!”
         Standing too rigid to move, from a mixture of trepidation and puzzlement, Alexi and the others continued to stare at the approaching creature as it swooped down toward them.
         The Mothman gave out chirps, clicks, and squeaks of excitement as it closed upon its prey, flapping its giant silvery wings.
         Too late, Alexi said, “Maybe we’d better get back to the campervan.”
         “On it, Mum,” said Darlene.
         The three teens raced back to the camper while Alexi tried to convince Kingston to start moving also.
         Chirping, clicking and squeaking, the Mothman ripped its claws across Alexi’s back, digging down almost to the bone.
         Crying out in agony and terror, Alexi fell to the carpet of dried pine needles and gum trees, an act that saved the tall redhead’s life, but cost the life of her husband.
         Having missed its intended prey, the Mothman kept swooping toward the campervan and grabbed Kingston by the shoulders to soar up in the firmament again.
         Just before she passed out from pain and trauma, Alexi looked up and saw the creature; three metres tall, silvery and humanoid with massive wings and glowing red eyes; it was covered in fluffy silvery fur and had six feet ending in lethal-looking claws, two of which dug deeply into the shoulders of Kingston Goffin as it carried him away. For just a second she saw its rounded face with long antennae and a large curved beak or snout, then came the blessed relief of oblivion.
         
         It was late in the afternoon, when the DNA results came through by computer at the Glen Hartwell Hospital.
         “The DNA testing shows conclusively that the bones are the remains of Donald Duckett,” said Jesus.
         “Maybe we do have a man-eating Mothman in Glen Hartwell?” suggested Terri as they headed outside.
         “I was watching the classic horror film ‘Mothra’ the other day,” said Sheila: “You don’t think it’s him come to life?”
         “Was Mothra silvery-grey all over?” asked Colin.
         “No he was a giant moth with beautiful multicoloured wings.”
         “That seems to rule out Mothra,” teased Colin Klein.
         They were just climbing into the police white Jeep when Terri’s phone rang.
         “Hello?” she said, talking on the phone for a moment, before disconnecting to say: “That was Caron Goffin outside Perry, it seems that Mothra just attacked Alexi, clawing her back seriously, and then carried off Kingston.”
         “I thought we’d ruled out Mothra?” asked Suzette Cummings.
         “She was crying while talking to me.”
         “It’s a good thing she didn’t know what the Mothman did to Donald Duckett,” said Colin.
         Terri rang through for the Air Ambulance, and then said, “Okay, let’s go check out this latest attack.”
         Nearly an hour later, they turned up at the picnic site outside Perry Township.
         “Yeech,” said Sheila, taking pictures of the still unconscious Alexi Goffin.
         Alexi suddenly awakened, started to sit up, screeched in agony and passed out again.
         “She’s been doing that since the attack,” said Darlene, tears streaming down her face.
         Sheila had just finished photographing the deep claw marks in Alexi’s back, when the first Air Ambulance Helicopter arrived to collect her.
         While Alexi was being taken away, Terri asked, “Can you kids give us a proper description of this Mothman thingy?”
         “We can do better than that,” said Ewan as three more helicopters appeared from the Glen Hartwell direction.
         “We took some pictures with our phones,” said a still tearful Caron.
         “Can we have your phones for now?” asked Colin.
         “Of course,” said the three teens handing their mobile phones over.
         Back at the Mitchell Street Police Station, they downloaded the pictures from the three phones to their PC. The pictures only show parts of the creature, mostly its claws holding the shoulders of Kingston, its wings and back, one of its abdomen and one showed its gruesome face close up.
         “Yeech, I understand now why most people don’t hold moths in the same high regard as butterflies,” said Suzette Cummings.
         
         Not far outside Willamy, the last town on the Glen Hartwell line, the Traynor family were taking their cattle across to the Yannan River to give them their afternoon watering. All four Traynors carried loaded shotguns as was the want in the Australian countryside.
         “All right, let’s geddem moving,” said Clinton ‘Clint’, a tall fifty-something man, wearing fawn coveralls and leather work boots.
         “Carn Hero, Zero, Dero geddem moving,” called Declan, thirty-one, a tall, raven-haired man also wearing coveralls and work boots.
         Looking across at the three border collie-crosses, Clint said, “Your mother is right, we should never have let you three name the poor mutts.”
         “Ah, they don’t know what it means,” insisted Alisa, twenty-eight, a tall, athletic blonde, with her long hair worn in a ponytail.
         “Yeah,” agreed Cerille ‘Sally’, twenty-five, a medium height raven-haired woman also in coveralls and work boots: “We could have called them something really disgusting, and they’d still love us.”
         “I still think it’s demeaning for the poor mutts,” insisted Clint.
         
         “So, what’s next, Chief?” Alice Walker asked after they had examined the Mothman pictures.
         “Now I think we put Louie Pascall on the payroll to hunt for this Mothra wannabe from the air,” said Terri.
         “Hey I like that,” said Sheila as Terri picked up her mobile phone: “This Mothra wannabe.”
         Half an hour or so later they were airborne in Louie’s blue and white Bell Huey chopper, heading for the where the Goffin family had been attacked outside Perry Township.
         Turning on his floodlight, Louie pointed down, saying, “I can make out blood spills quite clearly heading further into the forest.”
         “Okay, let’s go,” said Terri.
         Like Sheila, Colin, and Alice, she was carrying a loaded shotgun, plus a box of extra shells in case they encountered the Mothman.
         
