I am at my lowest point.
From Ukraine, refugee in a European country, above middle-class family by European standards.
From being motivated as fuck for 2024 having around 10k$ in assets, mid relationship with my parents, good grades to finish the semester and a really good mindset, forgetting about how i feel about not being in a place i dont like to call home. I was addiction free except the average vape cigarette yadda yadda, i was making great money online, good in school and had a really good mood 80% of the time.
After the beginning of the second semester I went from doing that good to eventually starting to get myself in a shithole one step at a time (there were a lot of steps). I started gambling heavily, not an average one day bender but now all my money goes on it, of which I have almost none (2k$) left, completely quitting what I did to make money or study and having no motivation to restart. I had periods of alcoholism where I drank up to a bottle of jager in one day. Alone or at parties where I just left after an hour to go back home and rot. My grades are at a low low low!! I suck balls in school, play brawl stars in half the lessons etc. AND on top of all that I dabble in hard drugs which make me go geeked mode and I sit at my desk tweaking balls to not do the shit i have to do and not even think about it, not mega hard shit but light benzos that I mostly get off the dark web.
Worst of all of this is the gambling problem I have which is literally works like heroin on your brain. I'm fucked for life because i have a developping brain with 6 years of gambling addiction (xandemic type shit).
I get no joy from anything except those sources and long walks, which I still usually have a beer with but even without the beer I enjoy them cuz they feel like an escape.
I am writing this whole thing because opening up is the best thing as everyone tells me but I never do it because I really am embarrassed about this deep hole I dug myself into and am struggling to get out of. I am gonna give myself a "self diagnosis" of social anxiety due to me not talking to almost anyone new because i literally start shaking and make things really weird 99% of the time. I do not know where to vent except the few friends i had back in Ukraine who i am now disconnected with because of my mental health (my fault completely, i was a burden and yapped too much about my problems not taking in consideration theirs).
I have a huge exam coming up in 2 weeks and i have not been doing shit neither do i plan to because it really feels like i don't care. I literally want to rot and stop being a shame in this family of hard workers where in 2 generations my elders went from being dirt broke slavs to quite a good financial situation. I have no one in family who struggles/struggled with any addictions nor is that even talked about.
I feel really embarassed, am scared and ashamed to talk about these problems to anyone close with the fear of abandonement or losing the "close" people i have left. I do not know what there is left to do. I am stuck in the past, living in Ukraine, being 14 and playing video games on discord. That life is far gone now.
venting this heavy for the first time, am sweating while writing this, want to delete it all but after all if i post it, worst thing that can happen is that nothing changes.

Kadillac Kirk had been a good friend of mine for several years. I had met him through friends from The Spring Stage; and he never had anything to do with The Imp, which is why he didn’t appear in the Married Mary saga. Mary would have totally thrown herself at him, and Kirk would have definitely “thrown it in her.” He loved the ladies and often remarked that there was no such thing as an unappealing woman, nor was there anything sweeter than finding the pearl of passion in an outwardly plain dame. Fortunately for Kirk, he never met Mary. This was probably fortunate for Mary as well, seeing as Kirk was a confirmed bachelor and his rakish nature might have broken her fat heart.
Kirk was an older guy. Not MOE old, though. He was in his early forties, but he easily passed for a carefree dude in his 30s... not that he lied about his age. I only mention this trait to juxtapose Kirk’s genuine youthful air with Moe’s unconvincing youthful farce. Kirk dressed normally, avoided stupid jargon, and never busted out gimmicks like tarot cards or spells. He just existed, behaved affably, and people liked him for it.
He drove a classic 1962 Cadillac El Dorado convertible with red leather interior, and he lived in a charmingly quaint (and ridiculously expensive) neighborhood. How he made his fortune remained a mystery, but he never bloviated about his wealth. He just threw spectacular parties and people showed up. And, to my knowledge, he never tried to lure women into bed with his money (although I’m sure he got his fair share of boom-boom thanks to his digs and his wheels, even if the gold-diggers denied their monetary agendas).
Kirk was legitimately handsome. He was a drummer, he had a full head of black hair, he was clean-shaven, he worked out, and he knew all the hidden gems in Wellsprings. So why hadn’t I tried... or even desired to date him? I don’t know. I just didn’t feel drawn to him like that. He felt like a cool uncle and he had, thus far, never done anything to change my perception. Plus, the age difference weirded me out a little. Kirk didn’t look forty; but knowing that he had so much more life experience than I did created a power imbalance that would have creeped me out if we’d been dating. As buddies, I just felt supremely cool riding in his Cadillac, smoking Fantasia cigarettes, and hitting the speakeasies and jazz clubs I would have never known about if it weren’t for Kirk’s connections.
And he had been a good person to talk to about my romantic woes. He never lecherously suggested that I should date him, and he gave the type of tempered advice that only comes with lived experience. But he often lightly mocked me for my crush on Dennis and he did a hilarious impression of Smegal popping too soon over his “precious.” So when Mary “got me back” by doing whatever she did with to Dennis, I called Kadillac Kirk and told him the drinks were on me if he’d be my designated driver for the night.
Why hadn’t I called Whisky??? Well, A) Kirk was way more fun to hang out with, at least from my past experiences up to that point. And B) I needed to bitch about a boy, something I couldn’t do in good conscience in front of a guy I was dating. So I put on the sexiest plunging halter dress I owned, applied heavy eye makeup and spikey accessories, braved a pair of stilettos, and sashayed out to Kirk’s convertible. I felt like a badass rock star. I probably looked like a try-hard hooker.
Kirk: Daaaaay-um! Somebody really did do a number on you, huh? I know you said you were upset, but the gents are gonna be writing thank you notes to that fat girl and that butt-fucking hobbit.
Me: I just need to feel pretty and numb. And I trust you to keep me from making a fool of myself.
Kirk squeezed my shoulder. “I’ve got you. You do whatever you need to do to get rid of these demons.”
He sparked up a J and offered me the first puff. I gladly accepted. He took one puff of his own, but said that the rest was mine since he didn’t want to drive stoned. See? He was responsible! Weed wasn’t legal in California yet, so I got a little bit baked before I stashed the sativa in the glove box and wrapped a scarf around my hair like a starlet from the Golden Age of Hollywood. Kirk sped out of the parking lot and said he was taking me to a downtown hotel that was hosting a party that night in their lush lobby.
Kadillac Kirk pulled up to the main entrance, paid the valet, and then opened my door. I was wobbly from the weed. And I had stupidly decided to wear heels. You can get high or you can wear high (heels). You can’t have both. Not if you’ve repeatedly injured both ankles (as I have). I had to take Kirk’s arm to keep from keeling over. “Can people tell I’m stoned?” I whispered. Kirk replied, “Nobody’s paying any attention to anyone else’s intoxication. I promise you that much.” I nodded, steadied myself, and strutted alongside my very cool friend, feeling a little more confident.
A live jazz orchestra was playing Cole Porter as we entered the lobby. Everything sparkled. The music was even more intoxicating than the spliff had been. “Just One of Those Things” brought tears to my eyes since the lyrics hit every raw nerve regarding the Dennis debacle. But I smiled. It might sound mental, but being distraught over a trash fire of a one-sided romance was exhilarating. Immature, for sure. But also exhilarating. You see, that kind of sadness doesn’t hurt. Not really. It stings. It leaves little bruises, but it’s very safe to wallow in because you haven’t actually lost anything. Melancholia over that which you never had is as sweet as it is bitter; and that type of twisted splendor is rivaled only by Stendhal.
“Here's hoping we meet now and then. It was great fun, but it was just one of those things.” I sang along with the band, and a fat tear rolled down past my melancholic smile and onto my chin. Kirk brushed it aside. “Too close to home?” I wiped away the remnants of the tear’s journey from eye to chin and smiled a more genuine smile. “The perfect distance from home. Shall we get drinks? Remember, I’m buying.”
Kirk: No, no. This is your time to heal. And I’m here as your pal, not your chauffeur. What would the lady like?”
I pretended to barf. Kirk knew I hated it when he got overly formal and overly attentive. So he did it just to mess with me. “Shot of vodka,” I replied.
Kirk: How many?
I thought briefly. “FIVE.”
Kirk: Five to one, baby. One in five...
Me: No one here gets out alive.
Kirk: Are you able to hold yourself upright, or should you come with?
I took a seat on an ornate, damask-upholstered chaise lounge. “I’ll be okay. And I was kidding about the five shots.”
I sat there lost in the music for a while. I thought very little about Dennis. Even less about Mary. And not at all about Whisky (whom I had shagged less than a week ago). My mind danced through the ornate lighting in the hotel lobby, and I suddenly felt the need to join the hoity-toity guests on the dancefloor!
Kirk returned with four shots of vodka. Two for him, two for me. That was quite reasonable of him. He knew damn well that I couldn’t handle five shots, but he also knew that I was in a... state. One that called for more than a single shot. I raised a both miniature glasses to “No more ninnyhammers or hairy-footed lovers.” Kirk did his hilarious Smegal impression, we double-toasted, and downed the shots. The band launched into “Let’s Misbehave,” and I kicked off my stilettos and made a beeline for the dance floor.
“There’s something wild about you child that’s so contagious. Let’s be outrageous! Let’s misbehave.” Kadillac Kirk swept me up, twirled me around, and dipped me as we both sang along with the lyrics. I wasn’t swooning for him, but I was enthralled by the moment. The music, the dancing, the combination of booze and bud... so I kissed him as he pulled me back to my feet. And he kissed back. In a way that Dennis never had. In a way that Whisky’s beard wouldn’t permit. I didn’t feel the visceral sensations that I’d felt when Dennis had kissed me, but it felt nice to feel desired. And then I noticed that other guests were watching us and applauding. Now, that was a dopamine rush if ever there was one!
I gently broke away from the embrace, high-fived Kirk and returned to the chaise lounge to put my stupid shoes back on. He followed me and smashed his face back onto mine. I pulled away and laughed. “It was a moment,” I told him. “I appreciate the dance, and that kiss was the perfect finale. But it’s not happening again.”
Kirk: Not to worry, Valerie. I know you. I knew all along that we were performing, and I was more than happy to be your scene partner.
Me: And dance partner! Those were some excellent moves! I didn’t know you had ballroom training.
Kirk: You name it, I’ve mastered it. Another drink for the lady?
I pretended to barf again. “Not yet. I’m not sad right now. Do you mind if I just sit here and enjoy the music?”
Kirk: Ah. My kisses do have healing properties...
I flipped my hand up at him. “Knock that shit off, bro. I wanted to hang out with you because I trust you not to get weird. Even if I get weird, I know you have the maturity to balance me out.”
Kirk: Are you calling me old???
Me: No. I’m calling you rational, responsible, and respectful.
Kirk: Well, now. If you can articulate an alliterative statement that fluently, then you clearly aren’t drunk enough!
I dismissed this comment as a joke. And he did indeed knock off the flirtation. We had a perfectly pleasant time chatting and dancing (no more kissing, though). And then I noticed a girl I knew from Into the Woods entering the lobby. She’d played Florinda and I’d played Little Red. I called her name and waved enthusiastically. She waved back. And then her date entered. It was D.E.N.N.I.S. I sank into the chaise. Kirk caught on immediately. “The hobbit???” he asked. I nodded silently. “You wanna make out again?” he enthused. I shook my head. I had to go say hello to Flo. And I had an idea...
I crossed the lobby, smiled, squealed, and hugged her.
Florinda: Lil’ Red! It’s been forever! So glad to see you!!! This is my friend, Denny.
From the corner of my eye. I could see Dennis shifting uncomfortably. I refused to look directly at him, neglected to acknowledge Flo's introduction and continued to converse only with her. "So glad to see you, too! What have you been up to since we left the woods?"
Dennis: C’mon, Val...
Florinda (appearing oblivious to the iciness between me and Dennis): Oh, I had some drama after the show closed. I'll have to tell you about it some other time... Have you seen Prince Big Bad (Scumbanger) lately?
I laughed. “Last time I saw him, he was hitting on some nasty fat chick at The Imp.”
Flo and I both scoffed at the pervy pest. Into the Woods was where I’d initially met Scumbanger. He played The Wolf/Cinderella’s Prince. Again... typecasting. There’s a whole essay in my brain about my first encounter with the pest, during which he quoted the song that he sang to me in the show, “Hello, Little Girl.” But it gets into some pretty uncomfortable territory because he made me feel... excited. Well, excited and scared. Nothing of note happened during Into the Woods, but our odd interactions did kind of set the stage for some extremely regrettable events during that Cats cast party.
I excused myself, saying that I needed to get back to my friend. And then I leaned in and said in a hushed voice to Flo, “Watch your ass with that one. If he’s the Denny I’m thinking of...” I gave her a look that only another female would be able to read. Her eyebrows shot up and she nodded. Dennis continued to shift as though he were trying to hold in a massive dump. “BABE! Uh...”
Flo apparently answered to that moniker as well. “What is it, Denny? Don’t worry. That was just telepathic girl talk. You apparently have a reputation...”
Dennis: Different Denny. I assure you I’m a pious gentleman.
Me: Ah. My mistake. Well, then. You guys have a good time! They’re playing Cole Porter, and the band is delovely. Great to see you, Flo!
I hugged Flo again, gave Dennis a curt nod, ignored the scent of mandarins and mountain air, and returned to Kirk.
I collapsed on the chaise lounge, exhausted from holding back the rage. I had no right to be mad at Florinda. I hadn’t seen her in three years, so how was she supposed to know that I’d had a thing with Dennis? Hell, I couldn’t even be mad at Dennis because the last time he and I had spoken in any meaningful way, I’d told him that I was no longer entertaining my crush on him. So why was I surprised to see him dating??? And why had he never taken ME out on a date like this??? And why wasn’t I smitten with Kadillac Kirk who HAD taken me out on a date like this, was an objectively excellent kisser, and a bona fide BALLER? What was wrong with me???
Kirk suggested going down the street to a quaint little bar and then sobering up at a diner closer to my apartment. I numbly nodded and followed him in silence for a few blocks. He assured me that I had “turned several heads” on the way to the new location, but I neither cared nor believed him. This wasn't the type of numbness I'd been aiming for. Now I needed to get schnockered. “Five shots of vodka, please.” Yes, I was serious.
Kadillac Kirk, my reliable designated driver, ordered only a beer and watched in something across between astonishment, concern, and delight as I slammed all five shots in rapid succession. I half expected to immediately retch all over the bar. But I felt fine. I half expected to immediately lose consciousness and wake up in the hospital. But I remained coherent. How I’d managed to take in that much hard liquor and suffer no direct consequences, I’ll never know.
I think I wanted to suffer. I wanted to either feel nothing at all or to feel a sickness bad enough to distract me from the scorching sting that pulsed through my being when I realized that I had lost the abstract notion I’d been addicted to this entire time. Hope. It wasn’t Dennis himself I couldn’t quit. It was that drug called hope. The hope that maybe, just maybe Dennis would give our romance a fair chance. The hope that maybe, just maybe he would make peace with himself, get his mind out of his crotch, and enjoy some agenda-free togetherness. The hope that maybe, just maybe he would stop bloviating about his admittedly impressive accomplishments for five fucking minutes and ask about my life. I had my own reasonably impressive accomplishments, even if they paled in comparison to his. A proper suitor would have enjoyed hearing about them.
But seeing him out with another woman, a woman who had no reason to parade her Dennis escapades before me as some means of revenge, a woman he was clearly courting of his own volition... My hope had died. It died before I’d had time to wean myself off it. Now I had to mourn the loss of hope, which is a very tricky brand of grief to navigate. Vodka wasn’t the answer, but it was what I had to work with. So it would have to do.
After enough time had passed without vomiting or collapsing, I asked Kirk to bring his car around to the bar so that I didn’t have to walk two and a half blocks drunk and in heels. He nodded and dramatically leaned in for a kiss. I recoiled. “DUDE! I told you. The moment has passed.”
Kirk: I beg your pardon. I misread your eyes. Thought I saw a green light...
Me: It’s fine. I just want to go home while I’m still feeling okay.
Kirk: Of course. Your chariot will be here soon.
He skipped off to fetch his Cadillac and I noticed that the lights in the bar were beginning to dance a bit. This should have been concerning. But then I realized that I was giggling. Wait... What? Oh shit. Sure, I was drunk from those shots. But what I was feeling in that moment wasn’t drunkery. It was stonery. Kirk probably misread my face because my pupils were dilated. Not from desire, but from drug use.
Some of you might be thinking that I was a bad friend for not introducing Lucy, an old dude connoisseur, to Kirk. Well... I did. Several years before the events of this story. He adored her. She, on the other hand, thought he was immature. And she wasn’t wrong. Lucy was astute when it came to sussing out a person’s true nature. Far more astute than I. Her initial assessment that Kirk was immature is about to be vindicated. Stretch those cringe muscles! It’s almost time for pie...
I somehow managed to get to his car. I honestly don’t recall how I got there. Did one of the bartenders carry me? Did some kind patron allow me to lean on him? Had Kadillac Kirk carried me out? I’m not sure. But my memory ceases to be fuzzy about halfway to the 24-hour diner. It might have been the very same 24-hour diner where Mary pulled her... shenanigans. I’ll never know.
Kirk: Would you say that you’re more drunk or more stoned?
Me: STONED. Definitely stoned.
Kirk made some sort of grunty noise and reached for my thigh. I slapped his hand.
Kirk: Stoned but not amorous? That’s rare.
I started laughing rather unkindly. “You’re a fucking horndog! I thought you were my safe straight male friend, dammit.”
Kirk: I solemnly swear that your safety is my primary concern, my stoned beauty.
I pretended to throw up.
Kirk: So... You’re not horny. But are you hungry? The diner I’m heading to makes this Maple Walnut Pie with the most sumptuous... sensual cream and exquisite drizzling of...
Me: Ew! Stop trying to bang the pie. Bro. Are YOU stoned? (Then I remembered the question.) Yes, I’m hungry. But I don’t like nuts. I’ll have banana cream.
Kirk made that repulsive grunty noise again. “Uhhhhh... Mmmmmm. Cream. Yessssss. Yes, we’ll be there in just a minute.” He was squirming in the driver's seat.
Me: GROSS, DUDE! If you’re gonna be like that I’ll just order HASH brows. Get it? Hash??? (I giggled.) You can’t make that sound nasty.
Kirk: Forgive my jokes. I think my blood sugar’s a bit low.
As Kirk parked, I began to wonder how I might get away with walking shoeless into the diner. The stilettos had to get off my feet. At least while I was walking. And Kirk was kind enough to give me his socks and wear his loafers “island style” into the establishment. Okay, that was gallant of him. Maybe he was going to behave himself for the rest of the evening.
I wasn’t terribly talkative as we sat down, and he expressed a bit of concern for my emotional well-being. I wasn’t coherent enough to explain what was happening to my emotions and I wasn’t sure I trusted him with my deep, dark secrets at that point. So I shrugged like a sulky teenager, ran my hands over my messy, windblown hair, and mumbled that I was “just hungry.” And right on cue, a very kind, slightly older waitress with a sweet southern accent stopped by to take our order.
Kirk: Ah, yes. We’ll have two cups of black coffee. And we’ll share a slice of that delectable Maple Walnut Pie.
Waitress: Oh, honey. That pie is scrumptious! I take it you’ve been here before?
Kirk: I have. This will be her first time to taste the splendor.
I hated to be a killjoy, but I interrupted and said to the waitress, “Ma’am? I’m sure the Maple Walnut is excellent, but could I please get a slice of Banana Cream? And a big glass of ice water?
Waitress: Sure, hon! Banana Cream’s just as yummy! I’ll be right back with those coffees and that big water.
Kirk was sucking on the tip of his forefinger and shaking his head a bit. “You’re passing up so many sensational... sensual...”
I put my forehead on the table and growled. “You swore you’d stop being nasty!” I held this #headdesk pose for quite some time before I finally lifted my head... only to see that Kirk was still sucking his fingertip and staring at me like a wild animal. “Pleeeeeease be normal,” I whined. “It’s been a really weird night for me.”
Kirk: Indeed. Many surprises. You know... You’re like titanium. Your flame burns so fast and so bright, if a guy doesn’t get in there while the iron is hot, he’ll never get another chance. I was too slow.
What the...? I was pretty sure he was wrong about titanium burning quickly. I’m no chemistry wiz, but my dad and my oldest brother are both big-brains when it comes to physics and chemistry. So I picked up some things just listening to them talk. Accurate or inaccurate, Kirk was being creepy again. He’d never been creepy towards me before, although I’d seen him act like this with other women. Usually with staggering success. Why????? His money. It had to be his money. Kirk was a nice-looking man, but holy shit... No amount of good looks could save this creep show
And then, our sweet waitress sat down our coffees, my water, and the two slices of pie. After I gulped down a whole bunch of water, I grabbed a fork, prepared to quell my munchies... and then I froze. Kirk was quickly flicking his finger back and forth across the top of his pie. And moaning. He noticed my wide-eyed stare, smirked, sucked the tip of his thumb, picked up the plate with both hands, and began flicking his tongue across the tip of the triangular pie slice. And moaning some more. Well, there went my appetite.
Kirk took his middle finger and jabbed it into the crustless vertex of the pie slice, then he began pumping it in and out like a piston, and flicking his thumb across the increasingly demolished top layer of whipped cream. He gasped this time. People were starting to stare. His pointer finger joined his middle finger in the piston action, and he replaced his thumb with his tongue. Between flicks of the tongue, he groaned, “Oh yeah, baby... Let me taste you,” but it was kind of hard to understand him.
And I was either about to run to the back office, tell them that I was in danger and needed a police escort home... OR I was about to burst out laughing at the spectacle. Kirk continued... He removed his fingers and gregariously licked pie filling off of them. "Ohhhhh," he groaned, "I got you soooo sticky. So sweet. So moist." And then he started sucking his fingertips again, switching from middle to pointer, middle to pointer and emitting a delighted little, “Mmmmmm” with every suck.
Finally, he jabbed his fingers back into the utterly destroyed pie, lowered his face into the mess and lapped loudly and passionately, moaning, grunting, and mumbling “Come on, baby. Come on. Mmmmmm. Come on.” I could see the waitress and some dude in a suit heading over to the table, so I sank down in my seat, partially covered my face, but continued to watch the train wreck. At last, Kirk shuddered violently as he splatted his entire hand onto the plate and rubbed furiously. And then he locked eyes with me. He sucked the tip of his thumb one final time and said, “You...” There was a long pause during which Kirk lovingly stroked the mess he’d made. “You... are the pie.”
I don’t hang out with Kadillac Kirk anymore. But he’s still a bachelor, ladies!

I was speaking to brenda about one of ours who’d inexplicably died of heart failure during a PFT run one year, and that made me think of another in that same unit who was also very liked: Joseph Shannahan. But to those of us who knew and loved him, he was simply “Shaky.”
He had a neurological condition of some sort, I suppose, though in the field of medicine I am not versed beyond the wetting in the pond of knowledge the mere tip of one large toe and its attendant raptor claw of a discolored toenail that resists all efforts at trimming with anything less than a pair of tinsnips. If name it had, or I ever heard, that knowledge is now lost to the sands of time, and overindulgence in that time of certain things.
Shannahan, you see, his hands they did tremble, all of their own volition. They were not his to control. They shook, they shuddered, and they rarely ever stopped.
Sitting across from my friend at a table in the mess hall, I would watch in wonder as he would struggle in vain to raise a cup of coffee to his lips without splashing a good quarter or more of it over the rim of the cup and into the table. It really was that bad sometimes.
Fighting the urge to reach over with a steadying hand of mine in order to assist. This was not done. Word would surely spread that we had been seen holding hands in public, and, no disrespect at all to LCpl Trevanian, that simply would not do. We each and all must walk our own path through life.
I would, upon occasion, light his cigarette for him, if he was continuing to miss the mark. It was the botherly thing to do.
There were two instances, however, or set of circumstances, in which the magic happened. He shot a consistent high expert at the rifle range. It was preternatural. In that his element, the shaking of his hands would still, and he would become as cold as ice, and as deadly as potato salad left out in the sun too long on a hot summer’s day.
I’d seen an effect similar to that once before. A Platoon Sergeant was with us for a while at my chest posting had stuttered badly. Except when he became angry. Then it would magically drop away. He was angry quite often. We were who we were.
The other - the man could run the table in a game of pool. As steady as an experienced prevaricator perjuring his way seamlessly through a cross examination or running for President. He was a phenomenon.
We made folding money off of Shaky for a good while by betting on him in games with fellows from other units at the Enlisted Club on Base. As did he by betting on himself.
We also surrendered to him 10% of our gross earnings, and were happy to do so. A finder’s fee, so to speak. It was all found money to us, and he was, after all, the founder of the feast.
They were always easy marks, at first, delightfully observing the turbulence of his tremblers, and weren’t hesitant at all when prompted to increase an original bet. Which they would inevitably shortly regret.
It became more difficult, of course, as time weren’t by and were got around: “Do Not play that spastic bastard! He’s a ringer! It’s all a fake!”
The beauty of it, of course, was that it wasn’t.
The answer to the mystery was a simple one, of course. Anything that required intense concentration and focus would calm and still his mind, and his hands would follow suit.
But why did Shaky shake in the first place? We were simple and direct young men, and the answer to us was obvious: he surely had been an EOD tech in a previous lifetime, and had carried the accumulated stress of his former vocation into this his new reincarnation. It all made perfect sense.
He was Catholic (I’d seen his dog tags), but a small detail, and unimportant. I was Buddhist that year myself, for a change of pace. I think I might still have those dog tags forgotten in a box in the garage somewhere. If I’d been killed, wouldn’t a certain bald, laughing fat man have been surprised to see who’d come to dinner?
So here’s to you, Shaky. I hope you trembled your way to greatness.

Its taken me nearly 20 years to make sense of something I happened upon for the first time as a teenager.
There are said to be old service tunnels that run from the naval-shipyard to various locations under my hometown, believed to have been originally built around WWI. But In the early 1940s, the main tunnel was opened as a fallout shelter capable of holding 10,000 people . The rest of the tunnels were supposedly closed off when new construction around town occurred in the 1970s. My grandpa worked construction on what at the time was to be the tallest building in town, adorned with a clock at the peak. He like to brag about having "put a hand on nearly every rock in that build'n" or saying "I remember when that was a pile of rubble until we worked on it". He also liked to say "There are still many old places that hold many old secrets for those brave enough to seek them" but I assumed that he meant the bottom of a bottle.
The main streets are a reminder of the infrastructure built in the 1930s and 40s. Many of the businesses on the street were the ground level of a larger office or warehouse buildings. Some were single story buildings, shoehorned in between the larger ones. There is also a Masonic Lodge history with the town. They built the original temple way back then, and then a couple decades later, built another building and moved there. Their presence is clearly noticeable in the architecture all over the town. There are even plenty of houses in town that were built in the same fashion.
It's amazing how small town gossip can be passed down from generation to generation. I first heard about the tunnels as a young boy from a classmate in the second grade. She said that her dad worked on the base(it’s a naval shipyard) and was an important man because they had an escape tunnel under her house. I think I believed her at the time but I never really saw her after around that point. Even at that age I associated her as a Navy brat. I just assumed they moved.
I never really gave it much thought though until I was about 16, in the year 2005. I was a punk teen. I smoked weed and cigarettes as often as I could. I skipped a lot of school, choosing to go get fucked up and skateboard on private property somewhere. I spent a lot of time all over the town and in the most secluded locations. As a skater I'm telling you there were/are some sick spots! A majority of the buildings are that original brick masonry. Stair cases, gaps, banks, ledges, rails. The biggest problem is that skateboarding was a form of vandalism to public property. It was that year after enough people kept getting into trouble that the skaters of our community petitioned city-hall to have a skatepark built. They listened and even let us help design it. It definitely mimics some of the most popular aspects from downtown.
I stumbled upon the first of the tunnel entrances down an alleyway in downtown. The kicker is that, of course it was past midnight and of course I had been drinking and smoking pot. But that's also why I was in the alleys. Anyone hanging out there wasn't looking for any attention. Yes looking back I regret doing all the stupid things I did. I knew the area like the back of my hand but for some reason I was never able to find an entrance while sober. The alley way is particularly remarkable and I had been down it numerous times before. It’s the only one that has a man bridge over the alley connecting two separate buildings. It’s like a hallway fully enclosed with windows, matching the appearance of the buildings. I had just passed under it and to the next building where a smaller dumpster sat. The dumpster had one side pulled away from the building it was butted up against. It was dark but I could see a gaping dark hole behind and underneath the dumpster. I pulled my lighter out to reveal a staircase leading under the building. It was hard to see but I could tell from the edges of the opening that there was supposed to be a metal or wooden cover.
Intrigued I pulled out my old Nokia cellphone. The screen albeit small and dim, it did glow and in the dark-dark was better than nothing. I didn't want to burn myself and wanted to conserve my lighter for other things. I don't know why exactly I felt I needed to but I dropped down behind the dumpster to the stairwell and held my phone up high like a lantern. The stairs went down maybe 15 steps to a flat that went through a doorway on the left. Curiosity out weighed rationality in those days and I made my way down to the flat as quietly as I could. As the last bit of ambient light and noise from the dark quiet alley disappeared, the calm stagnant air in the concrete passage way that acted like an echo chamber was a stark shift in environment.
There was a hallway beyond the doorway that was extremely narrow and not very long. It was only wide enough for one person. It was probably 15 feet in length or so. As I slowly proceeded, the hallway dumped out into a much larger tunnel. I remember thinking "a bus could fit through here!" and it stretched far beyond the dim lights reach of my Nokia. I debated on whether I should just head back and decided now was an appropriate time to spark up a smoke, which didn't mix well with the stale air. Replacing my light source with the flame from my lighter provided enough light to see a panel of switches on the wall next to the smaller tunnel. I flipped one and the main tunnel lit up surprisingly, popping a humming to life. It was at least a football field in length. There were a few other similar little tunnels in various locations along this larger one.
As I was taking in just how long it was I peered from one end to the other and down at the farthest end was what looked like a person. The realization snapped me out of my wonderment. I was now uneasy at the thought that someone was down here just hanging out in the darkness. The more I focused on the figure the more it appeared that it was just standing down there staring at me. I looked the other direction but didn't notice anyone or anything. Taking a drag as I looked back towards the figure who I was now significantly closer to, I stopped in mid step. I hadn't been aware of it but I had been walking towards the figure. That's when everything in my body told me to leave now. And in that very moment the figure began running at me full sprint. There was no time to make sense of how or why I was walking towards the figure or why I was even down here in the first place as I turned running as fast as I could.
When I got to the smaller tunnel I took the opportunity to glance back over my shoulder while rounding the corner. To my absolute terror the figure was right where I was when I started running. I could hear the foot steps echoing off every surface followed with the creepiest snarling. I hit the stairs skipping three or four steps at a time. The light from the night city sky poured over the remaining steps and I nearly forgot the drop I had made getting down there. As I reached for the side of the stair well to pull my self up I could here that thing hit the stairs. With every ounce of adrenaline I heaved myself up and rolled out into the alley. Frantically I picked myself up and rammed into the dumpster closing the gap and began to head to the main street. That night I sprinted the nearly 1.5 miles back home without stopping or looking back.
I wish I could say that I forgot about that night and the tunnels to save myself some sanity in life. If I had only known this was the beginning of something much older and darker than I could have imagined. It took me a few weeks to shake the initial shock of that encounter. Eventually I went back during the day but couldn't even find the dumpster. I put it out of my mind until about six months later when an opportunity came up to visit with my grandpa...

hello, So just under 2 years ago i quit drinking alcohol cold turkey (Mushroom trip made me reconsider my drinking). I smoked weed for many years prior to this and loved smoking. Shortly after quitting drinking, my doctor prescribed me some medication for sleep and i smoked a couple bongs and had a panic attack and went to the hospital. They said it was fully todo with weed and not the medication. I stopped taking the sleep meds, which did not make me tired anyways. 3 days later i smoked and the same thing happened, another panic attack (This time i knew what was happening and rode it out at home). I ended up quitting weed for about 9 months. I went back to my doctor and was prescribed Quetiapine (Seroquel) 25mg for Bipolar Type 2. All was well, meds helped me sleep and improved my mood. My meds were increased over time to 200mg. I felt the best i ever felt, but was having crazy alcohol cravings. Sadly started smoking CIGARETTES again to deal with cravings, this helped (Quit when i stopped weed intake). A couple weeks later i decided to smoke a couple puffs off my buddys joint, all was well, felt fine and enjoyed my high. I tried to smoke a popper (Weed and tobacco) and had another panic attack. Smoked pure green again and was fine so, I ended up starting to smoke weed daily again and was not having any issues. Fast forward to now, my doctor reduced my dose to 150mg (To improve motivation, reduce the sedation i felt from 200mg). I continued to smoke with zero issues, helps with sleep a ton. But, the other night i forgot to take my meds and toss and turned all night, got up at 5am and smoked 2 bong rips and took my meds. Shortly after i started having a bunch of involuntary movements of my legs and body. This went away within 45 minutes (Guessing when my meds kicked in). And since that experience, smoking weed and taking my meds are making me feel slightly odd. Start to feel guilty and like i'm wasting my life away by smoking. Heart rate increase and slight heart palpitations. It doesn't get horrible, but is definitely noticeable. I end up falling asleep and sleep through the night, but today im filled with anxiety, majorly overthinking everything and feeling overall down and frustrated with life.
I seriously love smoking weed, growing weed and such. But im seriously feeling like its not worth it anymore.
Has anyone else had this experience?
Short Version: Quit drinking, Was still smoking. Had 2 panic attacks and quit for 9 months. Was prescribed Seroquel (25mg increased to 200mg) and started smoking weed again about 8 months after starting the meds. All was good when smoking pure green, tried poppers again (Weed and tobbacco) and had another panic attack. Went back to pure green and was fine since. Doctor lowered dose to 150mg. Last week i forgot to take my meds before bed and was up all night tossing and turning. Got up a 5am, took my meds and went and smoked 2 bong rips. shortly after my legs started like twitching and shaking (Crazy muscle contractions), this went away after about 45 minutes (Meds kicked in). But, since this experience i have started to get some anxiety and increased heart rate and other odd effects after smoking now.

“Hi, Guys”, Edgar said, in that same nasal tone, waving at us palm open once again.
The tape holding his cheap sunglasses together was orange.
Did you catch that reference. If so, good for you.
Anyway, I assume he wore sunglasses not only trying to make himself look cool, but also to hide the fact that his eyes blinked sideways, remember?
He wore a blue pilot’s uniform, complete with the hat,
“Dude! Are you fucking kidding me?”, Derek said.
“I don’t think so, Dude!”, Corey responded.
“I’m not too sure about this, Bob!”, I said.
“Don’t worry, Boys! He’s been playing a flight simulator game on what he calls his TRS-80 computer, for quite some time now. He’ll be fine.”, Bob replied.
“A Flight Simulator Game?”, we all said shockingly in unison, including Tony.
“Doesn’t he need a Pilot’s license or something?” I asked.
“Boys, Boys, I assure you, that if any complications arise, I will handle the situation! I AM the devil! I can do that! Besides, finding a licensed pilot, and negotiating a deal, would take far too much time! Time… we do not have! So, Edgar is our only option.” Bob said.
We all half heartedly waved back, nervously smiling, “Hi, Edgar!”, we all said in unison once again. Tony just said “Hi!”
Derek, Corey, Ricky, Stephen and I were all taken back by the fact that the “person” that tried to kill us, was apparently the pilot of our new plane, with absolutely no formal training, just a video game, and not even a good one, compared to todays standards.
I knew my bandmates were already dead, but I was pretty sure they didn’t want to die again, now or any other time before, even if they’d all come back to life.
“Come on up, Guys! We’ll be taking off soon!”, Edgar said.
“Boys, up we go!”, Bob said, moving his arm in a presenting fashion toward the stairs.
“Once we enter, put the stairs in their proper place and take the bus back to the house!” Bob said to the old man.
“Yes, Boss!”, he said.
“Wait! My accordion!”, Tony said, as he stepped back onto the bus to get it.
“That was close! I almost forgot it again!, he said.
“Cool, Man! That way you can jam with us!”, I commented
“I’d like that”, Tony said smiling.
Nervously, we all then began the ascend into the plane.
Bob went first, then Derek, then Corey, then Ricky, then Stephen, then me, and last was Tony.
“Who’s Edgar?”, I heard Tony ask from behind me.
If you remember, Tony had never met Edgar before.
“Long story short, Dude!”, I answered, slightly turning around but still walking up the stairs, “He recorded our album, played keyboards on it, put backmasking bullshit on the tapes, turned into a demon, and tried to kill us!”
“Dang!”, is all Tony said.
We reached the top of the stairs.
Bob shook Edgar’s hand, stepping inside.
Edgar then raised his hand to high five each one of us.
We all high fived him, nervously smiling, as we stepped onto the plane as well.
“Hi, Pilot Guy!”, we heard Tony say, stepping onto the plane. “I’m Tony! I’m their bodyguard!”
“Wonderful!”, Edgar replied.
“Have a look around, Guys! I’ll let you know when we’re taking off. I have to contact the tower to get clearance or something, I think. This is my first time ever flying a real plane. I’m kinda nervous.”, he said.
That did not help the situation AT ALL!
“Boys, right this way!”, Bob said, pushing a curtain open that lead into the fuselage, or the main body section of the plane.
“You see Boys! I have taken the liberty of dividing the fuselage into three separate sections. First is what I like to call… your “Hangout” section.
The room was filled with luxurious high-end furniture, tables and chairs.
A huge 85 inch flat screen television hung to your left, on the same wall the curtain was on when you first walked in, with both Atari, and Nintendo NES game systems hooked up to it, with a huge stack of games, for each console, next to them, and a Gothic Victorian style chair sat to the right of the curtain.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Flat screens didn’t come out until 1997! So how did you have one back then!”, and my answer to that would be… I don’t know. But, Bob is the devil, so…
Anyway, There was a fully stocked coffee bar, and a fully stocked beer on tap station, with six of the best beers the 80’s had to offer, as well as a stack of red Solo cups on the left side, and a make your own SUBWAY sub and sandwich station, all on the left side wall, six pinball machines sat vertically along the wall in front of you when you first walked in, with one wooden door in the middle of them.
Large couches sat on the wall to your right. In between them were two vending machines, one was a cigarette vending machine, but the other was something I had never seen before.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the machine on the right.
“Oh! That is a marijuana vending machine, same design as the cigarette machine, only with joints already rolled, in packs of 20. I created it myself!”, Bob answered.
There were ashtrays on the tables, with lighters on the tables next to each one.
“Everything on this plane is free, Boys! If you run out of something, wait 5 seconds, human time, and what ever you ran out of will automatically fill back up.”, he told us, “Here you can drink, smoke, party, play games, and have a grand ole time.
“Free weed, Dude! We won’t need Randy anymore!”, Derek said to Corey.
“Yeah! No more Randy!”, Corey replied, laughing.
“Beyond that door there, is the second section, what I like to call… your sleeping/entertainment section.”, Bob said, “Here, let me show you, Boys!”
Tony laid his accordion on the couch on the right.
We all then walked over to the door, and Bob opened it.
Inside was a long hallway that stretched the entire length of the room, with another wooden door at the end.
There were 3 wooden doors on each side, a small nameplate was positioned at eye level, on the right side of each door, with the name of each one of us, on each plate, so six small rooms occupied this space
“Here you can sleep, in your own room, Boys! or “entertain” the ladies!”
“We don’t need to sleep!”, Derek said.
“Well, four of you don’t, one of you doesn’t have to sleep if he doesn’t want to, only one of you has to sleep, and if he doesn’t want to, I’m sure Mr. Hard-Sell here could help him out with that. It’s mostly for entertainment purposes.”, Bob said.
“Huh?”, Tony said.
“Girls!”, Corey responded, moving his hands in a curving fashion, up and down, “You know… Girls!” He emphasized the word girls when he said it the last time.
“Oh! I like girls! They’re pretty!”, Tony said.
“Anyway, each room is equipped with a bunk style bed. After all, that is all you will need.”
“What’s behind that door?”, Stephen asked, pointing to the door at the end of the hallway.
We all then began walking down the hallway to the door.
Bob then opened it.
Just like in the room that should have been the bathroom in the house, this room had what?
That’s right!… Our Gear!
Well, not OUR gear, but new gear.
A brand new Yamaha Drum kit, as well as a brand new set of Warmie Promark LA Special drum sticks, just like Bobby Blotzer from RATT used, sat in front of 5 Marshall stacks which sat against the far wall.
The drums were designed with flames, with the band name printed on the bass drum, written in flames as well.
They were obviously for Stephen.
That wall had no door this time, but there was a little room, maybe 3x3, that sat on the left side of the stacks and the drum kit. Bob said that was the bathroom, or lavatory, as he put it.
Anyway, There were 3 ESP guitars, with straps, on stands, just like George Lynch from Dokken played, to the right of the drums. Bob said those were mine. One had flames, one had a coffee cup design, and the other was leopard print.
There were 3 Les Paul Standards, also with straps, on stands, just like Kirk Hammett played, next to mine on the right, those were Ricky’s. One had a broken glass design, one was white with some kind of Japanese insignia, and one had the label of a Budweiser bottle on it.
There were 3 Ibanez Thunderbird Basses, again with straps, on stands, just like Nikki Sixx from… if you don’t know what band Nikki Sixx plays with, you’re probably too young to appreciate this story.
Anyway, they were to the left of the drums, the basses had no designs, they were black, red, and dark blue. Those were obviously Derek’s.
There were 4 Shure Cardioid Condensed Microphones, just like Lenny Kilister from Motörhead used, sitting in front of the drums. One of those were Corey’s and the rest were for Derek, Ricky, and I to use for backing vocals.
A brand new MRX Analog Chorus pedal, just like Eddie Ojeda from Twisted Sister used, sat in front of each set of guitars.
All the plug-ins were neatly piled in front of each instrument.
There was no keyboard, like Edgar played on the album, which was odd to me.
”You see, Boys! As your manager, i have been offered very lucrative endorsement contracts from each of these fine companies, on your behalf of course. When we get back from the tour, I will present the contracts to you for your signing.
All the companies have agreed to let you try out their products first, before making any decisions!”
Derek yelled out, “EVERYBODY!”,
The rest of us screamed, “ROCK AND ROLL!”, and began celebrating, and high-fiving each other, including Tony.
“Also, I contacted a sandwich company called, SUBWAY, and offered you, Tony, as being their official spokesperson. They said that your size would not be a very good image for their company, but after agreeing to supply the CEO with a lifetime supply of Kit Kat candy bars, She agreed.
Your contract is very lucrative as well.
Now, Boys! We’ll be taking off soon. Let’s head back to the front, shall we?”, Bob said.
We all began walking back, Bob closing each door behind us.
We arrived back at the “Hangout” section, and began indulging in all the incentives.
Do I really have to tell you who went where, you get the idea, Right?
Anyway, after getting our incentives and taking a seat at the table, we all began talking, as Bob stood in front of the TV.
In midst of conversation, we heard, “Daddy, Where are you!”, a soft woman’s voice said from behind the curtain.
We all stopped talking and looked in that direction.
The curtain slowly began to open, revealing a long red haired woman standing there seductively.
She had bright green eyes, pouty lips, and was very well endowed.
She wore a skin tight, low cut stewardesses top, with a low cut skirt, and what appeared to be 6 inch stiletto heels on her feet.
Her left leg was positioned in front of her right leg, with her knee bent, with only the toes of her heels touching the floor.
She was holding the curtain open with both hands, and leaning in toward the room, with her head tilted to the side.
She looked like a Rock Goddess.
“Ah! There you are!”, Bob said to her, “Right on time!”
“Boys! I’d like you to meet Rebecca. She will be your stewardess for todays flight, and every flight there after.
If you need anything, outside of these incentives, food and beverage wise, Rebecca will go to the kitchen area, which is right behind that curtain, and prepare it for you.
A steak, a hamburger, a glass of soda, or a cup of tea.
The kitchen area, as well as the Cockpit, which lies just beyond the kitchen, are both off limits to all of you.
“I don’t drink tea! I’m still mad at the British!”, Tony said.
I snickered.
The rest of the guys, including Bob, just looked at him funny.
If you don’t get it, you probably never will.
Anyway, Bob then continued, “Rebecca will also be your nurse, she has a totally different outfit for that, just in case any, accidents may occur.
Say Hi, Rebecca”, Bob said.
“Hi, Boys!”, she said seductively.
Bob then looked at her hard faced, then turned back to us.
“Like I said, Boys! Everything on this plane is free, except for her, not even for a price. Do you understand?”
Before we could answered, we all heard Rebecca say seductively, “Aw, Daddy! But they’re so cute!”
“ENOUGH!”, Bob bellowed at her, “Go tell Edgar we’re ready!”
“Yes, Daddy!”, she said saddened, and slowly turned to go back through the curtain.
“Dude! That’s the Devils Daughter! We’ve heard songs about her.”, Derek said, laughing.
Bob looked at Derek more intensely then he looked at Rebecca.
“I’m just kidding, Man! We ain’t heard shit. Right, Core?”, Derek said nervously.
“Yeah, Man! Nothing!”, Corey said, shaking his head.
Everyone else had their eyes fixated on Bob.
I, however, couldn’t take my eyes off of Rebecca.
Not because she was incredibly gorgeous, even though she really wasn’t my type.
No!
It was because something didn’t seem right to me. Something that told me, she was different than your average sexy, voluptuous, naughty stewardess.
And my assessment was correct.
When she fully turned around, to go back behind the curtain, I saw what the difference was.
She had a tail.
It was waving excitedly behind her.

Hey, been writing this for a while. Got a dozen chapters at the moment. All of whom are interviews from veterans after a global war between humanity and aliens.
The premise is that after a short conflict/flashpoint between NATO and Russia in the baltics, that region becomes incredibly militarized as both sides pile up army units preparing for an inevitable conflict in the near future. Then you have meteors hitting Lithuania and Latvia. Which turns out were carrying an unknown Alien race which attempted to desperately colonize earth after their home planet was rendered inhabitable.
This is but one of the chapters. Fyi when they refer to crabs, they are talking about the alien cannon fodder units, 1 to 3m tall bipedal beings that have the face of crustaceans.
Feel free to give me any criticism you'd like. This is just a taste of what I'm working, if people are interested I will share more.