         Over at Willamby the Traynor family had finally arrived at the Yannan River.
         “All right, Zero, hit ‘em up and move ‘em out,” said Clint.
         “What the Hell does that even mean?” asked Declan.
         “I think he’s been inspired by his namesake, Clint Eastwood, in those Rawhide DVDs he’s been watching lately,” teased Sally.
         “There’s nothing wrong with Rawhide,” insisted Clint: “Clint Eastwood was a mighty, mighty man back in those days.”
         “I thought the mighty, mighty man was Big Bad John in those Mouldy Oldies that you and Mum keep playing?” teased Alisa.
         “There’s nothing wrong with Big Bad John or classic rock that your Mum and I love.”
         “Isn’t Big Bad John more of a country song?” teased Declan.
         “There’s nothing wrong with country songs, when they sing through their mouths. It’s only the nasal-singers who ruin country.”
         “Yes, Dad!” teased his three offspring.
         “All right Hero, Zero, Dero give ‘em a nip on the heel if they won’t get moving,” encouraged Clint.
         However, most of the cattle readily stepped forward to drink from the river.
         “Take a long, long drink girls, it’ll be the last chance you get until after brekkie tomorrow,” encouraged Sally.
         Lowing as though understanding her, the cattle drank litre after litre of cold, fresh water.
         “What I don’t understand,” said Clint: “Is, if the Yannan River fills up from Port Phillip Bay, which has salt water, how come it’s fresh water at Willamby?”
         “Port Phillip Bay is hundreds of Kays from where we are,” explained Alisa: “So the salt has settled onto the bottom long before the water reaches us.”
         At that moment they heard a strange chirping, clicking, squeaking noise from behind them, along with the loud sound of flapping.
         Looking around as the Mothman winged its way toward them, Declan asked, “What the Hell kind of bird is that?”
         “A bloody big one,” said Clint.
         Guessing what the Mothman was after, the farmer raised his shotgun and emptied both barrels in the direction of the approaching creature.
         Although both barrels missed the creature, it halted its forward flight, chirping, clicking, and squeaking again, this time from indecision.
         “Let’s get it, whatever it is,” said Declan, before unloading his own shotgun in the direction of the Mothman.
         While Clint, Declan, and Alisa continued firing shell after shell at the creature, Sally took out a tiny mobile phone and rang triple-O.
         
         “We must be getting close now surely?” asked Sheila.
         “Tilly is right,” teased Colin: “You are like a little girl asking, ‘Are we there yet Aunty, are we there yet?’”
         “Very funny,” said the Goth chick as Terri’s phone rang.
         Terri spoke for a moment, then said, “That was Cerille Traynor, the Mothman is attacking their cattle near the Yannan River, outside Willamby.”
         “Fortunately that’s the way we’ve been going for the last fifty minutes or so,” said Louie, a tall, bald man: “So we’ll be there quickly.”
         
         All four of the Traynors were firing their shotguns at the hovering Mothman which continued chirping, clicking, squeaking from indecision,
         Hearing the whir-whir-whir of rotors, the Mothman squeaked again and soared up toward the approaching helicopter.
         
         “Okay let me at him,” said Sheila, opening the door to the chopper.
         “Not without putting on your safety harness first!” ordered Terri.
         “Yes, Mummy,” teased the Goth chick climbing into the leather harness: “Now can I go outside and play?”
         “Yes, little Sheila,” teased back Terri.
         “As if I don’t know how to balance ...” said Sheila, stepping out of the chopper.
         Her words turned to a scream as she missed the helicopter’s skid and plummeted down a dozen metres or so, until the safety harness bungeed her back up to the skid, which she grabbed onto for dear life with both hands, dropping her shotgun in the process.
         Pulling herself back up to the skid, she said, “Thanks Tezza, you just saved my life.”
         Handing Sheila her shotgun as the Mothman soared around the chopper, Terri asked, “Ready to have another go, mad Goth chick?”
         “As soon as I recover from my first heart-attack,” said Sheila.
         She stood up upon the skid, and aimed carefully at the Mothman as chirping, clicking, squeaking in excitement, the Mothman zoomed straight at Sheila, who fired both barrels into its face from point-blank range, in the process falling of the skid again, this time without screaming as she bungeed back up to the Bell Huey; unlike the headless Mothman which plummeted down to where the Traynors and their sheep dogs were trying desperately to settle down their cattle, which had been frightened by the Mothman.
         With Sheila safely back in the chopper, having managed to hold onto the second shotgun, Louie took the helicopter down, far enough from the Yannan River not to spook the cattle any more.
         “What is that thing?” asked Declan Traynor as the police approached.
         “Don’t ask me,” said Sally, as she stared at the three-metre-tall, silvery humanoid with massive wings, covered in fluffy silvery fur and with six feet ending in lethal-looking claws “but it’s one ugly so-and-so.”
         “You’re lucky you didn’t see it when it had a head,” said Sheila: “It’s positively gorgeous now, compared to what it looked like with its head.
         When everyone started laughing, the Goth chick said, “What; was it something that I said?”
         

         THE END

         © Copyright 2026 Philip Roberts

         Melbourne, Victoria, Australia