November 2034, Gdansk. European Federation

Pzschemek courteously welcomes me into his apartment, gently balancing his half-asleep young boy in one arm as he opens the door. The 34th floor of this public housing tower was completed just a year ago. As a combat veteran, the governement paid half of the price on the already affordable apartment. Since the official end of hostilities and the remarkable population surge, these towering structures, inspired by their Asian counterpart, have sprouted in nearly every remaining major city across the continent. Having seen combat from the start all the way to the end, I was referred to him by the head of the Polish Army Land Forces who was his battalion commander during the start of the war.
I'm offered a seat on the living room sofa, amidst scattered toys and clothes strewn about. He settles across from me, his son peacefully asleep in his arms, after preparing coffee for us.
A veteran of the war, he had seen combat all across Poland as a tank commander.

"When I began my training, we operated with the PT-91, an upgraded Soviet-designed T-72—sturdy, but we viewed them as deathtraps. Just imagine our optimism when my battalion received our first Leopards 2a7. Transitioning from a 1980s Soviet tank to modern german, American and ever Korean tanks—before the war in Ukraine, even entertaining such a notion aloud would have warranted a psychological evaluation. After a year or so. I knew that thing inside and out. It had short comings but it was a beauty.

He points to a frame on the wall—a cutout of a newspaper front page. It depicts him and his other crew members atop their tank ‘Sokoly’ written on its cannon, with a destroyed tripod lying on the floor behind them, the backdrop a sight of a ravaged city. With the title; “Our boys took Vilnius!"
"We made the front page of Gazeta Wyborcza with that picture. Our company commander sent it in. My parents hadn't heard from me in weeks, and one day, he recognized me on the front page at a news stand."
His face lights up with a warm smile.
"We hit the road five hours after the first landings. My vehicle was still getting fueled when I drove into our base, rushing to the briefing room in my jeans and rain jacket. I was expecting orders to be to rush to the Belarusian border or help out our guys in Lithuania to fend of the russians. Instead, our company commander starts talking about visitors from another world, how the info keeps pouring in every minute, but everything's still up in the air. We didn’t believe him until we saw the footage of the meteor landings, or air force footage from the airstrikes on beings we didn’t even know could exist. That one footage from that tank station, those crabs walking in and shooting all those civilians really set us off. That segment where one crab ripped out the arm of a dead man to make sure he was dead must have filled us with hate. Even do we didn’t know who or what they were. We didn’t ask too many questions. You’d expect us to yell out stuff in the likes of “Have we tried to make contact with them? What is the United Nations saying? From what planet are they?” but the only questions that could be heard was “Did the 2-5 tank get its tracks fixed? How much water should we take? Do we get our shells here or the TAA?”
“We were scared don’t get me wrong but I’m still proud of my boys, Its been a while but we still have contact with each other. Last summer I was the best man at my loader’s wedding.”
After laying down his boy, who had just woken up, he watches as the little one instantly grabs a toy police car and starts playing with it. Pzshemek gazes at his son, lost in thought, as he happily engages with his toy.

"We spent five hours on the road, with our tanks hitched onto trucks. When we finally reached our deployment area, chaos was everywhere. The roads were packed with cars from the north—Polish, Lithuanian, even Russian and Belarussian plates. People crammed into buses, I even saw a truck with an empty container but packed with civilians inside. On one van, boys sat on top, like scenes from trains in India. It's a miracle we only arrived an hour late. In Suwalki, we turned an Ikea parking lot into a makeshift FOB. Half of it was filled with troops fresh back from Lithuania and the border. Fresh might not be the right word. They were ravaged, they sat in silences. Nearly all with bandages or injuries of some sorts. The heavily wounded were being treated in tents and civilian ambulances. The dead layed in rows and rows of bodybags. They had commandeered one of or trench building vehicles to dig a mass grave for them. Helicopters landed, unloaded countless men and they loaded the helis to the brim with the injured. Tents and tents of make shift hospitals. More and more troops arrived. They looked like they’ve been to hell. I remember at one time my gaze met one of the men. I was looking around until I saw him looking at me. He was sitting on a stretcher being treated by a paramedic, his chest and arms were burned black. He was staring at me. I don’t know if it was the morphine or the shock, his gaze wouldn’t leave me. Fighter jets kept buzzing us. On our way to bomb targets and to slow the advance of the crabs down as much as they could. I was confident on our way there but the sight of all those defeated man made me want to empty my guts. We got called to a tent to get a briefing on the situation. There was a white board with grainy pictures of what we could expect. Even drawings. It was the Polish military attaché to Lithuania himself who gave the briefing to us. He looked like he had been to hell. I learned later he had to be restrained with the help of punches and shoved into the last helicopter out of Vilnius by his men.”
“What did he discuss?”
"We're in the dark, and we're counting on you to keep us informed as you hold the line. My English doesn't do it justice, but that was the last thing he said before we set out. We knew more different type of enemy assets would emerge as they settled in. Turns out, our drones spotted them digging into the meteors they landed in. As we left the FOB, they were loading everything onto anything with a motor and wheels. They didn't anticipate us holding our ground. Now, that's what I call motivation.”
Our chat got interrupted when Pszemek's wife walking into the apartment, decked out in nurse scrubs and juggling grocery bags. Pszemek jumped up to help her out, and they headed to the hallway, chatting away in Polish. Before she disappeared into the dimly lit bedroom, they stole a quick kiss.
“She has the night shift.” He said coldly as he put away the groceries. “We got on our tanks, our entire company made it and we were lined up platoon by platoon.
I closed the hatch, sat down, put my helmet on. My loader who also was my assistant of sorts. Installed the radios, helped copy the maps our lieutenant got, made coffee or passed drinks. He gave me a thumbs up, it was our signal and it meant we had radio communications with everyone that mattered. I pressed the push to talk of my microphone. “Everyone in position? Sound off!” I tried to say firmly and calmly. I knew back then it wasn’t the time to show any fear to my boys.
“Driver ready!” One voice yelled loudly. “Gunner ready!” followed by “Loader ready!” we set off right after that
At Suwalki we had to hold the highway entering the city from the north. Nothing particular, just fields and roads. We would have excelled there if we faced anything other than that. As dawn broke. The air strikes and artillery lured closer and closer. Along with our reconnaissance elements on the radio notifying us every time they got one kilometer closer. We could just sit there, it took us five minutes to mark and call out points of interests in that field so that we could communicate quickly during the battle and then we counted down the kilometers between us and them. Some men smoked, wrote letters. My gunner, a young guy he must have been 19 back then. He opened the hatch suddenly to vomit outside. Our nerves were all over the place. We nearly shot our recon troops as they speeded through our lines. They rushed through us and took cover behind us. They had done their job warning us and coordinating airstrikes. I told my boys it was our moment to shine. That whatever may walk,run,crawl over the border that we were the Polish anvil set on stopping them. We sat at two kilometers from the first woodline. We had infantry in the woods to our west and east. We had the open fields. We had to stop them or win time for the folks in Suwalki. But this wasn’t Lithuania, Latvia or Estonia. This was Poland. We wouldn’t give them an inch. We all grew up listening to our grandparents talking about what the Nazis and Soviets did to them and to our country.
At first, it was lone crabs on that wood line. They moved from tree to tree. We could see their silhouettes on the thermal sights. As more of those crab joined them we didn’t bother to shoot. We called in the mortar platoon to take care of them. Even after the mortars landed and took care of the first ones, their numbers grew. Then when there mobs of them we called in the 155mm artillery. It turned that forest. We felt the shockwaves as it blasted them. Trees were shredded and their pieces sent hundreds of meter away. Then we heard the first rumble of the beetles. I still have no idea why they didn’t appear on my thermals with all the heat they were carrying inside. If it wasn’t for the dawn and the reflection of the moonlight I might not have seen it until it was on top of me. Those things were as big as an apartment block. I still can't wrap my head around how those beasts survived a journey across galaxies. Must be why they were so darn hard to kill. We had no idea how they fought, how fast they could move. We called them beetles because it was the only thing earth like we could remotely compare them to in shape. I felt my heart race when I switched to normal sight and saw one of them move. I was looking right at it yet it appeared black as the solid on my thermal heat sight. There must have been six of them pushing that field alone. Against twelve of our tanks and three platoon’s worth of infantrymen and IFVs, you'd think we could've held them. But when they carpet-bombed us with fire, everyone lost it. Those beasts opened their mouth as their throat expanded, the fire inside of that could hurt to look at if you watched it with the naked eye. We didn’t know what to expect, but them spitting magma on us wasn’t on our bingo list so to say. Sure, they were two hundred meters short, but everyone outside of tanks must've felt the heat. They fired what could only be described as ropes of magma all in unison. The infantry platoon beside us, even the most ‘gung ho’ grunts who had had time to dig trenches, said ‘fuck that’ did a 180 and sprinted back a few hundred meters. Our platoon commander was swearing up a storm on the radio, trying to get their commander to get his men in order. Can't blame them. We opened fire right after their attempt to cremate us. I told my gunner to aim for the head and fire. Even with the shock of the 122mm armor-piercing shell hitting it, the thing just staggered and kept moving. Even in the tank, with all that armor and my ear protection, I could still hear my colleagues unloading on them. Again and again I ordered my gunner to go for the head. I still don’t know how they survived the kinetic shock alone of a shell like that hitting them. Later on in the war we learned that it gave them those weird types of concussions that made them act all weird, made them even attack their own side and such. But at the time, you can imagine me sitting there looking at them eating a tank shell like it was nothing. One shell hit its upper back. We saw the shell ricochet of its back and fly god knows where in the horizon behind it. My loader was grabbing shells and loading them in the breech at a rythm he could have gotten a medal for that alone. They were getting closer. The beetles and the crabs moving in with them. They spit fire again in unison. This time they were right on the mark. I heard the commander of the tank on my left yell in the radio as his tank ate hot magma. They were safe for now on the inside but the panic it instilled, there was nothing like it. Keep in mind, we still had 155mm artillery landing, it didn’t seem to be bothered by it even do the crabs next to those things were turned into moshed potatoes by the shrapnel and shock blast.
Pszemek got up suddenly to move his kid away from the kitchen as he tried to grab a hold of the hot coffee pot.
“little devil” he said silently.
“When I realized we couldn’t pierce it from the front I ordered by gunner to go for its knee caps. He didn’t hesitate and put its sight on it. The beetle was moving slowly enough for him to aim. My loader, exhausted from carrying shell after shell yelled out “GOTOWY” with a blood curling yell right before my gunner pulled the trigger on the joystick. The ignition on the shell shook the tank as it always did. It’s like a giant punch that makes the whole vehicle jolt backward violently. You can feel the force ripple through the tank, and everything inside shakes for a moment before it steadies again thanks to the suspension. The shell hit it right on the mark. The beast lost its footing. It crashed face-down, crushing a few crabs beneath it who were taking cover under it. It took a few moments for the creature to rise on another leg. Sharp as a fox, my gunner aimed for the first leg on the opposite side and fired another armor piercing shell through the meaty split between its strong carapace. The devil was down. With its front legs disabled, it had no balance. Instinctively, I grabbed the radio. The radio was buzzing with "NO EFFECT ON THE TARGET" and "LIEUTENANT, LET'S GET OUTTA HERE, FOR GOD'S SAKE." I shouted at my colleagues to aim for the kneecaps to slow them down. It got everyone to shut up and focus at the task at hand.



One by one, the beetles crashed in the mud. Don’t get me wrong, they kept shooting their magma at us. My tank got some aswell. It cooked our thermal sights and lazer warning receivers instantly. But since our engine was spared we just had to reverse back twenty meters and we were alright. We were speeding at 30km/h in reverse, I was praying there wouldn’t be a confused 20 year old infantry man end up under our tracks. The beetles were everything but precise. They even hit their own crabs as they desperately spat fire. The amount of which was drastically lower than earlier, their fuel tank just like ours were running low. One brave bastard on the radio yelled out for us to wait for it to fire and then hit it right in the mouth. That’s literally a tactic out of a video game. We did as he told. My gunner was with his sight right on what can be described as its mouth. His knee shaked in anticipation of the shot. I was looking at the gunner sight through my screen. As it opened its mouth, I didn’t even have time to yell “FIRE” that my gunner had already unleashed a high explosive shell down that thing’s throat.”
Pszemek looked at his boy with a warm smile as he thought back at one of the few good events of that fateful night.
“The devil exploded, the flash was so bright it lit up the interior of our tank through the periscopes. For a second I could see the exhausted look on my loader sweaty face. The fire gulf must have taken out god knows how many of the crabs taking shelter near it. My entire platoon followed suit and before long the entire field lit up with the explosions of those devils. I heard later from the folks in Suwalki that they saw the flashes of light all the way back there. One by one we took them out like that.
With the beetles out of the picture, we made quick work of the crabs. They were only five hundred meters away, close enough to start firing. Against our tanks, they didn’t stand a chance. The infantry was less fortunate. I saw one of them fire one of their shoulder mounted cannon, hit an IFV on its side and afterwards I saw the crew throwing themselves out of their vehicle as they burned alive. We took out three-quarters of them before they scrambled back across the field the way they came. Then we picked them off as they ran. Our coaxial gun was working overtime, we barely could keep up reloading that machine gun. I was praying it would’nt jam or overheat. With the last one down and our lieutenant on the radio, praising our performance, I unlocked my hatch, swung it open, and peeked outside. There were still patches of molten magma here and there, and the whole field reeked of sulfur and gunpowder. People were treating the wounded, some men cried, some men were laughing hysterically. Most of them were quiet. I lit up a cigarette, wiping the sweat off my face with a towel. The loader tossed me a can of Monster from our makeshift fridge. I gave him props for his work before he collapsed from exhaustion.

We could have stayed there, all of us would have been happy dying in that field if it meant we slowed their advance into our country. Turns out high command had other plans for us. We held but the units on our flanks were about to break. They had already plans for if ww3 popped off. They already know which unit would be desimated and which would have been spared if the Russians had decided to attack. The worst case scenario had a defensive line from Gdansk through Olsztyn all the way to Bialystok. We had the momentum as we cowardly fled back to Augustow. Stopping time and time again to give time for refugees to flee south. We were glad the Russians in Kaliningrad took a beating. They estimated they held ¾ of the crabs in the southern front. Every fight was harder than the last. We had less and less ammo. Jets were flying less and less. Especially when the crabs found a way to shoot them off the sky.
We felt like cowards every time. Sure we got allot of civilians safe, but even then we felt like we failed despite how many Crabs, Tripods or beetles we stopped.

WAR
A few days later, my phone buzz-chirped. I opened my messages to find several pics of Dennis' Jeep, a blurry mess of lights, and a final shot of Dennis leaning back in the driver's seat with his eyes closed and his junk out and at attention. And there was a caption.
"Consider us EVEN."
I saw red. The possibility of finding peaceful contentment with Whisky was a distant memory. A figment of my imagination. I wanted blood. I wanted to slap Mary's fat fucking face senseless. I wanted to rat her out to Chuck. I was livid. Angry heat spread from my sternum to my shoulders, and the sharp sting of wrath radiated through my being. I rang Mary.
Mary: How does it feel, bitch?
I couldn't make words. I was shaking. My head was spinning. All I could muster was a meek little, "Why???"
Mary: You owed me.
Me: Mary, I'm not screwing Whiskers. And how did you even FIND Dennis? Do you even LIKE him?
Mary: Totes! He's soooooo cute! We banged it out five or six times in his car, and then he told me to lie down in the parking lot. And then he pissed all over my titties! It was soooo hot!
Me: I don't believe you. Dennis is into some pervy-ass shit. But not piss.
Mary: Well, he told me you were too vanilla to do anything fun.
Me: YEAH. I didn't wanna get butt-blasted without a rubber by a guy who couldn't even be bothered to show up when we had plans. That's not being vanilla. That's having self-respect.
Mary: Guys don't like girls who make a big deal about self-respect. It's a major turn-off. That's why I get so much more boom-boom than you do. Hey! Now that we're done fighting, you can pick me up and take me out for sushi! I'll teach you how to make men happy and then you'll owe me dinner. I obviously pleased Dennis when you couldn't.
Words failed me yet again. I shouted a much, much filthier version of, "GO SCREW," hung up on her, put on my sneakers, and ran aimlessly through my neighborhood until I almost collapsed. Once I trudged back home, I smoked a shit-ton of cigarettes and drank a shit-ton of vodka (for me, which was like... three shots) and really did collapse.
Up to this point, I felt like I had been patient with Mary. More patient than she deserved. I probably hadn’t done her any favors by allowing her to behave like a fucking maniac while I did nothing more than gently suggesting alternative behaviors. I still wanted to have faith in her ability to grow (emotionally). But all of that came crashing down. For some reason, my formerly improved sense of self-respect crashed as well...
I texted Whisky, planned to meet him at his townhouse, and successfully banged him. It was absolutely a hate bang even though I didn't hate Whisky at all (yet). I'd never engaged in hate-fueled intimacy before. I didn't realize those two states could co-exist like that. As reluctant as I am to admit it, it was cathartic. And it was also admittedly unfair to Whisky because he had no idea what was happening. I had just used him to make myself feel marginally better about a guy I guess I still had some kind of feelings for.
In case I've been unclear, I'm fully acknowledging that my actions were immature, inconsiderate, and indefensible. Don't bang somebody just because you're mad at somebody else, kids. Nobody wins. Well, it might feel like winning for a short time. It's NOT. It's bad behavior. And I absolutely hold myself accountable. Did I deserve to get verbally abused by the psycho neckbeard lurking behind the mask of the man I’d just hate-banged? No. Unequivocally, NO. But would Whisky have been well within his rights to dump me in a spectacular fashion if he’d realized what I was doing in that moment? Abso-freakin-lutely. Hell, I would have totally deserved it if he’d booted me out of his house butt-naked and screamed insults from the window. An isolated hurling of insults is not the same thing as chronic verbal maltreatment within the context of a relationship. But that's a serious topic that feels out of place in this story.
So instead of calling me on my crap and giving my butt the boot, Whisky remained oblivious to what was going on in my misguided mind and took the hate bang to mean that our relationship had just gone to the next level. And he became even sweeter and more affectionate towards me. This made my skin crawl because all my feelings for Dennis (both good and bad) had just come flooding back with a vengeance. I had no idea what to do with them. Part of me wanted Dennis to hug me and apologize. Part of me wanted to punch him in the dick. Part of me wanted Whisky to hug me and assure me that I had value as a human being even if some Golden God hadn’t chosen me to be his partner. And then part of me wanted to snap at Whisky every time he touched me. "You're NOT the one I want, Asshat!!!!!!!"
But the truth was... I didn't really want Dennis anymore. I mean... I wanted him in theory, but I didn't want the real version. He was a flake. He was nasty. I couldn't wrap my head around his inconsistent, albeit devout, spiritual beliefs. He was indeed a braggadocious butthead. I suspected that he wasn't even a very nice person beneath his affable veneer. Even so, I was irrationally irate with Mary for deliberately stalking him and seducing him. Did she really think that would make me look at my relationship with Whisky differently? I hadn't stalked him. I hadn't even pursued him. In fact, I'd rejected him several times (albeit not out of respect for Mary). How are these two situations alike??? What am I failing to see here??? Maybe I was the villain. I certainly wasn't innocent. But neither was Mary.
I mean... Mary was friggin’ MARRIED. And she'd been going around blabbing indelicately about all her supremely nasty boom-boom (whether real or fabricated) with Whiskers, Scumbanger, Tech Guy, Artistic Director, and the Hoggs. How the living, breathing, God-forsaken FUCK had she decided that she was entitled to sexy time with my (former?) crush just because I was dating ONE of the innumerable guys she’d stalked once upon a time???? Gaaaahhhhhhhhh!
And then it got even worse. Dennis was almost finished with his graduate program and was planning to move to New York that summer, while I still had another two years to go (counting the internship). But we both worked in the Neuropharmacology Lab that semester, so I still had to see him every week. Even though nothing had happened between us in a long, long time, I never knew if Dennis was going acknowledge my presence or look right through me. The power of invisibility isn't all it's cracked up ti be. But the next time I saw him, following the Mary tryst, he very deliberately approached me and said in an almost apologetic tone, "Val? Can we please talk after lab?" I nodded.
He asked me to get in his car, but I couldn't stand the thought of sitting in the ghost of Mary's snail trail. I insisted that we sit in my car, and he didn't protest. The familiar scent of mandarins and mountain air wafted through my Prius as I steeled myself for a confrontation.
Dennis: I think your friend stalked me...
Me: The crazy bitch with the big boobs?
Dennis: Yeah... She messaged me on Facebook and she was talking like you'd told her about me and thought we should hang out. I said we should call you and invite you to come along, but she said you had a boyfriend. Do you have a boyfriend?
Me: I'm dating someone. But what does it matter?
Dennis: Oh. I guess it doesn't. Anyway, I met her at this 24-hour diner. She drank like... ten beers even though I told her I don't drink. She kept talking about her cat or something...
Me: Whiskers?
Dennis: Yeah.
Me: That's a guy. She used to have a thing for him.
Dennis: That’s a guy’s name??? Weird. Well, anyway... She got all sloppy and literally started doing mouth stuff to me under the table.
My stomach turned and my blood boiled. "I don't need to hear that. She already told me all about your night. She sent me pictures of your dick and she told me how you peed on her in the parking lot."
Dennis: She said I WHAT??? Babe! Er. Um. Val! I would never do that.
I gave him a skeptical stare.
Dennis: Hand to God! I didn't pee on her. But, wait... She took pictures of my stuff???
I took out my phone and showed him the pic. Dennis blushed ferociously and looked away. Finally, he said quietly, "I'm so ashamed of myself."
I sighed. "You're always ashamed of yourself. That's why I stopped fooling around with you. It felt like you were ashamed of me, too."
Dennis: Babe! No. I just have to get right with God.
Me: Well, have you talked to God about Mary?
Dennis: I'm not ready for that one yet. I feel dirty. Like... dirtier than usual.
Me: Well, now I feel kind of guilty. She's mad at me because I'm dating a guy she used to have a crush on. She went after you because she knew I used to have a crush on you.
Dennis: You had a crush on me??? For real?
At first, I scoffed (thinking he was being sarcastic). Then I looked at his wide eyes and realized that he might have actually been that clueless.
Me: Yes, Dennis. I massively had a crush on you. You knew that. But I was apparently too vanilla for you, according to Mary.
Dennis: What??? Babe! I never said you were vanilla. I said you were classier than her.
Me: Well... Thank you? If that really is what you said to her, I appreciate that.
Dennis (striking his version of a smoldering pose): So. Uh... You still have a crush on me?
Me: I think I'll always wonder what could have been if we were each just... slightly different people. But I had to move on. I knew you didn't like me in that way, and it wasn't fair to either of us.
Dennis: Well, for what it's worth, I wish it had been your mouth the other night.
I finally smiled a little bit. I wished the same thing. But I didn't say that out loud.

Oddly enough, having that somewhat respectful, somewhat reassuring conversation with Dennis quelled my anger at Mary... a little. Don't get me wrong; I was still pissed and I never let her get close to me again after that. But I also never made a big, dramatic show of telling her off. In my mind, that would have invited more unnecessary drama. By tacitly distancing myself and henceforth keeping her at arm's length, she wasn't able to freak out over anything and I was able to keep her out of my business.
Years and years later, even now that Mary is a functional person with a healthy BMI, and much better manners (most of the time), she is still wont to bring up her tryst with Dennis. While I genuinely applaud her for putting in the work and making some sensible changes, I'll never be super buddy-buddy with her again. The fact that she still throws Dennis in my face to this very day makes me suspect that there remains a touch of cray in her gray matter.
And where Whisky was concerned, I had finally felt some sense of closure with Dennis after the aforementioned talk. So I leaned into a new relationship. And it was fine at first. Not super hot, but also not super weird. Having learned from my disgusting mistake, I know that I tend to get tempted to speculate about incredibly offensive crap regarding Funky Whisky whenever his behavior is unremarkable and not in keeping with the delightfully repulsive tone that this audience tends to enjoy. So I'll end this chapter here. In the next proper installment, I'll finally shed some light on The Goblinization. But before I wrap things up, I need to write a one-off about The Pie Guy and bring back some classic cringe!

-and obviously it was stupid to think that any of my old friends would still be there. Could I even call them that? I haven’t been back here in maybe ten years and my ‘friends’ were the staff at a bar I worked at for two months, transient work by its very nature. Especially in Rome. There’s a street preacher and I think he’s saying “KINGS, BOOK ONE! CHAPTER 19!” and maybe he is because he has 1 Kings 19 (11-13) written on a sign next to him.
I remember Malfi… Marfi? Was a student anyway. Studying history at masters level. I can clearly see the seal of her university in my head clearly but I can't remember the university. I think about maybe pulling out my phone and googling it but it’ll take too long and I don’t want to waste the battery or not be looking at my surroundings for too long.
Hey- hey friend how are you? What are you doing here?
Oh god. If I keep my head down maybe he won’t bother me but suddenly there’s a wall of flesh draped in a cheap blue t-shirt semi-blocking my path.
I’m busy, sorry. I push past him and he yells out.
HEY! You got a problem with black people?
Loud enough for others to turn around.
What the hell is his problem? The insolence of it! The actual insolence! I smiled as I said I’m busy for fucks’ sake. I have a disgust response from the way he speaks as it plays back in my head. You ghat a problehm with blaq people? Flat vowels from the Global South. I could smell whatever ersatz cologne he’d doused himself in. Big, dumb bicycle chain wrapped around his neck. I could barely make out this heckler’s face, he was so overweight he was drowned in fat, and he threw his arms up in the air so his bony elbows came out at weird, jutting angles.
My mood is completely ruined so I turned right, catching the sun, cutting off a man walking a Chow dog who I presume follows after me.
My sunglasses are in my pocket and for whatever reason I lose the will to actually pull them out so I’m walking blind into glare. Was everyone still looking at me? The sun is beating down and on top of that the wind is blowing directly into my face. I can’t see anything and I feel prickly heat around my flanks. Maybe a tweed jacket was the wrong choice, but I’m not going to take it off and drape it over my shoulder right now. I do not want to be perceived.
I start thinking about the street venders from ten years ago, how friendly they all were. That’s not a thing anymore, I guess. I force all that from my mind and as I’m walking I involuntarily start thinking back to when I was little.
I was six, maybe seven, and my mother was in the hospital so I was being looked after by my father. It took him maybe three days to stop bothering to make sure I had a bath or brushed my teeth. Maybe a week before he stopped doing laundry. About three weeks in he was forced to start taking me to school again; somebody had mentioned something to my grandmother who came round to shout at him. He reckoned I could learn everything I needed from watching television.
The other kids were not a fan of my new look, and the bullying was horrible. Already a lonely child, I was further isolated from my peers by my appearance and odour. I had an initial grace period, I’m sure Miss. Euston had prepped everyone that my mother was sick and everyone was to be very nice to me.
The great mass of my appearance, greasy and smelly, eventually pulled through the gravity of Miss. Euston’s authority, and finally I slipped through her graces and into the bottomless pit of cruelty only children are capable of.
One night when the rest of the class was dismissed she kept me back to talk to me.
“How are you, John?”
Fine.
“I hear your mummy will be back soon? Isn’t that great?”
Yes.
“Maybe you should tell your dad to give you a bath before she gets home, yes?”
Yes.
“Is your dad coming to pick you up today?”
I don’t know.
She smiled at me put her hand to my face. It was warm and soft and I could feel the sea-salt sweat from her palms. It was comforting. Maybe that’s why I’m a cuddler now. She gave me a chocolate bar from her treat tin and let me go. My dad did actually pick me up that day. He asked me where I got the chocolate bar from and I said Miss. Euston gave it to me. I never ate it, at some point it must have been thrown away.
I realized Miss. Euston was, probably, barely a few years older than I was now. I wonder what she was up to. At some point the buildings covered the sun and I checked my watch. Two more hours to go.
I see a free table on a raised mount and decide to sit there. I look up at the statues looking down at me and a waiter comes over and says I have to order if I want to stay there. This annoys me so I bark at him that I need a menu if I want to order anything. He leaves and the clouds open again, probably by the wind, and it beats down on me again. Feeling more grounded I take off my jacket and drape it over my chair and take the cigarettes from the inside pocket. I looked at my phone and re-read the invitation email.
To – me, please be here at whenever o’clock to talk to our international undergrads on international project management.
Regards, some professor I didn’t like as an undergrad.
It was certainly an honor to be asked, but no doubt was being used to drum up engagement for some useless course they were peddling. How exactly does International Relations parse into International Project Management? You learn everything you need to know doing the damn job. I had emailed myself my famous slide deck, the one that was thrown around in secret by senior bureaucrats who were sick of being bureaucrats and wanted to actually do something. The one that Managers said could never be released, but had obviously plagiarized in snippets when they thought appearing to be daring would be beneficial to their careers.
A brunette waitress comes over with the menu, she looks young. Maybe 18. Over a decade younger than me.
If you don’t mind getting up, she said in a startling American, there’s a buffet as well.
I say thank you and look at her. Was she American? American-Italian? She looked British. Maybe Danish. I didn’t want to ask. She was pale, apart from her lips and cheeks which were the color of a rose.
Thank you, I say. Do I order drinks from you?
Of course, she said and took out a notepad and pen. The other wait staff used an iPad. I wondered where hers was and asked for a double espresso and a glass of orange juice.
Is that all?
Wait, how tall is the orange?
What?
I smile and her and mime a glass growing from very small to very tall. How tall is the glass? Is it a lot of orange juice?
She smiles and laughs and it’s very cute, I think she lost her composure because the laugh doesn’t match her voice.
I run my hand through my hair because I need something for my hands to do, and she says yeah. It’s tall. Pretty big. Are you going far after this?
I dunno. There’s some people trying to kill me. I smile again, obviously a joke.
She smiles back. You should have the buffet and I’ll bring you your drinks. I’ll leave the jar of orange juice but don’t tell anyone, OK?
OK, I say. Grazie.
Prego, she says and walks off.
I check how far the walk is and it’s maybe 40 minutes, too far in this weather. Will it rain? Will I literally burn to a crisp? I wish I had brought my laptop so I could have the slide deck up. I could ask the waitress what she thought.
She comes back with my coffee and a cold glass of orange juice, and a jug of water.
Sorry, she says, my manager told me to only pour the juice.
That’s fine, I think I’m only 40 minutes away. Like three miles.
You won’t be able to walk three miles in forty minutes, she says. You should eat quickly, then get up and go.
I dunno, I say, drawing out my response. I’m quite tall.
She laughs again and says she’ll bring my cheque now.
I get up and make a plate of pastry, the meat looks like it had been left out so I avoided it. I grabbed some things I don’t know the name of, and a slice of bread that was being warmed on a terracotta platter over some coals.
She walks away and when she comes back I want to ask for her number, but there’s a huge delivery truck slowly rolling through. My cup is shaking in its’ saucer and if it wasn’t already mostly drunk it’d run over. I try to make conversation but I don’t want to shout at her so just give her 30 euro and say keep the tip. She shouts back thanks. I get up and start walking.
The sun won out against the rain and it started to pound me again. The air was dry. I was walking fast and making good time, but I did not want to end up sweaty when I got there so I took off my jacket and carried it under my arm. I checked my phone again and I had a missed call and a voice mail. I couldn’t see the name in the glare.
I couldn’t stop to put earphones in, so I put my phone away.
I managed to make it to the campus with five minutes to spare. I hullo’d with the professors and asked for a glass of water. I drank it in one then went to the bathroom to piss, and check my hair. I was sweating but my jacket would cover it. My hair looked great. I clenched my jaw and looked at my face. Intense. Satisfied, I blew my nose and in my head went over the topics I’d cover. If I got lost I’d ask the students questions.
For some reason I thought back to Miss. Euston, looking after the poor scapegrace that was me. I remember once she told me God was in the wind.
I was waiting in the wings, hidden on a pre-stage before the main stage. Before I put my phone on silent, I thought I’d listen to the voice mail quickly. I briefly thought it "pre-stage" was even a word. I didn’t recognize the number. I pressed play and raised it to my ear.
There was a pause and then, cutting through the roar of the wind once present but no longer, came a voice.
“Hi, John, I hope you’re well and I’m just calli-“
The voicemail stopped. Someday, I hope, Apple will figure out how to actually let me hear my voicemail without constantly having to un-pause it. I hit play and put my phone back to my ear but I knew who it is before she said her name. “I’m just calling to say hey. It’s me, Joanne.”
It was a whisper being carried over time and continents. A whisper from a girl that might as well be dead. Why me, Joanne. Why me.
I covered my face with my hands. I realized I was doing it in shame and suddenly Miss. Euston’s voice came back to me again. “God is in the wind.”
I pulled the skin on my face down, pressed hard, and walked out onto the next stage, tucking my phone away in my-

SPOILERS FOR THE NEW CHAPTER
Shiba was supposed to teleport into the storeroom. Hakuri had distracted his oldest brother, Chihiro was on his way to deal with everyone else, and he could deal with everything inside.
Only, there seemed to be a ward of sorts on the room, and so he was stuck outside, with three of the Sazanami elite. Kindly, with as much respect as he could muster, Shiba asked how to open the door.
Immediately, the three stood at attention, turning on their weird eye thing. Shit. Shiba took a deep breath, and with a pop, he disappeared out of the room.
Azami’s bedroom was neatly kept, a large bed with neatly stacked pillows in the corner, a desk stacked high with papers, a big mirror on the wall. The whole thing was a horrible beige color, from the blankets to the walls. Technically this room was warded too, but it was done in such a way that Shiba could enter, for situations like these, or… others.
The problem was, Azami wasn’t here. With another deep breath and a small pop, Shiba was in the Kaminari headquarters. Once again warded, but he knew the way in from when he’d been an accountant here.
The main office was much messier than Azami’s room, but it still had signs of him. The desk was still that awful color, there was a photo of the two of them pinned to the wall, and a mug of tea still steaming. He never drank coffee. Shiba was getting close.
By now though, it was hard to concentrate his spiritual energy. Even breathing was a struggle, and tears were starting to pool in his eyes. ‘Please Azami, hurry up!’ Shiba ran out the door, looking left and right for any sign of black hair, getting desperate. Finally, over the walls of one of the cubicles, he saw it.
Darting over, he tried to focus his thoughts so they could return immediately, but there were so many racing through his mind. Why had there been a ward, why did those guys look so strong, were they really going to kill him, who was Azami talking to, and so on.
The last question was answered first. The cubicle belonged to Sony, a guy with curly brown hair down to his shoulders, an attractive man with a defined jaw that no longer ran missions after losing half his leg in the war. Why were they talking?
Seeing Azami though, the rest of his thoughts quieted. Breathing grew easier. The man saw him too, looking him up and down, taking in the dirty clothes, the too-short pants, the tears in his eyes. Without a word, he held out an arm that Shiba took. With a pop, they were back in the basement.
“Please, get them!” With that, Shiba ran behind one of the pillars, folding himself into the fetal position, covering his eyes, ears, and head with his arms. Azami would protect him.
He heard crashing, yelling, stones shattering, and the distinct buzzing that filled the air when too much sorcery was used in such a small area. Then, a hand touched his shoulder. He knew it was Azami’s. No one else touched him so gently, so aware of his anxiety and soft skin.
Still, Shiba was slow to raise his head, to look up at the man who had saved him yet again. The room was torn apart, filled with craters and every pillar besides the one he was behind destroyed. “Are- are they alive?”
He nodded, pointing to the youngest laying on his back by the door. The boy seemed to be the weakest, and Shiba hesitantly approached, stopping a couple of feet away.
“Don’t worry, Shi. You can get closer. He won’t hurt you.” His voice was soft, but still so solid. God, he was reassuring.
“You promise?”
“I do. Can I get back to work, now?” Shiba looked at the unconscious boy, then back at Azami, then the boy again. He was so young. Surely he couldn’t be that dangerous. He nodded, then sent Azami back.
His knees were shaking. Gingerly, he stepped towards the boy, moving at a snails pace, spirit energy welled up in his chest to teleport at the slightest movement. He stepped over the boy, who still didn’t move. All of a sudden, Shiba’s knees buckled. He lost control of his spirit energy, unable to teleport, sitting crouched on top of the boy, whose eyes flew open.
He took a deep breath. Spirit energy wouldn’t come. He’s have to bluff his way out of this one. As calmly as he could, trying to disguise his shaking hands, Shiba lit a cigarette, hoping to blame his uneven breathing on that.
What do we think? Is this likely??

I met Luna on a train two years ago. I’d just escaped from a toxic relationship, so romance was the last thing on my mind, but then she sat across from me in the carriage and asked about the book I was reading. She had a copy in her bag and wanted to know if it was any good.
I'd never felt such an instant, effortless connection with anybody before. I took a chance and asked her to dinner, and by the time the waiters cleared away our desserts, I already felt comfortable being vulnerable around her. So we went on a second date. And a third. And next thing I knew, we were planning our second anniversary.
Now in all that time, she never once gave off any 'creeper' vibes. But then a few months back, I stayed the night over at her place. When she got up to use the bathroom, I grabbed her laptop off the side desk so I could catch up on some work e-mails, and the incognito tab was just sitting there. My first thought was: either she's having an affair or she's got a secret fetish.
What I found instead was a Google account with a photo album called ‘Michael’s EX’. In it, there were 427 photos of my former girlfriend turned psycho stalker, Sadie. This included shots of ‘Sadie the stalker’ with her family, screenshots of her passport—the works. On Facebook, Sadie's latest post said Moving to the Philippines, and since then she’d become a social media church mouse, so how did Luna keep her under surveillance? And how did you even get PERSONAL ID from a person halfway across the globe?
Down the hall, I heard the bathroom door swing open. Quickly I closed the laptop and pretended to be asleep until Luna planted a kiss on my lips. “Wakey wakey Bugs.”
I faked a stretch. “Morning Lola."
(At school, the other kids christened me ‘Bugs’ because of my cartoonishly large front teeth; I called Luna ‘Lola’ because of her blonde bangs and heart-shaped face.)
“How about we grab a fry for breakfast?” Her smile didn’t seem genuine, more like she was wearing a mask.
“Crap. I forgot I’m doing overtime today, I’ve gotta get to work.” With that, I shot out of there faster than a bullet train to Tokyo.
Because I didn’t wanna believe the worst about someone I cared so deeply about, I didn’t contact the police (not that anybody could’ve guessed what Luna was up to) and made excuses whenever she asked to meet, delaying the decision whether to end our relationship.
At night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time a hedge rustled outside, I’d run to the window and pull back the curtain only to discover a black cat skulking around the garden. I put this down to my previous relationship leaving me with a mountain of unresolved PTSD.
Sadie the stalker also seemed normal until we moved in together. After that she started picking fights if she caught me talking to another woman, even just distant relatives or childhood friends. The screaming matches went from weekly to nightly, only ever ending when I conceded to her every wish and gave her full access to my phone and social media accounts. I literally needed to grab my clothes into a bag and run away one night, and then I started hearing noises outside my new apartment. And although I never found any evidence, I was pretty sure she’d broken in at one point because the books on my side table were suddenly out of order one day. What hurt the most was Luna knew all this and still acted the way she did.
Right as I reached my lowest point, my close friend Gertrude called and said, “The universe is telling me you could use a sympathetic ear.”
I told her the universe didn’t know the half of it.
I’d met Gertrude—aka my surrogate mother—on a flight to London. Passing over Wales the aircraft hit heavy turbulence, and the grey-haired hippie in the seat next to mine squeezed my hand so tight that my fingers turned blue. After we levelled off, she apologized and said, “So what’s calling you to London?”
“A job.”
A few glasses of wine from the service trolley later, she blurted out, “You know your aura is strikingly similar to my husbands.”
“Uhh, thanks. Where is he now?”
“Oh, he burned to death in a house fire.”
Gertrude’s eyes started welling up. To take her mind off the subject, I said, “I lied earlier. I’m going to London because I fell in love with a Londoner.” I pulled up pictures of Sadie (back in her pre-stalker days) on my phone. “We met in Italy. She looked flustered trying to read a map book so I offered to help. Next thing I knew, we were planning a trip to this place called Orvieto.”
“Michael, I need to know how this story ends. Gimme your number.”
Since then, we’d met two or three times a year.
I laid the whole mess out over pizza. It was the first time since finding the Google account I didn’t feel hidden eyes crawling all over me.
Just as I wrapped up the story, over in the corner booth, a family burst into a chorus of happy birthday. A waiter appeared carrying a chocolate cake, capped by a giant candle that looked more like a flare. Gertrude tensed up.
“So what do you think about all this?” I asked.
She looked back at me and said, “It’s possible your reaction has been a touch on the dramatic side.”
“DRAMATIC??”
“Well consider things from Luna’s point of view. Your last relationship lasted for, what, three years? Maybe she felt threatened.”
“I don’t believe this.” I grabbed a cigarette from my pocket, but Gertrude snatched it away.
“You know how I feel about you poisoning your lungs, Michael.”
“Don’t you start. I got enough of that crap from Luna.”
Gertrude always encouraged me to work through my romantic problems. Ultimately, I decided her love of fairytale romances clouded her judgement and ghosted Luna instead. But I couldn’t escape her shadow. She always felt close. In fact, it got so bad that at a friend’s costume party several weeks later, my eyes kept compulsively scanning the crowd as if she was there in disguise, ready to pounce.
I stood off to the corner until, over the sea of heads, I spotted a beautiful stranger dressed as Jarlath the Goblin King. I took a shot of liquid courage and made a B-line towards her.
Halfway across the crowded room, beer splashed across the front of my Ziggy Stardust outfit.
“I am so sorry,” a female pirate said, patting me dry.
“Don’t worry about it.” Every time I tried circling her, she moved to cut me off.
“I am such a klutz. Why don’t you come into the kitchen so I can clean up this mess?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and steered her out of the way. “It’s fine. Trust me.”
Approaching Jarlath from behind, heart slamming against my chest, I said, “Well this is awkward. One of us is gonna have to change.”
Jennie had bright blue eyes and dimples impossible to miss. Ten minutes into our debate about David Bowie’s greatest album, I said, “You know Absolute Bowie are playing the Half Moon next week. I could take you?”
“Sorry. I’m going with my boyfriend,” she said with a sympathetic smile. From beside the buffet table, the pirate stared daggers in our direction.
“No worries,” I replied, despite the fact I was brimming with jealousy.
The next day, as I jogged off my hangover, a brown-haired lady cut across my path and we both went spinning to the ground.
“Flip, sorry.” I rushed to pull her up by the hands. “I’m like a bloody zombie lately.”
She did a doubletake. “Ziggy, right?”
There was no mistaking those eyes. “Jarlath?”
“Well, Jarlath or Jennie. Eithers fine.”
“Right. Well, sorry again. Enjoy Absolute Bowie.”
Before I could jog away, she said, “Hey, so that guy I was seeing? Turns out he’s a total prick.”
Jennie and I went for coffee. Coffee morphed into drinks. Drinks morphed into a steamy make-out session on my sofa.
But as she covered my neck in soft kisses, my stomach turned. It felt like cheating. So, I put the brakes on things and said, “I can’t do this. I’m really sorry. You’re amazing, but I just got out of a serious relationship…and…it’s just…”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.”
We agreed we’d let our connection blossom in its own time.
Jennie had a playful mystique to her. Within a handful of dates, we’d developed inside jokes and could tell what the other was thinking. But Luna’s imprint was hard to shake, to the extent I almost mixed up the two ladies’ names multiple times.
To detox, I suggested Jennie and I spend a romantic weekend in the Lake District, because after two days of hiking and kayaking my ex would no doubt be a spec in the rearview mirror.
Hours before we set off, however, Luna’s mom called. She wanted to meet and wouldn’t accept any excuses.
“Look, it’s obvious why I’m here,” she said, sitting across from me in Starbucks. “Ever since you and Luna broke up, she’s been acting…different.”
“Different? Different how?”
“I call but she hardly answers. I go over to her place but she’s never there. Now she’s telling me she needs to find herself. Says she’s moving to Australia.”
Her fingers tightened around her cup. “I need to know what happened between you two. And I don’t care if that paints anybody in a bad light. I’m just worried about my daughter is all.”
I told her about the Google account.
“Did you confront her about it?”
“Hell no. I ghosted that crazy bitc—” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I just…stopped seeing her.”
She started crying so loudly customers at nearby tables paused their conversations. I touched her forearm, promised I’d call if I remembered anything else, then set off for my romantic weekend.
But while Jennie and I enjoyed all that fresh air and pub food, a thought nagged at me. Luna adored London, so why move to Australia? It seemed so out of character. Back at our rented cottage, I was so fixated on the thought I needed a smoke, badly.
“What the hell is that?” Jennie demanded, as she stepped onto the front deck.
I glanced at my hands. “Uhh, a cigarette.”
“Michael! Don’t be sarcastic. You know how I feel about those things.”
“…Do I?”
“Uhh, well it’s the same as anybody else. Quit poisoning your lungs and put that thing out.”
“Alright alright, geeze. Sorry Luna.”
“That’s okay.”
A knot formed in my stomach as she went back inside. I’d called Jennie Luna by mistake. And she hadn’t noticed. In fact, her reaction to me smoking was identical to Luna’s—even the snappy way she said the ‘poison your lungs’ line.
I followed Jennie into the lounge, where she’d curled up on an armchair with a Colleen Hoover novel. She was hiding something. What else did she know about Luna? Maybe I could trick her into revealing some details…
From behind, I started massaging her shoulders. “Sorry for being rude before. I know what you said came from a place of love.”
“That’s okay.”
I waited until her eyes drooped shut, then said, “It really is perfect here, huh? Maybe we should stay forever.”
“Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
Her little groans of pleasure, the rhythm of her breathing, it all felt so familiar. I waited until the tension in her neck dissolved, then I pushed my lips against her ear and whispered, “So how about we take this into the bedroom…Lola.”
“Hmm. Sure thing Bugs.”
My hands froze. Jennie jumped up. “Uhh, that felt so good, why’d you stop?”
“What did you just say?”
“What did you just say?”
“I called you Lola,” I replied, my arms frozen in midair. “And you called me bugs.”
“Like the cartoon, right? I thought it’d be a cute nickname. Anyway, I’m tuckered out.” She forced a yawn. “Why don’t we get some sleep?”
As her hand laced with mine, an image of me waking up drugged and gagged and tied to the bedposts flashed before my eyes.
I said, “Sure. I just…need to use the bathroom first.”
The second the door shut behind me, I flew out of the house, climbed in my car, and sped away.
Within seconds my phone started blowing up with calls, followed by texts. Where are you going? Is everything okay?
No, I wanted to reply. I’m onto your sick little game. Whatever it is, I’m onto it.
Luna stalked my stalker, now Jennie somehow knew Luna and I’s nicknames. How? Did all women take turns drawing straws and whoever picked the short one needed to become my girlfriend?
I couldn’t go home. For all I knew, my exes would’ve been there burning effigies of me. I needed a safe place. Somewhere I could lie low until I got all this straightened out.
“Of course you can stay,” Gertrude said over the phone. “I’m out with some friends, but I’ll meet you later. If you hop the side gate there’s a spare key under the kissing gnomes out back.”
Gertrude lived in a detached house in Wembley. It took a bit of foraging to find the gnomes hidden beneath the weeds in the brown, patchy garden.
I needed to shoulder the door open. Inside, a mountain of letters and flyers had piled up on the welcome mat.
Down the hall, a huge archway connected the landing with a lounge, where a bar sat against the far wall, surrounded by upholstered sofas, a low table, and tie dye sheets strung over the filthy carpet. Everything had a real elegant vibe, despite the musty air.
I’d drained two glasses of whiskey before Gertrude arrived.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough evening.”
I said we could talk in the morning.
“Not a chance. You can’t take negative energy to bed. Come on, confession is good for the soul.”
She sat on the sofa and patted the empty seat next to her. So, with a weary sigh, I shared a tale of deranged exes.
“Crazy,” she said.
“I sure can pick ‘em, huh?”
“No, I mean you’re crazy.”
“What?”
“Think about it. What’s more likely: that your ex’s are secretly in collusion, or you’re being paranoid? Look how bloodshot your eyes are. When’s the last time you got a good night’s rest?”
She made a great point; teenagers on the street occasionally shouted ‘Bugs’ or ‘Thumper’ at me. Jennie might’ve come up with the nickname herself. I pinched the bridge of my nose, groaning.
“Look, sleep here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll brainstorm ways you can make it up to Jennie.”
I fumbled through my pockets for a cigarette.
“Really?” Gertrude said. “If you insist on poisoning your lungs, can you at least do it away from my home?”
“Well if I can’t smoke, I’m gonna need a refill.” I shook my empty glass.
On my way toward the bar, a wave of wooziness hit me. My first instinct was to blame it on the alcohol, but there was something else.
It was her reaction to the cigarette. My finger ran through the thick layer of dust along the bar’s countertop. Why was it like the place had been abandoned? Why did Gertrude always pressure me to stay with my psycho girlfriends? And how come she always reached out, as if on cue, whenever my relationships hit problems? It couldn’t be coincidence…
I poured two glasses of whiskey and carried them to the sofa. “So, you’re really against the whole smoking thing, huh?”
“Of course. It’s a filthy habit.”
“Yeah. Plus, there was that mess with your husband. House fire, right?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Sure, sure.” I ignited the lighter with a roll across my trouser leg.
Gertrude grabbed a cushion and hugged it. “What are you doing?”
“Alright, cut the crap. What the hell’s going on? Have you been sending your friends to date me?”
“What are you talking about?”
I wrestled the cushion from her and held the lighter beneath it. “I want an explanation right now or I’m torching this place.”
This was an empty threat. I wasn’t some pyromaniac—I just wanted answers. Inch by inch, I raised the flame. “Last chance. Why are the women in my life acting weird?”
Gertrude grabbed for the lighter. As I swatted her wrists away, we both got scorched, and for a moment her skin went wild with spasms, a sensation I can only compare to reaching inside a bucket of wet, writhing maggots. My gaze whipped between her face and her hands, which vibrated like plucked guitar strings.
Before I could scream, she yanked me up, clamped a cold, wrinkled palm across my mouth, and forced me against the wall. I thrashed around, unable to move. For a lady old enough to collect a pension, she was crazy strong.
She waited until I ran out of breath, then said, “Michael, please. I’m not going to hurt you. Open your heart and listen.”
What else could I do?
“You were right before. I have been keeping a secret from you. The truth is, I’ve been in love with you since we met. I’d never flown before. And you were so so sweet. You started talking about this other woman, but I knew our energies were perfect for each other. And it’s like I always say, love makes us do crazy things. You can’t begrudge me that can you?”
She looked as if she expected me to respond, so I shook my head.
“But I think we’ve reached a point where our connection is so deep we can be completely transparent with one another.” She took a slow, steady breath. “Michael, all your ex’s, Luna, Sadie, Jennie. They’ve all been…well, me.”
I stared at her, confused.
She sighed. “It’ll be easier if I just show you.”
Out of nowhere her hand wriggled again, then her face tightened, as though the skin was being stretched over the bone. Wrinkles smoothed out and colour bled into her grey hair, turning it brown, and within seconds I found myself face-to-face with Jennie. Even her vintage clothes morphed into a green blouse and white slacks.
“See?” she said in Jennie’s voice, her now blue eyes locked on mine.
I screamed into the soft flesh of her palm.
“Sssh, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Watch.”
Her entire body jerked and twitched, the muscles spasming as she shifted from Jennie to Luna. “See? Think of these as costumes”—from Luna to Sadie—"the important thing is what’s underneath. And you’ve fallen in love with what’s underneath three times. Now I’m going to let go, but I need you to promise you won’t overreact. Understand?”
On the verge of a panic attack, I nodded furiously.
The second she pulled away I made a break for the exit. The thing posing as Sadie grabbed me and hurled me backwards against the wall.
Like a disappointed teacher, she put her hands on her hips. “I’ve been so patient with you, Michael. So very, very patient.”
She blocked off any hope of escape. I sidestepped around the outer edge of the room, towards the bar.
“All those years moulding you. Trying to grow you into the man I know you can be. I really thought we had it this time. For the record, I wanted to do this the easy way. But drastic times...”
I was so scared I slammed right into the cabinet and yelped. Glass bottles chattered together, and then something wet ran down the back of my shirt. It was whiskey, leaking from the overturned bottle onto the carpeted floor.
Speaking more to herself now, Gertrude said, “I’ll just have to keep you here until you love me as much as I love you. Of course, that means posing as you so nobody gets suspicious, but that’s no trouble. I’ll tell your dad you’re moving to Italy. You always loved Italy.”
Pose as me? She'd been killing my ex's and taking their place, I was just the latest in a long line. She’d keep me as a personal sugar baby if I didn’t escape, but how? She was impossibly strong, and the only thing that seemed to scare her was…
Snatching the bottle, I doused the remaining whiskey all over the carpet and furniture. As I flicked the lighter open, Sadie’s hands shot up.
“Bugs…darling…what are you doing?”
I took three slow, steady breaths. “Breaking up with you, you crazy bitch.”
I tossed the lighter forward. Within seconds flames sprung up all around us, spreading as far as the sofa. Sadie’s shoe caught fire, and as she stamped around, unintentionally fanning the blaze, her body writhed again, starting with the ankles. Fat boils climbed up every inch of exposed skin, milky white and with the consistency of frog spawn, like she’d had a killer allergic reaction to poison ivy.
She dropped to her knees, wailing like a wounded animal. This was my chance.
I made a break for the exit, giving the creature as wide a berth as possible. But as I got one foot planted in the hall something clamped tight around my ankles. My chin hit the floor, then I started sliding backwards.
I twisted onto my back. Where Sadie’s left arm should’ve been, a tentacle-like appendage stretched across the length of the room, a distance of over twenty feet. It reeled me toward her like a fish on a line. Whatever that thing was no longer looked human. It melted like an ice statue, with no bones or connective tissue inside, its lips nose and mouth becoming hideously elongated before dripping off in huge globs like melted candlewax. A fire alarm started wailing as the tentacle dragged me through the flames, scorching my arms and legs.
The loose mass of skin reached out and encased me like a mother bird sheltering its eggs.
“WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME?” all my ex’s voices screamed at once. Whichever direction I looked, silhouettes of faces rose and fell, as if trying to burst through. Parts of them dripped inside my mouth, disgustingly warm with a bitter taste worse than Vaseline.
I put everything into clawing my way out if there. What was left of the beast had the consistency of wet clay and came apart just as easily. I tore away chunks until there was a hole large enough to squeeze through. Then, I crawled along surrounded by black smoke.
At the far side of the room I risked a glance back and saw a bumpy, uneven hand reaching out of a puddle of ooze. Soon I was crawling over the bristly welcome mat, then fumbling for the door. All I remember after that are paramedics wrestling me into an ambulance…
A specialist officer came to see me at the hospital the next morning. They’d been unable to contact the homeowner, Gertrude Huyton, and through his line of questioning I could tell they hadn’t found her ‘remains’ inside the charred house. Like the wicked witch of the West, my stalker had melted. I told the officer she said I could stay the night, and that I probably started the fire by dropping a cigarette.
“In that case, we’ll keep trying to reach her.” He walked to the curtain surronding my bed and paused. “Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, her cat is missing.”
“Her...cat?”
“Yeah. The little black one. One of the firemen pulled it out of the wreckage. The poor thing had burns over its legs but it ran off before anybody could take it to the vet.”
I swallowed a gulp and thanked him for telling me.
And now I’m still sitting here listening while nurses rush back and forth, terrified any one of them might be Gertrude…

I'd like to vent a little since this is mainly what this sub is for. I (20F) have been working as a gas station/truck stop clerk for almost 5 years. It was my first job and hopefully not my last. I've seen a lot of shit. A bag of dildos, someone who shat their pants and left their shitty underwear in the toilet for us to fish out, cum shot on the walls, crackheads doing crackhead shit, a trucker who literally had a heart attack in our parking lot, piss jugs, so many piss jugs, but the worst part of my job is by far, men. Now, I know know it's not all of them and most of the man clientel I have is so nice and fun to serve. However, the minority is very loud, annoying and sometimes scary. Here's just a few incidents that have made me genuinely uncomfortable and scared at times.
This is the only one that genuinely made me fear for my safety. I work evening shift form 16h-00h. I was outside taking out the indoor garbage bags when a trucker approached me. He was older, mabe late 40's. It was already dark out and being a women alone at night already makes me shit my pants. He told me he had a problem with his fuel card and asked for help. Thinking I'm just overthinking like always, I go instead of asking the guy i was working with to help him out. The fuel card reader is very far away from our building, who is already in the middle of the woods on the side of the highway. Once there, i put it in and it didn't seem to work as his fuel limit was exceeded. Now, he started on and on about how it just worked and that he wanted to show me the receipt from the day prior at a different gas station of the same branch as mine. We went back forth, him insisting I come close to his truck so I can check the receipt, me telling him that there's nothing I can do and to call his dispatch. He eventually grabbed my arm to lead me closer to his door. I pulled away and told him to leave me alone, throwing his card at him. He didn't seem to like that but my co-worker, who was smoking a cigarette outside, approached us and told him the same thing I did. The trucker didn't say much else and just left in his truck. I have no idea why he couldn't just grab the damn receipt from his truck and show me or why he felt the need to put his hands on me. Thankfully, my male co-worker was there
(sorry truckers I live you thank you for your hard work. My dad is a trucker and I know how hard you work. I have nothing against you)
We have this one trucker who is a semi regular. I don't know if he's missing some braincells but having a conversation with him takes years off my life. His only eye contact is with my tits and he just has that creepy smile stuck on his face. He's asked me about my love life, sex life, he's asked me to marry him, come wash him in the showers, he purposely gets Belmonts cigarettes because I have to bend down to get them, but I know for a fact his cigarettes of choice is Next since that's what he orders from my male co-workers and older workers.
I have much more stories but I'm realizing the post will be long as fuck so I'll get to the one that made me write this post.
I'm currently at work and I just had a man come in. Off the start, he was giving me creepy vibes. I'm sure the ladies know that one stare. I started serving him and something was just off with him. At the end of the transaction he ask me to shake his hand telling me his name, Alex, and told me I had beautiful eyes. I like getting compliments on my eyes, but I almost threw up in my mouth. After some more uncomfortable staring he walked off. He came back a minute later asking me for cash back. Charged him 1 cent so he could take out 30$. I was genuinely sweating at how uncomfortable it was. He then ask me for the bathroom, I told him down the first hall at the right. He asked me to show him. Red flags but it's my job so I took a few steps away from my podium and pointed at the hallway. A fucking 3 year-old could've found it so I knew something was off. He went and came back barely 10 seconds later, telling me he couldn't find it and to show him. As I was walking down the hallway, I realized he probably wanted to get me away from the front window of the store where a group of nice old men I had just served were talking outside. Once there, he took my hand and ask me if I could help him in there. Which meant some sexual or I don't know I'm still so fucking confused. I took my hand away, told him no, laughing. I hate myself for laughing. I wish I had more of a back bone but I was still trying to be nice. I walked off, not looking in his direction as I continued some paperwork I was doing. He left without saying much else.
I'm sure some of you guys have some more unhinged stories. I live in a very safe part of Canada and, outside of my work, I've only rarely encountered people who genuinely made me uncomfortable. I just genuinely can not comprehend how people think this is okay behavior. I'm not a monkey or a robot, i have fucking feelings. I only am nice to you because I get paid to do it, i'm not flirting with you. What passes through some of their minds to think this is something I would be comfortable with. I just don't understand. I hate it here. Also, fuck Alex

But even typing this, it doesn’t feel real. I still have hope tonight that he can change. I feel so stupid.
I am 38F and he is 39M.
I am devastated. I would do anything and everything to be married forever, but it’s no longer an option and hasn’t been since the fourth month of our marriage. I was 8 weeks pregnant with his child and he assaulted me with a metal cup in the car while he was driving on the freeway because I wouldn’t stop saying why he was upsetting me. The fight continued when we got home and he had called the police, lied to them and had me arrested. Eight weeks pregnant. With bruises up and down my body. I got arrested. I spent the night in jail and had to listen to my baby’s heartbeat for the first time from a county jail exam table.
Somehow, through that, we stayed married. Abuse makes you do wild things. It changes your brain. Abusers purposely make you confused. Through counseling, I am coming out of the confusion now, though.
I could go on and on about the abuse I have suffered. I am here today because typing this makes it real that I am leaving. And I am here today because I need support in understanding that he is not going to change.
This morning things escalated by 8am. This is typical weekend behavior. I discovered that he has been smoking cigarettes in one of the vehicles that is in my name and that I pay for, and that I have asked him not to smoke in repeatedly. I do not smoke. I think it’s gross. And it has ruined the interior of this vehicle that is expensive. Not only that, but our child has asthma. Most likely because he IS a smoker. Anyway, I grabbed something out of the vehicle for his 6yo and I came back in and simply said “please don’t smoke in the truck anymore. Please don’t tell me that you haven’t been either.” This sent him into a spiral. He called me names and said that I am controlling. He started following me around the house screaming behind my head. He is nearly a foot taller than me and this is physically intimidating to me. So much so that my hands start to shake, my heart races and my thoughts become blurry when he does this. I knew at this point it was best for me to get our child and leave. So I was doing that. But this morning he would not let me leave the bedroom and was blocking me from leaving with our child with his body in the doorway. I told him I was going to call non-emergency if he didn’t move. And he would not. So I was trying to figure out how to call but my hands were shaking so bad and my brain was so jumbled I gave up and called my sister on speaker. I asked her to call the police. As soon as he saw her name on my phone he moved and let me leave. He yelled at me and our child out the door and to the neighborhood “see - I’m so scary - I’m letting you leave”. I got our child in the backseat and drove down the street to park and get them dressed. They were only in a pull up. I saw the officer coming down the road and flagged him down. I told him what happened and he went and talked with him. I left with our child and went to my sisters. Eventually we came home and he has been upstairs ever since. This is also typical. He will have an outburst. And then go upstairs and not speak to me for a week. And then one morning he’ll just wake up and decide that it’s time to be normal again. And generally comes to me and says “have you calmed down”. Which, as you can imagine, perpetuates the situation further. And drags it on. He does not understand accountability.
We have been married 3.5 years, together for 5 total. We have one child together (2yo) and he has two other children (6yo and 14yo).
We moved in together after 9 months of dating. That is when the abuse started. The first time he was physically abusive, he broke through our bedroom door. Broke. The entire door - down. Somehow, I decided to continue.
From the start, I’ve known it was never going to last. He is unstable. He has a long and dark history of mental illness (both himself and his immediate maternal and paternal family). In addition to struggling with substance abuse his entire life. His childhood is tragic and full of heartache. It shaped the man he is today, and not for the better.
He is in the trades industry and has a GED. I am a director level professional and have a college degree. His father was in prison for the last half of his childhood and eventually took his life when he was released. My father is a retired architect, Vietnam vet. We grew up completely different. Both of our parents divorced. He then suffered verbal and emotional abuse from his step father. I suffered verbal, emotional, and physical abuse from my mother.
I believe my mother is a narcissist and undiagnosed. And I believe my husband has narcissistic tendencies and/or is one. But I am not a medical professional. I am going on what I’ve experienced with both of them.
When we first met, he was 34 and I was 33. He was unemployed and really not doing well. Drinking in access. A lot. Everyday. But I did not know. I was doing very well. I had spent my 20s creating a fulfilling and financially successful career. He spent his 20s job hopping and, quite honestly, messing around. But we had fun together. But having fun together is not real life.
Here is where the manipulation began. He was upfront about his upbringing and past. And was genuinely making steps towards a better life. He is a born again Christian. And as an educated person, I believe he has grabbed on to what is actually important in the Bible. However, he is unable to abide by what a husband biblically should be. He does not love, protect or provide for me or our child. We joined a church, I became involved and made friends, and we went there as a family for multiple years. Until one night he showed up drunk, and I never went back.
I am the breadwinner. I pay for ev. ry. thing. He keeps his entire paycheck and will not give me money to pay bills. He will also not physically pay the bills. I manage and pay all bills. But not because I don’t want him to. I have begged, cried, and tried a million different systems (both digital and analog) to make him involved. And he flat out refuses. He abused our shared checking by taking money out to “pay bills” from his personal checking account and then did not pay those bills and spent the money. So I would then have to pay multiple months and late fees to catch up. Many. Many. Times.
In addition to not contributing financially, he does not contribute to the household upkeep or yard maintenance. Literally nothing. If I want the yard kept, I do it, or I pay someone to do it. If something on a vehicle goes out, I make the appointment and consult with the technician. But again, not because I want to, but because he will not participate. Or if he does, it’s half assed and more work for me. He does not grocery shop or cook. He has never cooked one meal for me. I think he’s maybe gotten a bowl of ice cream for me a couple times? He does not clean. He has cleaned the bathroom in our home two times. We have lived here 4 years. We live in separate bedrooms because he won’t pickup after himself. His room is squalor. Clothes on every square inch. Fast food wrappers. No sheet on mattress. I have cleaned it for him many times in hopes that we could make a drastic change and start sleepin next to each other again. But he refuses. I know this sounds insane that I have stayed married. It sounds insane to me.
He verbally, emotionally, physically, spiritually, sexually and financially abuses me. Maybe not all at once, everyday. But one of them most likely daily now. Or a couple. It’s been a very long time since there has been a long stretch of stability or peace.
However, I am changing all of that this year. I have hired an attorney and am climbing through the paperwork right now.
On Christmas morning last year, before we hosted family that day, he threw a (heavy) laundry basket full of dirty clothes at me as I was going down the stairs because I asked him for help with something. And after the first one hit me, I sat down and covered my head so I wouldn’t fall, and he threw another one at me. I don’t know how I masked my raw emotions through the rest of the day with family over. I ate not one bite. I pushed my food around my plate and tried to make my face contort into normal emotions for the day.
But I stayed. Again.
Mother’s Day morning this year. Just one week ago - I spent it locked in my bedroom with our child paying the divorce attorney retainer fee on the laptop as he screamed at me what a piece of shit mother and wife I am. I honestly don’t even know what I did or remember why it escalated. Most likely because it was a holiday - and not about him.
I am exhausted. I have lost close to 30lbs since January. People are beginning to notice.
I wanted a family more than anything. I adore my child. I spend my days and nights dreaming up ways to enrich their life. I wanted family vacations and world travel. I wanted to host, big, extended family holiday gatherings. I wanted my little baby to know what it felt like to have a mom and dad at home together every night. But not at this cost. The very worst part of my parenting is staying married. I am a bad parent every day that I stay here.
I wish I could file the petition and fast forward a year. I know I’ll be okay. It’s ripping off the bandaid that hurts.

I remember when I was a little girl I would look in the mirror and just be so disappointed, in my mind, I was ugly, stupid, and poor, and it broke me completely. I would get bullied heavily in elementary school not only because I was poor but because I was chubby, while I ate lunch kids would stand by my desk and make pig sounds at me, oinking and calling me butterball. They told me I had meth head teeth. The only thing I liked about myself was my freckles but that brief feeling of liking myself soon disappeared when one boy told me it looked like I had shit splattered on my face.
I was eleven when I began to diet, whiten my teeth, and wear makeup. My teeth naturally straightened out on their own and I shed the weight with the help of heavy restriction, not without developing an obsession over how I looked. When I was twelve, boys began to notice me, I broke my nose and in doing so had to get it straightened out so I could breathe properly, no longer did I have my father's Roman nose which I so despised. I wanted desperately to be like the girls who ignored me and to be liked by the boys who bullied me for a little baby fat.
Because of this obsession, I didn't believe people when they told me I was pretty. Compliments always felt ingenuine and I naturally assumed boys were asking me out as a joke so I turned every single one down out of fear of humiliation. Deep inside me something seethed, I wasn't satisfied with the weight I had lost and begged and cried until my mom shared her Ozempic with me. I was thirteen.
Still, I could describe in detail the way I picked apart every flaw, the way I had autopsies on past conversations, searching for a new insecurity. One day I went into my dad's toolbox and stole his roll of duck tape and wrapped it around my waist. I was amazed by how beautiful I looked, my waist was the smallest of all the girls at my school and this felt like a victory. I tailored my favourite sundress on my mom's sewing machine to fit my brand-new waist and wore it to the first day back from summer break.
Everyone turned their heads to look at me, I thought that only happened in the movies until I strolled into English class with a waist the size of a tangerine. I shoved lies through my teeth about a gym and diet plan I had done over the summer to make myself look so small, my friends listened with eager ears and wide eyes trained on my midriff. The attention was more addictive than any substance I've put into my body. My friend had told me how the boys were talking about me and how they planned to ask me out, that's when I made up my mind.
It felt like a poison I happily drank, knowing all of the risks. Every Sunday after church I walked to the Dollar General by my house and bought five rolls of duct tape, two dollars each for one week of classes, ten dollars in total. The same woman was always there and she always smiled at me, asking what I did with all of the tape, my face would split into a sickly sweet smile as I told her a new falsehood every time.
My mother would comment on how she didn't want me to go anywhere by myself because I was too pretty to do so, this was like pouring gasoline onto my forest fire. In the morning when everyone was sleeping, I wrapped one roll of duct tape around my waist so no one could hear the sound; I took it off before my showers at night, water running as pain pushed tears from my eyes and bit the inside of my cheek until I could taste iron flood my gums. I was left with cuts and tears in my skin, flesh tender with torture, still, I mummified my body every morning with duct tape. Sometimes I would do my thighs if I wore leggings or skinny jeans so people would comment on my impressive thigh gap.
After a year of doing this, my midriff looked like a piece of raw steak beaten with a meat tenderizer until it was almost torn apart entirely. I wouldn't even let people touch me in fear that they could feel through my attempt at perfection. I started skipping church. Every weekend I shut myself inside so I could breathe at full capacity while I shut my blinds and stared at my ceiling, my mind went numb with the impending doom that I would suffocate myself with that dreadful silver tape when the bell rang. My whole life I had heard that beauty is pain and that's all I thought this was, I thought that models did similar things and it was just something I had to accept to be beautiful.
Essentially, I had turned into a zombie; my breathing was shallow, and I became pale, clammy, shaking, and nauseous. I couldn't stomach meals. Every night I would wake up around midnight and cough up my guts but I hadn't eaten any food so there was nothing left in me to vomit but bile and eventually blood. I stopped talking to people, I thought it better for them just to look at my pretty long lashes and my tiny little waist than to listen to me tell them I was fine through shaky breaths. My dad was so scared for me, he kept bringing food into my bedroom and would come to collect the uneaten dish when he dropped off the next. He couldn't look at me without crying. It was just his drowsy gaze piercing into my vacant skull while we both swallowed back what we wanted to say, the words dying in our throats, never to be heard.
Everything hurt all of the time, it didn't matter anymore whether I had the duct tape on or not. I almost preferred the feeling of it on so the stinging of the cuts and the soreness of my ribs was shielded by something. One day in PE the teacher asked me to sit out so I did. I tried my best to keep my vision straight and my head up while I watched the other kids play California kickball. It was okay until there was a suffocating feeling, like something was consuming everything in my body like tiny creatures with razor-sharp teeth were cutting their way up my organs. My body began to convulse as I coughed until I fell to my hands and knees, coughing up this invisible force in my throat. The game stopped abruptly and every pair of beady eyes turned to watch me writhe in pain on the dusty gym floor while I clawed at my chest and throat, eager to tear the skin off completely.
Mr. Duke jogged over to me, crouching down to my level and putting a hand on my back. With furrowed eyebrows, he asked what was happening and with nothing more than Ozempic running through my system, I screamed at him to get away from me. That final wave came like a million little hands of wind pushing at the back of my throat until I heaved up the very last of what was left in me. Hands flew over mouths while some gagged at the sickness once inside of me. On that floor was a pile of what looked to be red coffee grounds in a little puddle of cherry wine. I was as terrified as anyone else in the gym, I screamed between heavy sobs while scuttling away from the mess I had made.
I knew that this was the end of me, that I would be taken to a hospital and everyone would know what I had done. I didn't even need to go to the hospital for everyone to know what I had done. Once I had collected myself and began talking frantically in a hushed circle of my friends while we waited for the ambulance, one boy on the hockey team caught a glimpse of shimmering silver beneath my gym strip and snuck up behind me, pulling my shirt up and revealing the secret I carried like a cross I had to bear.
My back laden with strips of duct tape like it was armour was on display to my entire class, my shame shown to what I had perceived to be the entire world. The girls didn't find this so funny but the boys came up with the name of Tape-Face. I remember rushing to the locker room with my friends following close behind, I grabbed scissors from my pencil case and began to cut it off myself, ripping it away madly along with little segments of flesh. My friends watched in horror, they just stood like it was a game of wax museum and I was the security guard there to punish whichever moved first.
In the hospital, I couldn't face my parents, not even the doctor, I kept my eyes locked on my lap. I couldn't see their stares but I could certainly feel them digging into me like a frog on a dissection table. My mom was utterly speechless and my dad spoke only through voice cracks and subtle sobs while he brought me soggy sandwiches from the cafe on the first floor.
I took another week off school because I could predict the painfully true rumours and when I finally set foot back into the school, it was worse than I anticipated. I felt hideous, like a pig that had been chugging back lard in my t-shirt, sweatpants, and perfectly average body. My friends were hesitant to eat around me and tiptoed around the incident like it had never happened which almost felt worse than bringing it up. Others were not so kind. A group of kids, guys and girls all mixed together, the kind that stole cigarettes from their parents had waited until I came back to sneak away from class and cover my locker in duct tape. Over top of the tape they scribbled on a dictionary of names they would call me in the hallway "Tape-Face" "Fraud" "Botched" "Duct tape Barbie". One of the girls sat behind me in math and had cut little squares of duct tape to stick them into my hair, I called my mom in the principal's office and cried while the secretary had to cut it out of my hair.
My dad made the decision to pull me out of school, so I started homeschooling but that didn't stop the harassment. We lived close to the school and during lunch and after school kids would throw duct tape wallets and wads of tape onto the porch. My dad's final straw was when someone dropped off a Barbie whose waist and thighs had been wrapped in duct tape in our mailbox. He had contacted not only the school but the parents of the kids several times with no avail to the torment ending anytime soon. He moved us to a new town where I could go to class without anyone knowing the pain I subjected myself to for two years.
I'm in college now and I've never told anyone this. I've cut contact with everyone from that school. One of the bullies tried to reach out and apologize, blaming her behaviour on mental illness but that felt like she had shattered a plate and said sorry, thinking that it would put the plate back together. I told her I didn't forgive her and blocked her. A boy from the hockey team also messaged me, the one who flipped my shirt up. He said he just had a daughter he couldn't imagine her going through what I went through and that he's sorry for what he did. All I had to say was that I hope she doesn't have to go through what he put me through either.
​
​

Scott Masterson had first met Scarlett at a rooftop party in downtown Dallas. Their age and the time of year were both in late springtime, them in their mid twenties and the date in early May. He had on a sharp yet breezy blazer and she astonished in a thigh length sleeveless blue dress.
“Oh hey Scott I don’t believe you two have met…” his then happily married friend had remarked with a slow swinging open hand toward her.
“Scott Masterson…reluctant friend to this knucklehead” he said with a tight lipped grin, trying not to be so obvious with his instant rapture.
“Scarlett…a pleasure…”
Her hand was so delicate to Scott’s touch. They locked eyes. It was like looking back through centuries of connection, endless days of laying in the sun next to the Seine River, or rising to Hollywood fame in the 1940’s and only having each other who would understand the glory and the pain of it all, or generations of quiet, simple country love that would bear such beautiful, happy children that would go on to raise beautiful, happy children, all with their dark blue eyes. Yes, the memories of every love story since the beginning of time was swirling right there in Scarlett’s irises. Scott had to catch himself before he stared embarrassingly too long.
“Sorry Scottie here doesn’t get out often” his friend quipped, which Scott appreciated actually, it helped him snap back to professionalism.
“Well I don’t either…at least I prefer not to.” Scarlett’s words flowed through the air like a flock of rose petals.
“Hey, kindred spirits.” Scott was really sensing a rising energy out of her, they had barely broken eye contact.
“Well, I’ll let you two have at it, I got a wife around here somewhere. Hey…Scott and Scarlett…not bad, not bad.” His friend exited stage right with a sly chuckle.
“Nice guy…so…what are you drinking, Scarlett?” Scott looked around for the emptiest corner of the rooftop bar, hoping to find a nice place for them to be able to hear each other. This night had just become something.
“That depends, Scott…what do you like?”
Oh man.
Well, as you can expect, the evening blossomed into a beautiful, long winded conversation that etched a long list of similarities between the two. They both lived in the city, had never married, and had dreamed of stable, simpler lives far away from tall buildings and busy streets. The next morning Scott awoke in her arms, which warmed much deeper than just his skin. He could feel her soothing his very identity, his future, everything. Her arms were tailor made to fit his very soul, and he had never felt more safe and at home.
“Mmm…you can stay right here…” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“I will…I will”
They both fell back asleep, into a dream that wouldn’t end upon waking.
Two years passed and suddenly they lived that simple backwoods life, way out where acres of land far out-populated the few and far between people. They took a lovely home, which happily looked over a long backyard, right up to a lively yet mostly undisturbed river. Their only neighbor within a mile was an older ranch worker named Charles, who rarely made himself perceivable. Days were spent way on into town where they both had offices. They didn’t mind the commute. Nights were spent mostly like this night, cuddled outside near a lovely little fire, with a slowly shrinking amount of wine sitting between them. Enjoying their Kingdom. Tonight, however, would prove to be a special night, for many reasons, all unexpected.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking…” Scott began, sitting up and opening his hands to the warmth of the fire.
“Oh?” Scarlett also sat up, eyes widening.
“So look, Scarlett, the last two years have been the best of my life. An absolute dream…”
She held her breath, her focus darting between his eyes and mouth.
“Yeah?”
“We have everything we ever want out here. But…what if there’s more?”
“More?” She had envisioned this very conversation hundreds of times.
“Our dreams have come true, but what if we…made some new dreams?” Scott turned and embedded his eyes into hers. He burst into a big smile.
“Scott…I thought…”
“Nevermind what I said” he cut her off, which he always made a point to never do, but this was a good exception.
“I’m ready, Scarlett…let’s have a family.”
“Ohhhh Scott, oh Scott”
They hugged tight enough to where it hurt.
“Well, in that case, we may need to open another bottle.” She said playfully, bouncing her eyebrows twice.
“Excellent. I’ll be right up. I’ll put this fire out and then start yours up.”
“Oh stop!” She bounded away girlishly, up the snowy back steps and into the house.
Scott let out a big sigh that he could see in the cold air and sat back in his chair, taking in his decision. He really was ready. He had secretly been keeping a long list of names that he liked and that he thought would work in front of Masterson. Especially little girl names. He stared into the campfire flames, getting lost imagining the three of them sitting right here, a little girl resting securely in Scarlett’s arms, as Scott had found himself, and stayed within these past two years.
Suddenly his trance was broken when, from the road in front of their house, came the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speed. Scott snapped his head back toward the house to get a better listen. He could see, around the house and through the trees, a large truck barreling down the country road, its headlights racing and bouncing with intensity. In an instant, it had passed up the road and out of sight.
“Huh?”
Soon, after a moment of silence, another sound echoed into the night. This sound rattled Scott to the bone and tore all that was right in his world into pieces. A sharp, bellowing squeal. His eyes shot over to his neighbors house, which was about a tenth of a mile to his right but still had a couple dim lights on that he could see. The shriek seemed to come from there.
Then, more squeals. It was hellish. More than animal but not quite human. Scott stood up. He heard crashing and tearing and further destruction coming from Charles’ house.
“Scarlett!! Scarlett!” He yelled toward his house, where he looked and could see her silhouette behind the curtains at the kitchen window. She didn’t seem to hear him.
He turned back toward his neighbors. The chaos had gone quiet. Not a half a moment after, though, he heard something big barreling through the trees as fast as that truck had been sprinting. Running, running furiously between the two houses. Searching, hunting. Scott was taken aback so hard that his heel had caught the edge of the fire pit, throwing him down only inches away from severe burns. He had knocked his head in the whiplash, making him groan and take a moment to regain his bearings.
“SCARLETT!!!!”
He screamed out toward his home as he sat up, rubbing a quickly rising bump on the back of his head. He heard a loud breaching on the side of his house. The patio door. No. No. Then, all hell broke loose. Scarlett started wailing and crying and he could hear crashes of plates and glasses and deep guttural roars coming from the kitchen inside. Shadows danced in a frenzy from the curtained windows. Sounds of instinctual survival seemed to be thrown from Scarlett inside. Sounds of defeat. Sounds of agony. Sounds of insanity. Scott sprang to his feet, his equilibrium being more damaged than he realized after his fall. He had to catch his hand on a chair to stabilize himself. Scarlett’s symphony of pain had gone quiet. Soon after something burst back out the patio door again and off in the same direction as that truck before.
Scott struggled back up to the house, slowly climbing the wintered, crunching stairs that led to the patio. He no longer yelled for Scarlett. In fact, the only thing that came to his senses was the sound of his own heavy breathing. Everything else had been turned off, save for a heavy and sudden dread that he had prayed he would never feel. He came to the side of his house where indeed the patio door had been busted and forced open. It laid inside the kitchen, its hinges snapped like toothpicks. Scott, with eyes wide and twitching, slowly entered his home and looked into the kitchen.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t even change his breathing. He didn’t blink. He just got a good long look at what laid before him.
Everything was broken. The fridge was on its side, the door hanging open and food and drink scattered all over the floor. The table was upended, its legs to the ceiling. A chair was resting on the counter, possibly having been thrown in defense. And Scarlett. Oh Scarlett. She…was…everywhere. She was all over the floor. She was sprayed against the walls. She was stuck to the window. She was in the sink.
Scott gently walked through the carnal mess and sabotage of his world. Long ago he had known exactly what he would do if something anywhere near this bad were to happen to him. He politely stumbled through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He opened his closet door and lowered a fire safe from the top rack. He unlocked it with a passcode. 511, after that warm May date when he had first met Scarlett. In the safe was a Sig Sauer P320 handgun. Scott took it out, along with a box of bullets, loaded one into the gun, put the safe back on its rack, and walked out of the closet, sitting on his bed. Their bed. Where they should’ve been laying right at this very moment, working toward a happy future. Where he would’ve kissed her forehead and put a hand on her growing midsection. Where they would have awoken on Christmas morning to the sound of children who were way too excited to remain asleep. Where they would’ve grown old. Where they would’ve smiled at each other through wrinkles, satisfied with all the love they shared and passed on to the next generations. Where they would’ve held each other in deep peace as they finally fell asleep to this world.
“I will…I will”
In one quick motion Scott pulled back the hammer and stuck the barrel of that pistol right up against his Governor and blew himself away, far away, right back into Scarlett’s loving arms.
Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett quickly yet stealthily made his way back to his Uncle’s house. He hugged the sides of the dark country road, keeping his eyes and ears wide open as to notice any sounds pertaining to the event that he had just witnessed there in the field next to the huge blaze. His only thought was Uncle Chuck. His house was right on the warpath of that horrible thing and Smallmouth had to go to him and make sure he was safe. He dared not go back to his truck, which would bring a lot of unwanted attention. No, Smallmouth walked and walked and finally saw the lights of his Uncle’s house. He carefully approached the front door from the shadowed driveway. Suddenly it occurred to Smallmouth that something was very wrong here. The door was busted in, having been plowed through by something very large and very strong.
“No…no…no”
Smallmouth slowly entered the house. The kitchen and living room were a disaster, chairs and tables and bottles strewn about and shattered. Bloody hoof-prints covered the floors, each of them the size of dinner plates. Smallmouth heard no noise. He felt himself well with tears, his nose a faucet that he began to sniff up as he worked his way through to his Uncle’s room, the door there also being broken in. A small whine growing in his throat, Smallmouth peaked into his uncles bedroom.
It was all in tatters. The bed had been attacked and shredded, the mattress being ripped up and thrown about as if it were made of cotton candy. More bloody hoof-prints were painted all over the brown carpet. Smallmouth trembled and put a hand up to his wet face. He didn’t see a way that his Uncle was anywhere near alive, knowing what he knew about the monster that had been in this house.
Smallmouth slowly walked to the living room, to the only little table that had been untouched in the attack. It was almost as if the bottle of whiskey teleported into his hand from the overturned cabinet, unopened. He fixed that real quick.
Soon he was several pulls deep of the only thing in the world that he knew would make him feel better, even if only for a few hours. He found his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and lit one up, although he was indoors. What did it matter? He sat in a chair that he had turned right side up and set the bottle on the table and looked out the back window into the pitch black. He cried for his Uncle and he cried for the world. He cried for himself. He cried for broken promises and his own weakness. He drank and drank until his vision shook from right to left everywhere he looked. At first he didn’t even notice the figures on the back porch. Then his vibrating focus did pick up on them, but by then it was too late. It was so dark out there but in their outlines he could see they wore long robes and hoods.
“HA!! COME AND GET ME! HAHA!! YOU COME AND YOU GET ME!!” Smallmouth boasted with a delusional amount of courage.
A creak escaped from the kitchen and he drunkenly slung his head over toward it. Three more figures stood there. Or was it just one? Smallmouth was none the wiser. All at once the hooded intruders from both inside and outside began to chant a strange, twisted rhyme in strikingly low and dissonant harmony:
“A sliver…of liver…goes down…with a shiver… …and gives…your gullet…to gall… …but drink…the Cider…that drowns…the Spider… …and you…will be free…of it all… …so tighten the grip…that loosens your lips… …O raise…the bottle…of brown… …and wake tomorrow…to find…in sorrow… …ANOTHER…SPIDER…TO…DROWN”
Smallmouth groaned at them in dissatisfaction and turned his bottle up again and began to chug the whiskey. As he did they repeated the chant except this time it was louder and closer. By the time Smallmouth had finished his bottle he was quickly losing consciousness. This wasn’t just whiskey. As he closed his eyes he felt hands grabbing him from all sides.
Smallmouth pulled open his sticky eyelids. His head felt like someone had bowled a strike into it. Wind froze his face. The smell of sickly, wet iron stung his nostrils. His vantage was higher than usual. Way higher. He was looking out into another field, but from easily ten feet up. He saw an old church, formerly painted white but now a flaky pale-beige. He heard the friction of a quick pull of rope below him, matched with a slight, tight pain at his feet. He looked down. A red-robed figure was fastening him against a wooden structure of some kind. His feet sat on a small flat platform perpendicular to a post that went from the ground up past smallmouths head. He couldn’t move his arms, so he quickly shot his eyes side to side. They were also tied to another horizontal post. A cross. He was being tied to a crude wooden cross. His shirt had been removed, exposing a hairy, overweight belly. Smallmouth tried to speak, but all that came out was a slow, unintelligible grumble. He was still drunk. No, this was more than that. He was under the influence of something strong and absolutely inhibitive. He wallowed again, and took in a deep breath. The smell of iron once again hit his nose. He looked down at himself. He was covered in a thick, red liquid. That wasn’t just the smell of iron. He had been splashed full body with blood.
“Now now, young servant…” the figure at his feet had finished his task and took a couple of steps out to admire his own handiwork.
“Ahh…perfect. The picture of martyrdom. Yes, you will always be remembered, Brother Bassett. You are to be the first Saint of The New Bible.” He opened his arms in his declaration.
Smallmouth looked up into the cold night sky. The moon shown down, giving everything a midnight spotlight. It was a gorgeous waxing gibbous, big and bright but not quite full. Yes, he was in a great big snowy field that housed an old worn down church. From the windows of the church he saw candles glowing, showing dark heads and shoulders looking out to him, also covered in loose hoods, hiding faces. He was hanging on a cross about one hundred feet from the old church. In front of the cross was a partially covered pit, a couple of two by fours supporting double armfuls of branches and dead leaves.
The figure at the base of the cross put his arms back to his side. He was still looking right at the drugged Smallmouth’s dumbstruck face. Even with a veiled mouth you could hear the twisted smile in his voice.
“Tonight you will help us finally defeat this legion, Smallmouth. You see, it may have the evil spirits within it, but at its core, it is still an owned animal. An animal that knows its Master very well. An animal that will remember the smell of its Master. You, my friend, are covered in its Master right now. And you are hanging on a cross, the symbol of this brute’s most hated enemy. But take heart, young Brother. Before you is our pit of spears. Yes you will attract the beast, but our Divine plan will intercept it and the beast will fall and be pierced. And then, oh dear brother, you will forever be immortalized. You will be purified in fire by the hands of your church brethren. Out of your screams and into the smoke the iniquities of all will be released. We will go on to preach your good example and your sainthood forever and ever.”
Smallmouth began to drool and hum pathetically. He could hear and understand the words of the robed man but he couldn’t fight back. His body was useless, limp inside its rope confines. All he could do now is think, and watch, and wait, and dread his fate.
The figure turned away from him, walking over near the pit and gathering up a bundle of brambles and throwing them over the last open area, covering it completely. He then crunched through the snow over to the front door of the old church, groaning open the door. He stood at the dark doorway for a few seconds in silence, and then began to make a noise. An over exaggerated pig squealing noise, high pitched and infuriating. Soon after other voices from inside the church began to do the same, their wailing echoing out of the building and all across the field, loudly signaling, calling out. It may as well have been a dinner bell. Not a half minute after they began the distress signal it was loudly answered by a distant squall. A furious squall.
This was it. Either way it happened Smallmouth was about to die. Experience terror, and then die, and not even have the ability to put up any kind of defense. It wasn’t fair. He just slowly lifted up his head and watched out far into the moonlit, white field. He then raised his heavy head further and took a good gander at the moon and stars for the last time.
“God,” he thought to himself, still having full inner monologue yet no outer motor function, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for being what I am. I am so sorry for ending up in this place. It’s only my own fault. If it wasn’t for me being so stupid and messy and drunk and terrible then this wouldnt be happening to me.”
He began to shed tears that washed lines into the blood on his face.
“Please forgive me God. Please, please, please forgive me for all of my sins. This is it. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!!” He yelled inside his own mind, hoping and trying to send his silent words as far up into heaven as they could go.
He lowered his eyes back to the ground. He looked over at the church again. The windows were empty, the candles were extinguished. Those hooded cowards were hiding from their own handmade sacrificial service. All was quiet for a long pause until a much louder, closer bleating began at the edge of the forest not even three hundred feet away from Smallmouth’s glazed over eyes. It was time, and it was too late for a miracle.
Out of the woods, slowly and heavily, stomped the massive hog. As it marched closer and closer Smallmouth could see its white, boiled over eyes and black-burnt skin. Its jaws were flying open and snapping its sharp, pocket knife-sized teeth together in an intimidating “clack”. It was now less than a hundred feet away, the dark old church to its right shoulder. It stopped, its pale glowing eyes fixed right on Smallmouth on the crude cross. It truly was a monster. It stood as tall as a man and as long as a canoe. Around its murderous mouth were stains of red, the remnants of all that it had taken from the world on this unholy night. In its clanging jaws were bits of flesh. It snorted and scowled.
Then, in a fury, it wailed that horrible squeal and started off into a dead sprint. It galloped and galloped toward Smallmouth at a high, blistering speed. It kept yawping and howling as it cut the distance from the cross down to fifty feet, forty feet, thirty, twenty. All at once it passed over the covered pit and plunged in. In his doomed, dead eyed stupor Smallmouth could hear what sounded like paint being dumped from a rooftop onto concrete. Trails of black liquid squirted and splashed up from the pit, which had been uncovered in the fall of the beast. Unbelieving, Smallmouth saw dozens of steel spear tips standing up from the dug-in ground. Right in the middle of them the beast was stuck. The sheer weight of the animal had caused the spears to pierce through its tough skin, sticking out of its back, soaked in black blood. One spear had stabbed right under the hogs chin, passing up through its jaws and out its black snout. It made agonized sounds. It roared and roared and shook the spears inside it, beginning furiously, then growing weaker and weaker within seconds. Finally, it let out one last weak little squeal, before it went still and quiet.
Smallmouth was frozen both physically by drugs and constraints and mentally by shock. His mouth hung open toward the pit of spears, his vision blurry. He took in a deep, troubled breath and let out a moan of disbelief and relief. The old church doors sprang open, and the sound of jubilation within flowed out into the night. The red robed figures flocked out of the building toward the pit, arms raised in celebration. They surrounded the hole, getting a good look at their success and their enemies defeat. Some held additional spears and began further stabbing the dead animal, causing more black blood to be shed up at them. They all yelled loudly and triumphantly. Some danced around the pit. Some skipped over to Smallmouth on the cross and danced around him, slapping his legs and spinning in circles.
Smallmouth looked on at the raucous celebration, both in utter disbelief of their trap actually working and also in turmoil. How long now until they fully execute their plan.
A taller robed man, whose voice matched the same one who spoke to Smallmouth as he tied his feet, spoke up, sounding almost happily intoxicated.
“Ahh yes my Brothers!! It is done!! We have won!!!”
They all whooped and cheered.
“Brother Norman, go into the church and bring me the small tank of fuel. Let us send our dear Saint Bassett to the Holy lands, where he will be adored for all eternity!”
They all clapped and hollered. One figure began childishly skipping away from the pit and over toward the front door of the church.
Then, it happened.
From the pit all of a sudden a great blaze erupted instantly. It stood as tall as the cross, and it burned a furious red and blue. It raged and raged, blinding Smallmouth and making him clumsily turn his face away from the heat.
All of the figures panicked, screaming and scattering away toward the church. They didn’t get far. Up from the fiery pit, dozens of long, long, black arms, adorned with six hooking claws emerged and stretched out of the flames and latched on to the legs of those trying to escape. Smallmouth heard crying and wailing from the men as the black, razor clawed-hands of the legion grabbed them and began pulling them back, into the blazes. One by one the red robed people were dragged into the flames, their clothes catching instantly. Smallmouth could see violently shaking bodies in the evil furnace. Oh, the screams. Above the tortured howling, the sound of laughing broke out. Deep, menacing laughter, hundreds of voices, echoed up into the air from the burning hole. Then, in one extinguishing squeeze, the ground swallowed the entirety of the fiery pit, leaving it completely covered in dirt, still and quiet. Soon after, and just like the pit of spears, the old church building caught in an instant and raging fire, quickly toppling the walls and dropping the steeple into its ruins. The smoke towered high in the night sky, which had just began to hint at a pale morning blue. Smallmouth hung on his cross in utter horror and surprise.
As the late evening hours glowed into early morning the smoke eventually tapered off, as Smallmouth’s drugs finally began to wear off as well. The fires of the church did garner long distance attention, though. Just as Smallmouth was able to regain control of his muscles and voice he heard emergency sirens call out into the cold morning air. Not long after, two fire trucks, an ambulance and a sheriffs truck tore into the field and toward Smallmouth on the cross. Not long after Smallmouth could feel the tied ropes being cut loose by firemen, their uniforms easily the best red clothes he had seen all night.
“What on God’s green Earth happened here son?” A bearded man with a dark hat and brown shirt and pants asked Smallmouth once he had been lowered down from the cross and sat on the ground with a shock blanket around his shoulders. The Sheriff, no doubt.
“God’s green Earth. It really is God’s, isn’t it?” Smallmouth whispered, staring out across the cold field. Then, at the very place he was staring, an old, familiar truck came barreling out of the gravel road in the woods and through the field in the steadily growing morning light. It was Uncle Chuck’s truck. It hurried over toward the other emergency vehicles, parked, the driver’s side door burst open, and Uncle Chuck came bounding out over to Smallmouth, his eyes wide and his mouth a wonderfully shocked “O”.
“JEREMY! JEREMY!!!” He basically fell on Smallmouth in a tight, warm hug. Smallmouth was caught off guard by Chuck using his real name.
His Uncle held him for several seconds and then let up, but kept his hands on Smallmouth’s shoulders.
“I thought you were dead.” Both of them said at almost the exact same time.
“I came back and your house was a mess and there was blood everywhere. I thought you were dead.” Smallmouth weakly spat out.
“Well, I woke up and you were gone, son, so I walked to the ranch to get my truck. I was worried bout ya son. I came back home and the whole place had been turned upside down. Blood on the carpet. I just thought the worst. Then I tried my neighbors house. Buddy, they’re dead. Looks like some wacko murder-suicide if I ever saw one. Scott probably tried to come kill us too and wrecked the place when he found it empty. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that you are right here! You are okay Jeremy!! Ahhh Praise Jesus!!”
“It’s not that, Uncle. That isn’t what happened out here. It’s..it was a..a, uh…”
Smallmouth’s fried brain couldn’t even comprehend what he had witnessed over the past few hours. It was all a violent blur.
“Dont worry bout it son, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital. We gotta go get you checked out and cleaned up. C’mon.” He helped Smallmouth up and they walked over to the ambulance, his Uncle’s arm thrown around his shoulder.
Smallmouth would be sent home later that afternoon. It would take him and his Uncle a long time to sort through the chaos of that deadly night and rebuild their lives. But life kept on. Smallmouth would remain living with his Uncle, and would begin a job working with him down at the ranch. Together they started to attend a local church. Smallmouth never touched a drink or a drug or even a cigarette ever again, and remained steadfast in his newly revitalized faith.

Being a natural skeptic, this is a story I never thought I’d be telling. I grew up reading those short, half-edited horror stories that were so popular on the internet, scaring myself out of sleep too many times to count as a kid. These days, I’m still too scared to fall asleep, just like I was when I was 11 reading stories on boards I had no business browsing. This time, though, it isn’t typed words on my aging laptop that have my heart unable to beat calmly in my chest. It isn’t the long traded campfire story that has the hairs on my neck standing in unease.
It’s the envelope sitting on my desk, taunting me as I glance at it from across the room. The top torn open haphazardly, its contents situated neatly against the worn wood grain.
It’s the words that are typed so neatly along the page, bringing back every foul memory I can conjure.
“Thank you for donating.
Come back and see us again soon,
Mr. Weller.”
~
The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a golden hue over the endless river of asphalt stretching out before me. This highway, flanked by gnarled mesquite trees and sporadic billboards advertising the next southern baptist church, had become somewhat of a familiar friend over the years. It was the unofficial gateway between my life at college and my small hometown nestled on the border of Texas and Louisiana.
I adjusted my review mirror, catching a glimpse of my own tired reflection. Summer break was finally here and I had high-tailed it from the campus as soon as my last final exam hit my professor’s desk. Gone was the grueling cycle of exams, papers, and endless nights spent hunched over textbooks. Whoever said that the college years were the best of their life needed to find the nearest sharp object to take a seat on.
As I drove, the familiar scenery slipping by in a soothing blur, my phone rang, jolting me from my thoughts. The screen flashed “Mom”, causing the involuntary roll of my eyes.
“Hey, Mom, I’m on the road. What’s up,” I spoke into the phone, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice.
”Hi, sweetheart! How close are you to home?” Her voice was warm and overly sweet, exactly the tone she used when she was about to ask for an inconvenient favor.
“Probably a few hours out. Why?”
“Perfect! Listen, can you do me a favor and pick up a case of beer for your dad? He invited his friends over tonight and I don’t have time to run to the store with all the cooking-,” she explained quickly, probably sensing my sigh of annoyance before I could even take a breath.
”Mom,” I interrupted evenly, “you do realize there are, like, zero places to stop for miles, right? The last couple hours are practically deserted.”
“I know, but most gas stations always have the kind your dad likes. Just stop at the next one you see, okay?”
I groaned internally, glancing at my half full gas gauge. I had filled up the tank this morning specifically so I wouldn’t have to stop once on the drive.
“Fine, I’ll see what I can do.”
”You’re the best,” Mom sighed in relief, her tone calm again. “Drive safe, honey.”
With that, she hung up, leaving me to the rhythmic drone of the road and my dusty second hand CD’s once again.
I kept my eyes peeled for the next gas station, hoping to get the beer run out of the way sooner rather than later. About 20 minutes after Mom’s call, a rundown gas station came into view, its neon sky flickering erratically against the dusky sky. Like most gas stations in the middle-of-nowhere-south, it looked like it hadn’t seen a renovation since at least the 70’s.
Pulling in, I parked next to a rusted out pickup and stepped out, the heat and humidity immediately oppressive. The place reeked of old oil and dust, the air thick with the smell of mildew. I made my way inside, the crude “bell” over the door made of old fishing lures and soda caps jingling half-heartedly as I entered.
If I thought the outside of the joint was sad, the inside was plain pathetic. Dimly lit and cluttered with off brand snacks and outdated magazines, I wouldn’t be surprised if it hadn’t been stocked since at least the 70’s. I quickly located the cooler, grabbing a case of Keystone Light and headed to the counter. I tried not to breathe the air in too deeply, a little afraid of whatever strange diseases probably lingered.
The attendant behind the counter was a greasy, wiry man with sunken eyes and a gaunt face. He glanced up from his equally disheveled book, watching me approach with an intensity that made me uneasy. Placing the beer on the counter, I fished out my license, hoping to make this transaction as quick as possible. He eyed me while I pulled my wallet out, his voice reeking of prolonged cigarette and cheap whiskey.
“Headed to Texas?” he gruffed.
I nodded slowly, trying to piece together how he knew. I was still at least an hour and a half from the border. “Yeah, lucky guess.” I chuckled uneasily.
”Not lucky at all,” he drawled out, “Saw yer license plate.”
I turned towards the glass door, seeing the direct line to my car.
“Ah,” I responded, not quite sure what else to add as I put down my drivers license next to the case of beer.
Is this how social interactions at gas stations are supposed to go?
The greasy man picked up my license, his gaze lingering on it a bit too long as he rang the beer up without glancing at the register.
“You’re an organ donor,” he remarked, casual, as if it were something he asked every day.
Nope. Definitely not a normal interaction.
”Uh, yeah. Just in case, I guess.”
He handed back the license and I fought the urge to wipe whatever strange grime he accumulated on his hands off my card.
“Makes you a good person,” he nodded, offering me a rotted grin.
I forced a smile, increasingly eager to get the hell out of this place. “How much?”
”Fifteen seventy three.” He replied, his accent catching over the vowels.
I handed over two wrinkled 10s, wondering if I should tell him to keep the change so I wouldn’t have to handle anything else he touched. Before I could decide, the man spoke again, peering back at the door.
”Yer headed the wrong way if yer trynna get to Texas. Should take the next left up ahead.”
I frowned, unable to keep up my polite mask much longer. “The road’s straight the whole way,” I argued, “I’ve driven it a hundred times.”
The grimy mess of a man simply smiled, a thin, almost predatory smile.
“Only bein polite. Suit yerself”
I took my change and beer, muttering a quick thanks before bolting it out of there. The encounter left an uncomfortable feeling in my chest, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of those piercing eyes on my back as I walked to my car.
Last time I do a favor for mom, I thought dramatically.
Once inside the safety of my car, I locked the doors and started the engine, eager to put distance between myself and that disgusting gas station. The man’s words and shit-eating grin echoed in my mind, but I dismissed them. The road home was straight, I knew that much for certain.
As the miles ticked by, I found myself turning the music up louder and louder, trying to shake off the unease from the encounter. I tried focusing on the familiar landmarks and the lyrics of the songs I’d heard a thousand times. Thankfully, it only took a few songs for it to work.
The sun began to dip lower into the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the road. I figured I was about an hour from home at this point, my mind itching to be home.
It took me longer than I’d like to admit to see that something was seemingly… wrong.
When I glanced to the side, expecting fields of unkempt brush and patches of cactus, instead I saw short, twisted trees. My eyebrows furrowed, trying to make sense of the misplaced flora. I let off the gas slightly, slowing down the car to take in the patches of damp, soggy earth peppering the fields. I looked behind me, my brain desperate to rationalize the sudden change of environment. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, a knot of anxiety forming in my stomach.
This wasn’t right. I had driven this route countless times and the scenery had never changed so drastically. How in the world had I driven myself into a bog?
The road, usually straightforward and predictable, now seemed to wind and twist as my car crept along it, each bend revealing more of the eerie, waterlogged terrain. Doubts crept in, swift and harsh. Had I missed a turn? Was that psycho right after all?
The feeling of unease grew stronger with each passing mile. The familiar landmarks were gone, replaced by dense foliage and the occasional decrepit and rotted building. I glanced at my phone, picking it up in hopes of checking my GPS, but my heart sank when I saw the “no service” icon in the corner.
Panic began to set in, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. I needed to find a way back to the main road, or at least to a road sign.
Just as the sense of dread threatened to overwhelm me, I spotted a building up ahead, its bright lights cutting through the encroaching darkness of dusk. Relief flooded through me. Whatever this place is, surely someone in there can tell me where I got turned around.
However, the sight before me only had my eyebrows furrowing deeper. A clean, well-lit, white building stood amidst the desolate landscape, almost cartoonishly out of place. It looked brand new, too pristine for its surroundings. Like a beacon of hope in a sea of… muck.
Desperation overrode my hesitancy of such a place, fueling my decision to pull over. I parked my car in the well-paved lot, comforted by the other vehicles sitting under the bright lights.
I made my way to the entrance, the glass doors sliding open smoothly as I approached. The stark white walls and sterile smell hit me immediately, a stark contrast to the humid smell of wood rot outside.
Is this some sort of clinic?
I paused as I looked around, my eyes landing on a front desk. A cheery looking woman with a bright smile sat behind it, her eyes already on me.
”Good evening! Are you here to donate?” she called out, her voice light and airy.
I turned back to the door for a moment, my instincts not quite thrilled being in such a strange place, but the idea of trying to get myself un- lost in the dark pushed me further towards the front desk.
”Uh, no. I’m actually lost,” I responded, giving the woman a weak smile. “I’m trying to get to Texas and I think I may have taken a wrong turn. Can you point me in the right direction?”
Her smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes. Disappointment? Annoyance? It was hard to tell.
”Of course, sugar. But why don’t you take a seat first?”
I glanced around to what I now assumed was a waiting room. The occupants were an odd assortment of characters, each making me more uneasy than the last. An elderly man in disheveled clothes sat closest, muttering to himself while looking straight through me.
A few seats down sat a young woman with stringy hair, as if she had just gotten out of the shower. Her eyes looked red and puffy and I could only assume she either was terribly allergic to bogs, or she had been crying for a while.
Next, a man with a little girl sitting beside him caught my attention. The girl clutched a small stuffed bunny, her eyes regarding me curiously. She seemed to be the only person aware of my existence and I threw a small smile her way. Her eyes shifted immediately, darting nervously back to the man beside her. The man had no reaction, continuing to stare straight ahead with a vacant expression.
Lastly, a businessman sat in the corner, his wrinkled suit and messy hair contradicting his aloof demeanor. He held a phone to his ear, checking his watch intermittently. The whole scene of the room reeked of impatience and unease, making my skin crawl.
What the hell is this place?
I turned back to the front desk, forcing a smile. “Listen, ma’am. I’m really just looking for directions. I don’t need an appointment.”
The woman tilted her head slightly, her smile never wavering. “Mr. Weller can see you for a donation. It won’t take long.”
“I really don’t have time for that. I just need to get back on the road,” I insisted, the edge of desperation beginning to creep into my voice.
She ignored my plea, typing something into the computer. “Mr. Weller will be with you shortly. Please, take a seat.”
Frustration boiled over. I was about to argue further when I noticed the other patients had started to stare, their gazes heavy and expectant. The atmosphere in the room shifted to feel charged, almost oppressive.
Deciding I had seen quite enough, I muttered quickly. ”Thanks, but I’m going to pass,” and turned on my heel, making a beeline for the exit.
The nurse’s cheerful farewell followed me out, a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in my bones.
I hurried back to my car, the clinic’s lights painting long shadows across the parking lot. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I locked the doors and took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. The “clinic” had rattled me more than I cared to admit.
As I started the engine and pulled back onto the road, the clinic quickly disappeared from view, swallowed by the hungry night. My mind raced, grappling with the bizarre turn of events. The woman at the front desk’s insistence, the strange people in the waiting room, and the clinic itself…
none of it made sense.
Determined to put this fever dream behind me and find my way home, I refocused on the road ahead, hoping that with a bit of luck, I could retrace my steps and escape this unsettling detour. The landscape grew darker, the swamp closing in around me, but I pressed on, clinging to the desperate hope that familiar sights were just around the next bend.
The feeling of unease clung to me like an unwanted second skin as I drove further on, minutes passing with no change. Eventually, at least an hour passed, the monotony of the road broken only by the occasional curve and the distant croaking of frogs. I had long since shut off my radio, seeing as no amount of Lynyrd Skynyrd could make the situation better.
My eyes strained against the darkness, searching for any road signs or landmarks.
Yet as time wore on, familiar trees passing by, an alarming realization began to settle in.
Despite making no turns. Despite the road seemingly taking me far away,
I was back where I started.
Bright lights pierced the gloom ahead, the parking lot coming into view mocking my attempt to leave. My heart sank, a cold wave of dread washing over me the closer I got.
I was back at the clinic.

So, this is my first time making a post like this where I'm sharing an experience, so sorry if my storytelling isn't that well and I wasn't sure if this was the right place to share this or if a different subreddit was better. Also, I'm high. :p This is probably going to be a long post so strap in or go below to find a summary. And before anyone says this is fake, trust me, I wish it was. This was very real and I'm still traumatized by what happened. I'm hoping finally sharing what happened with other people who can give me on advice on how to deal with it (mentally) can help.
I'm not going to be using any real names or specific locations for privacy reasons (I'm also deathly afraid he might come across this) I'll call myself L (20M) and the guy who I think could've been a serial killestalker I'll call B (26M).
For some minor backstory, I'm a twenty year old trans male and I've never had much experience in dating. I live in the bible belt, so my dating life was non-existent or was filled with creeps. I wasn't looking for a partner at this time, but I ended up meeting B who was super sweet, had an amazing voice/laugh, and was overall very attractive. The main reason why I liked him and wanted to try dating him was because he told me he had dated trans partners before and knew a lot about it and was very respectful of my boundaries. Most guys never cared how I felt and always wanted to 'see my tits' and so on, and even if they liked me, when it came to sex and my body they were all very disrespectful. To top it all off, me and B had the same interests and 'end goal' for our lives and we got along extremely well. I have a lot of mental disorders since BEFORE I met B, some being CPTSD, Agoraphobia, and Severe Panic Disorder, so meeting new people and trusting others was something very hard for me. I'm usually very awkward and have trouble keeping up conversation with others, but not with him. He was amazing and we flowed together well. All green flags. Sometimes I feel as though the guy I first met is still out there, because when I met this dude in person, he was completely different.
So, we met around fall of last year on a dating app. I was mainly looking for hookups because at that point in time I had given up on dating. Like I said earlier, we started talking and that changed for me. He told me he was poly and me and him had a long talk about it and we decided we would both keep it open and would be fine to see other people while we talked, and if things started to get more serious and it worked, then we'd be monogamous. (This is important for later) So, there were no red flags in the beginning, until a few started to pop up. He told me he was into guns, which at first was fine with me. He didn't hunt, he just liked to shoot and go to shooting ranges for fun. Hell, to me that sounded like every man's dream to shoot and blow stuff up so I was excited when he suggested to go to a shooting range together. Also, I'm in the south of the US as well, so I was used to that. Then he started talking about serial killers and darker stuff and how he was into that. Which again, was fine with me. I've been through a lot in my life and have a lot of trauma and dark humor, and dark things in general, doesn't bother me, and I love horror. We talked about how we should watch the new Jeffrey Dahmer show that has Evan Peters. I love AHS so I was down for it. It started getting a lot weirder though, and I should've known then that something was wrong, I think I was blinded by the chance to actually have a caring partner that was already educated on trans topics, so I didn't think. He told me that his former partner and him had gotten in a fight, the one before me. He told me what happened between for the fight, I'm not going to include this part as it's very specific, but by the end he had told me his partner had left in the middle of the night and got his family to pick him up (His partners family live in another state, so his ex partner ended up moving ACROSS STATES to get away from him.) He said when he woke up he was gone and wasn't answering his calls. The way he told the story in the beginning though made it seem like his ex was a really stuck-up and petty person who HE got away from. Now I know why his ex actually left and that his EX was the one who got away. Ok, so with that all out of the way, we had been talking for around three months when we decided to finally meet. We had taken some time figuring out where to meet since we both wanted to meet in public, which I thought was a really green flag. When I told him I'd just drive up to his place, he said no because he didn't want to give out his address before we met. Which again, I thought was SUPER GREEN, but apparently not. I didn't want him to drive here for the same reasons, but also because I live with my grandparents so I figured that'd be pretty awkward. We ended up deciding to meet at a park near his house to see that we weren't catfishing each other and basically to catch the vibes of the other. He lived in a different state but the drive was only two hours away, not too bad. I drove up there (I was 19 at this point in time btw...) and when I finally arrived I gave him a call and he said he'd be there. So, this 'park' ended up not being a park, but a CEMETARY. For some reason though, there was a playset on the other side of the road that was connected to it which is where I parked. After we were supposed to meet, we were going to go back to his place then I was going to drop off my car and we were going to take his and go out and eat. So, a few minutes go by and I see a car start to pull up toward me. I was still in my car as there was no where else to sit. I went to open my door and hop out when he pulled in beside me but all he did was roll down his window and said "you can follow me now." BRUH, WHAT, OK? That was it. He rolled it back up and started to drive away. Now, I know what most of you are thinking, BITCH RUN. Well, I was stupid and hate confrontation or anything like that so I went along with it. I followed him and then realized that the park wasn't 'near' his house, IT WAS RIGHT BEHIND IT. I drove not even another minute probably and we were already there. Making me think he wanted to watch me approach from his house. So, I parked and we both got out. He looked exactly as he did in the pictures and was more attractive in person, although his personality and the way things were going made it not matter. We went to head inside and he stopped me before going in and said something like, "Hey, I have a headache so we're just going to stay here. Is that ok?" I have no idea why, but practically the ENTIRE TIME I was with him that day, he had a constant expression on his face that made him look like he was constipated/confused. Think of Edward in Twilight when he is trying not to kill Bella or be weird. It was THAT face. Furrowed brows, mouth open slightly, with that weird look on his face. So, at first I felt a bit let down, that was until I realized everything else that had happened up before this point. Then it turned into anxiety. I told him that was fine and when he opened the door, all the lights were off. Like, ALL OF THEM. It was pitch black and he had black out curtains on his windows. He led me to his bedroom which creeped me out and we proceeded to sit on his bed. He told me he was sorry about not wanting to go out and that we could just watch tv and cuddle. Now, if this was the guy thought I had been talking to, then I'd would've been fine with it. But this dude seemed like a completely different person from who I had met. Keep in mind I had been talking with him for three months and we connected really fast and had hours long convos on the phone a day. I was honestly just creeped out but wasn't scared because I've been in similar situations like this before. I figured I'd just make up an excuse later so I could leave. That's when he told me to lay back and get comfortable and we'd watch, low and behold, JEFFREY DAHMER. So, that's what he put on while we made, really weird, small talk. So, he told he had a shit ton of guns and reached beside his nightstand and whipped out a pistol. He told me he had built it himself and let me hold it. But just the fact that this guy can whip out a gun like that, while acting like a creep, AND that show playing? Nah man, god I'm such an idiot. Anyway lmao, he started stroking my thigh and 'petting' me while we watched the show. I was SOOO uncomfortable and I noticed I had a texts from two of my friends and my mom who were all asking if I made it up here ok. I texted back and let them know I was fine, and this is when I started panicking a lot more on the inside. Anytime I'd get a text, or even open my phone at all, he'd lay his head on my shoulder to see what I was doing. He even ended up reading one of my texts out loud from earlier in the day. I felt that I couldn't just leave like any weird date, 1) because he had guns EVERYWHERE. 2) Because he was watching every move I made 3) Because that's when I realized he was potentially dangerous and unhinged on a physical level. A bit later after sitting in silence, 'watching the show,' he started talking about how he knew everything about Jeffrey Dahmer. What kind of poison or drug he'd use on his victims, exactly how he drilled the holes in his victim's heads, and basically everything about Dahmer's life. He even knew what steps Dahmer would do and in what order before killing his victims. Now, I knew a lot about serial killers as well because I like true crime and shit like that. I ended up agreeing with him and playing along. Looking back, I don't know how, but I found a way to still fake laugh at this man's jokes and act like I was the same as him. I even went as far to say that I felt bad for Dahmer and could be his friend. B's eyes seem to light up when I said that and then he went on a rant about how Dahmer was misunderstood and only needed somebody. It made me sick to my stomach but I continued going along with it. Later he went on to say multiple things that disgusted me and made me afraid. Like how he was into knife play, little brother play, where he makes his partners act like a younger brother. He also told me he loved taking sexual pictures of his partners while they held his guns in different poses and asked me if I would. I 'gladly' agreed and said we could do it later. NAH, FUCK THAT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Btw, this whole time he was still stroking me and putting his hands on me. He kept trying to push alcohol on me, and joked it was laced. I told him I wasn't a big drinker and didn't want anyway at the moment. Every time I refused he kept getting more irritated. He then made a weird comment, saying, "Isn't getting fucked up what you're here for?" UMMMM, NO????? He had a jar of moonshine and finally I told him I'd take a sip. I held it up to my lips and closed them before slightly letting the liquid hit them, then I pretended to take a small gulp and told him it tasted good. That's when he got a huge smile on his face and all the annoyance from before went away. Looking back, I think it was actually laced, and you'll see why next. Yay... So a bit after this, I started to get a slight headache and that's when I realized I left my bag in my car. I got a bit excited because I thought I could take this as a chance to leave. I asked him if I could go grab my bag from my car for my headache medicine and he said of course. Now listen, I said earlier I have dark humor and it's been a coping mechanism for me. So when I left to go to my car I made a joke to him and said, "Don't worry, Jeff. I'll be right back, I'm not leaving." DUDE. When I told my friend what I had said later she told me I memed a serial killer. BRUH, WHY AM I LIKE THIS? I COULD'VE DIED OR WORSE AND I CALLED HIM JEFF? Lord help me... Anyway, so my headache only got worse after I 'took a sip' of the moonshine and I started feeling dizzy. Now, even though I didn't actually drink it, a few drops still came in contact with my lips made it into my mouth. I went to my car and grabbed my bookbag from my floorboard. I sat in the driver's seat and looked on my phone. I was about to call my best friend, basically my sister, and then leave. My soul left my body though, because when I looked over, this dude was standing on his porch, WATCHING ME. Seeing if I was trying to leave. Knowing he had guns and we were in a small town where hearing gun shots were normal, I grabbed my bag and hopped right out of the car. When he knew I was walking back he walked to his car and opened his trunk. He pulled out a gun case that was like THREE FEET LONG. This gun was huge and he walked it into the house behind me. He told me it was some kind of sniper rifle and he said each single bullet costed 8$ or something like that. I later learned that owning something like that in the state he lived in was illegal. So, he kept making weird comments and touching/petting me while he told me all the ways he'd kill me 'if he was a serial killer.' I had been at his for almost 4 hours at this point and he FINALLY left me alone in the living room for a few moments, going back in his bedroom for something. I quickly texted my mom and told her to call me and give me an excuse. I didn't tell her what was going on as I knew she would've panicked more than me and probably would've made it worse. I just told her I didn't like him much and needed a reason to leave. I told her I was deleting the text I just sent and told her not to text me back as I knew B would read it. I told her to call me after a few minutes of seeing my text. So, luckily a few minutes later I got a call and she told me she was in the hospital and needed me to come home. Now, my mom has health problems and B knew of this before I came so it was actually the perfect excuse. I pretended like I was more annoyed than concerned since I'd told him before she was always in and out of the hospital with her health because she doesn't take care of herself. I apologized for having to leave so soon, (Before all this, if things went good I was supposed to stay the night.) And he didn't say a single word before looking at me coldly and going into his room. I waited for like ten minutes, unsure if I should just leave. I was deathly afraid of him now and didn't know if he was about to pull out a gun. I kept hearing bangs and loud noises coming from his room. When he finally came out though, he didn't have anything and still looked cold. I said my final goodbye and we hugged for a second before I left. As soon as I hopped in my car I put that bitch in drive and WENT. Now that I was out and everything started to hit me more, the adrenaline and fight or flight went away. Only leaving me with anxiety and I was completely shaken. I called my two of my best friends who are together and told them what happened. I asked if I could come to their place because I live with my grandparents (who are conservative Baptists if that says anything) and I DID NOT want to tell them about what happened. They didn't even know I went up there or that I was talking to someone. They said I could and my friend who I'll call M (21f) stayed on the phone with me basically my whole drive back home. The more I told her the more WTF she became. And honestly, there are a lot of other creepy/weird things he did that I left out because there are so many it's hard to remember every detail at once. Once I got to her place I noticed I had several missed calls and texts from him. I blocked him on everything and then M asked me something that made my stomach drop. She asked if my Snap location was on. It was. I drove the whole way back with my location on, straight to my friend's place. I turned it off immediately and started panicking a little. M and my other friend I'll call J tried to reassure me but then I got a phone call from an unknown number. M answered it for me and said hello. It was quiet because it was not on speaker but I could the voice. It was him and I felt a chill go down my spine. He asked if I was around and M told him he had the wrong number. He called back SOOO many times, each time with a different number. Even months after I kept getting calls from unknown numbers. After a few months, I wasn't sure if it was him or a scam caller and over the course of a few weeks I answered a few of them. I never said anything, just answered and never let the call time go over 10 seconds. Each time I could hear rustling noises and no voices. One time all I heard was heavy breathing. I decided to not answer anymore of them and luckily they've since stopped the last month or two. I was so scared soon after it happened though. Even though I never told him my address, he still knew where I worked and I was so afraid he'd show up with a gun and shoot up the place. Because it wasn't some random fast food chain or retail job. I work at a pretty good place to be so young and there is only ONE of these places. I'm not going to give away any details but he if wanted to he could GPS straight to where I work, anyone could because it's well known and public. I was nervous he'd scope out the place and wait until he saw me and which side of the building I enter, etc. During this time I kept a knife on me at all costs and had a necklace type sheath thing and both the knife and sheath were flat, so I'd wear it around my neck under my shirt and apron at work (even though I could've been fired if found with it.) A few days after it all happened, I woke in the middle of the night and even now I SWEAR to this day I smelt him. I know I didn't and my brain was probably making it up, but it was HIM. Him, and his whole house, had a distinct smell. Like booze and cigarettes mixed with his own scent. I was shaking and had cold sweats. I had never sat up so fast out of sleep before, especially because I hadn't been dreaming. It was like something had woken me up. His smell was everywhere and I looked to my dog who seemed undisturbed and that's when I knew no one was here. My dog is very protective and barks at anyone he doesn't know so I felt safe but still was uneasy and I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night. I ended up telling one of my bosses what had happened and asked her if we could get the gate closed at night since I work second. About two weeks after everything, I was sitting on my back porch smoking when I saw a car that looked just like his pass by. I tried to look at the driver and when I did, my stomach turned. It looked just like him. Even now, I'm not sure if it was him or not but considering nothing has happened, I assume it wasn't. Although I told my friends that I was nervous. Since I know a lot about serial killers and true crime, my initial thought was if I was him, I wouldn't come after me right away. I'd wait and let them get comfortable, thinking they are safe and then get them. Which is why I guess I've been paranoid about it again lately. It's been about 6-8 months since then. I'm still traumatized from it and still look over my shoulder when I'm walking at night, thinking I'm going to see him again on day. Even though I don't get nearly as many calls now, I still do from time to time. Although no one ever speaks when I answer nowadays, It's like I have a gut feeling it's him. Though I don't know if I'm just paranoid or not. Also, this dumbass didn't want me to get his address but I found it anyway. So if something ever happens to me or he tries to do something I can give the police his address. Because since we met at a 'park' that was RIGHT BEHIND HIS HOUSE, me and my friend went on google maps and put in the address to the 'park.' Then I moved the maps down the roads we drove on until I found his house. We went in 3rd person and zoomed in on the numbers on his house and his street name. So, B, if you find this. Fuck around and find out. Idk if you are a serial killer or not, and maybe your just really weird. But dude, if that's the case you need to WORK ON THAT. Anyway, that's my story. Sorry if some things don't make sense or if the words are too jumbled. I'm still super high and kind of just ranted a bit. So, if anyone has any advice or something similar happen to them, I'd love to hear from you! I'll try to answer any questions, but nothing too personal. If you've read this far, your a real G, thank you. I know this is a super long post, so it means a lot. I hope the rest of you are having a good night / day wherever you are!
TLDR; Met a guy on a dating app who seemed like a really great and normal guy who turned out to be very weird and controlling and LOVES Jeffrey Dahmer. Watched my every move to make sure I didn't leave until I finally got out and SPED AWAY. Kept getting calls for months after.

On the night when it all happened a young man called Smallmouth found himself in quite a pickle. He shivered and paced clumsily all over the second story porch of a cabin that used to be very nice, which overlooked a snowy down-sloping field that used to be kept up properly and carefully. He was already six packs deep into a carton of cigarettes he had bought only two days ago from a Casey’s General Store on his way up. He could recall the look on the young woman’s face at the register when he asked for a carton of Parliament Menthols, her eyes showing one blink of humorous surprise and another couple blinks of obvious concern, which faded to professional indifference as she rang in the sweet, icy killers. Smallmouth stopped his nervous dallying when he caught himself in the kitchen window; a large, shadowy figure sulking between the inside lights and the cold, almost glowing world downhill. His eyes still on his murky reflection, he patted his coat pockets for his seventh pack, pulling it out and smacking it against his left palm before cracking open and lighting it at his mouth. In a slow, warm flash, he could briefly see his own face in the window.
“Oh man, it’s bad” , he thought to himself.
He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard grew coarse and thick. A face that his mother had once called handsome had become a clean plate covered in steel wool. Well, maybe not so clean. Under and around his eyes were the obvious bruising of sleeplessness and his skin had lost its lively color and clarity of yesteryear.
“Ughhh” he groaned, turning away from the window to look over the porch and into the freezing, beckoning night.
The pickle that Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett found himself in involved his uncle, and his uncle’s evening logistics, to be precise. Smallmouth had been kicked out of his parents home on December 27th due to a slight misunderstanding at 2am when he believed the living room Christmas tree to be the downstairs bathroom. He had passed out on the couch after drinking a fire pit full of crushed Hamm’s cans and his brain tried desperately to get him up and to the nearby toilet. His little sister Stacy was tucked in fast asleep on a loveseat by the tree when she was brutally torn from her sugarplum dreams to hear the terrible hiss of Smallmouth’s folly. She screamed, the parents woke up, and, well, there you go. After well over three strikes, Smallmouth’s temporary residence had come to an end, and he was thrown to his mother’s brother’s cabin to dry up and straighten out before he could ever even be considered to return.
“You two deserve to live together. He can’t say no either because he owes me a lot more than this!” Smallmouth’s mother had screeched over him as he sat at the kitchen table the following morning with a cold bag of peas against his throbbing right temple. “You go there and you GET RIGHT!! I don’t care how long it takes just clean up your act and MAKE something of yourself! And for goodness sake tell Chuck to do the same, while he still has time!”
Yes, Uncle Chuck had his own shelf full of good time problems, and that’s what put Smallmouth in a bind tonight as he pondered over the white yonder that led to a black nothing, a black nothing that in the daylight pretended to be a forest. At night, it showed its true nature, an endless world of dark secrets and aching regret. At least that’s how Smallmouth saw it in this moment.
Chuck had gone down to the ranch he worked on for a New Years party with his work buddies. They liked to gather at the big barn where all of the vehicles and equipment were kept, sitting around a card table passing out stories about women and other trophy game that were either outright lied about or illegally poached. Oh, and they also liked to pass the bottle around. Therein lied the conundrum for Smallmouth.
Uncle Chuck was many things, but one thing he wasn’t was a drunk driver. Chuck’s wife Rebecca had been struck and killed by a drunk driver almost ten years ago when she was out jogging the back roads early one morning. Everyone assumed that’s what led him to his openly hard drinking and sneakily pill popping ways in the first place. For Chuck, most nights were kept at home, parked in front of a TV watching old westerns and cleaning out a full bottle of Wild Turkey 101 before snoring in his recliner. On the few nights he would go out, he would always call a ride if things got out of hand. As you can imagine, he tends to need a ride home.
“I should be home bout 11:30. Service ain’t so good up there near the barn so if it gets bout 11:15-11:20 and I ain’t home, go head and do me a favor and come grab me son.” Chuck had told Smallmouth before he left, closing the warped screen door behind him.
Smallmouth had spent the evening trying his best to stay entertained without the help of any chemical enhancement. His family’s anger and resentment really struck him and this time he was determined to truly get right and get his life back on the rails. He was 29 years old. He had gone through college clean as a whistle, bright and driven, receiving his MBA with plans to work his way up in a promising career in business. That worked for a couple years. Then he found a calling in ministry, deciding to quit the corporate world to fill an opening of a tiny country church in the area. They needed a deacon who could take care of things around the building and assist in the worship service. He wasn’t much for public speaking, haven been given the nickname Smallmouth at a young age due to his soft spoken nature, but he could pass plates and give a hushed prayer every now and then. He liked to mow and paint and help old ladies up the stairs. The quiet country life was really nice for him, for a while. Strange, radical ideas eventually spread through the church though, and half of its members left overnight to form their own congregation. Its funding cut in half, the church had to close its doors and the other members absorbed into other churches. Smallmouth rarely ever saw the people that had departed from the church, but rumors creeped that they met at an old abandoned building deep in the woods, performing all sorts of different acts and rituals that would purify themselves and destroy all evils. Nevertheless, Smallmouth was out of work and picked up shifts bartending at a small town dive. His soft fortitude was no match for the booze and drugs and women that would pass through there and soon he was out the door. That landed him mooching off of his parents, draining their sanity and eventually draining himself on their Christmas tree. The last strike.
So there he was all night, waiting up for uncle Chuck. He was two days clean of everything except caffeine and nicotine, a major improvement. He felt a boost of hope and confidence the first morning after a sober nights sleep. He found the mornings to be the best parts of the day. At least he had coffee and cigarettes to get him out of bed. That would wear off quickly and the rest of the day was filled with trying to find distractions until the sun set about 5pm. Then he would watch a movie or two with Chuck. Last night he had been able to call it early and go to sleep at 7pm shortly after Chuck started sawing logs in front of True Grit (the original John Wayne version of course). Tonight he saw 7pm struggle and churn into 8…….8:13……..8:48……9:05……9:29………..9:31………9:52……..9:58……….10:11…….10:12 (oh cmon)……10:27…….10:56…….and finally 11:08. It was like the clock was a 35 year old four cylinder engine oiled with crunchy peanut butter. Now, crunch time sat in the cold air as Smallmouth finished his cigarette and stewed over his decision. He really didn’t feel like going down to the barn and getting Chuck, even though it was only a couple miles. In the infancy of his sobriety he found the smallest of choices and activities to seem dire and at the very least upsettingly out of his way. Surely Chuck can get himself home on his own, right?
“No. Who knows if someone’s Aunt Rebecca or grandmother or son is out there on the road tonight” he thought.
As much as he had tried to screw up his life, Smallmouth usually knew what the right decision would be, even if he so often refused to listen. It was there ever so clearly on this New Year’s Eve, wailing in the back row of his mind like a misbehaved child during a church sermon. Smallmouth left the porch and went inside to grab his keys.
He walked out to his truck, got in, cranked it, let it sit down to one rpm, and started down the gravel driveway, which led to the gravel county road that Chuck and his few and far between neighbors lived on. He got to the mailbox and suddenly shot his attention up the road, where headlights revealed themselves out of the deep dark. It was rare to see any cars this far down Chuck’s road. In fact, there were no other houses to the right of Chuck’s cabin, spare for a couple of empty ones that were condemned but were attached to a lot of forest property.
Smallmouth squinted his eyes as a large black Dodge Ram 3500 came barreling by with a livestock trailer. Even inside his own truck he could hear a terrible noise coming from that trailer. He recognized it instantly as a pig squeal.
“The hell?” He whispered as the truck and trailer tore down the road, going around a nearby corner and out of sight. He couldn’t guess what on earth that could be about at this hour, and especially since nobody lived down there anyway. He shrugged it off though, and turned left out of the driveway, headed for drunk Uncle Chuck down at the ranch.
Ten minutes and a couple of snowy country miles later Smallmouth found himself through the metal gate of the ranch and up to the main barn, where a couple of smiling ranch hands had Chuck held up between them just outside one of two closed garage doors. A lamppost nearby cast a glow of debauchery on all of their faces, especially Chuck’s. Smallmouth got out and walked up to them smiling and shaking his head.
“Well well well…” he said with a slight laugh.
“Your Uncle put on one hell of a clinic tonight ‘Mouth” one of the hands said.
“I…..I….I don’t know what they’re tawlkin bout son” Chuck slang out before a high pitched giggle.
“I got another couple rounds in me I thinks!”
Smallmouth laughed.
“Yeah I ain’t so sure about that uncle! Let’s get on home now and let these fellas get on too.”
“Y’alright alright” Chuck said as Smallmouth took him from his buddies arms into one of his own and led him to the passenger seat of his truck.
“Happy New Years boys!!! Let’s do it all again okay?” He hollered to his waving buddies as they drove back away from the barn and through the metal gate toward home.
“You have a good time Uncle?”
“Oh…ohhh…I reckon I showed those boys how to do it” Another childish giggle.
A light snow shower seasoned the cold air as the truck rolled down the gravel country road. In the yellow headlights it made a pleasant white noise for the eyes. Chuck put his hands up staggered and vertically, fingers together and outstretched, pointing out in front of the truck down the road like he was aiming up for a rifle shot. He closed one eye.
“Straight as an arrow ole son. You’re good at this.”
“I ain’t drunk pops” Smallmouth chuckled.
“Sure ya are. Everybody’s drunk son. Even people that ain’t drink. Ticket is to get drunk on good stuff” Chuck’s face calmed from a goofy grin as he kept his eyes out front into the slow swirling tube of visible night.
“You sound like you’re drunk on some pretty damn good stuff” Smallmouth retorted as they shared a look and a good laugh.
“Suppose’n you ain’t wrong. Gotta work on that just like you are. Proud o’ you for a couple days clean man. We’ll get right. We’ll get right. All I meant was that man is born to get drunk on somethin’ or other. What I mean is God. Man is born to get drunk on his God.” Chuck said as Smallmouth shot him a raised eyebrow look of confusion.
“Once God gets ya drunk then you’re home free ol’ son. That distillery is never ending eternal forever. That land flows with whiskey and honey.” They both shared another laugh.
“Okay okay I think I somewhat understand now Uncle.”
They rode in a few seconds of comfortable silence before Chuck put his hands up in an aim position down the road again.
“You know…man….man….man has a GOVERNOR…..you know that right?”
“A what? A governor?”
“That’s right a GOVERNOR…that’s right…a little bitty device in his brain that keeps him on the road…keeps him from turning right off into the dark. You ever hear that little voice that tells you you can turn off into the ditch…into oncomin’ traffic? Tells you you can shoot your buddy instead of the deer? That you can jump off the top of the building and onto the pavement when you’re up there enjoying the view?”
“I…uh…I don’t know…I mean maybe? Pretty sure those are intrusive thoughts and they’re normal.”
“Well whatever they are that’s what the governor is for. Keeps ya straight. Keeps ya from harmin nothin.”
“Alright man, alright.”
They pulled back into Chuck’s driveway and parked. Smallmouth helped his uncle out of the truck and up into the cabin, snow starting to color the roof and pile against the side of the house near the door. Arms locked Smallmouth propped open the screen door, opened the inner door, and led Chuck through the kitchen and to his bedroom. Chuck layed down on his camo comforter with a deep, long exhale.
“Ahhhh yes……yes” he whispered with a smile.
“I love ya son…I’m glad you’re heeeeere. Let’s get better….your mom needs it…..stay in the Lord’s light son…don’t let them devils get ya….let’s get better….lets….” He was off into the distant deep ether almost immediately, and his mouth hung open.
“Goodnight uncle…love ya too.” Smallmouth patted the bed twice before walking over and closing the bedroom door behind him.
He went and sat at the kitchen table. He regretted his behavior earlier in the night. How it pained him to have to stay up a little later to go help out his uncle.
“Cmon…” he whispered.
He agreed with Chuck. He was here to get better. To do better. Maybe Chuck was right. If he couldn’t get drunk off booze, it was time to pick something else to drink. Better things. Maybe even God? Smallmouth hadn’t paid much mind to God since his church job fell through. God surely hadn’t been there for him these last few years when he was at his lowest. Or was He there the whole time? Had Smallmouth just ignored Him? These things floated heavily in his mind and soon he realized he had been staring at the front door for several minutes. Had he even blinked? Then something else came to mind.
“Wait hold up”
That truck and trailer from earlier. What WAS that? He meant to bring it up to the ranch hands. They would’ve seen it come barreling down the road right by their front gate. Oh he wished he had brought that up to them. Oh well. It’s probably nothing. Smallmouth looked at the clock. 12:12.
“Happy New Year old boy.” He said to himself.
He sat for a moment in the warm kitchen light, his eyes not leaving the front door. Well, he’s up this late already, why not go run down and check on the abandoned properties?
No…no…it can wait. It’s probably nothing. Right?
Wrong. There’s that wailing kid in the back pew of his mind again. Come on kid can’t you just be quiet and listen to the sermon? No, no it can’t. It must be heard. Always. He knew he had to go check it out.
“Ughhhh FINE!” Smallmouth got up and grabbed his truck keys, patted to make sure his cigarettes were still there, and was out the door again.
The snow shower had ended. As he pulled up to the edge of the drive, he stalled for a moment and peaked out as far to the right as he could down the dark road. Nothing. It wasn’t very far to the end of that road, where two out of service mailboxes should’ve stood in a small cul-de-sac if it weren’t for teenagers beating them to splinters. Can’t really blame them either. Smallmouth considered his plan. Whether or not that truck belonged to the landowner down there, he shouldn’t feel like he needs to sneak around. He is merely a concerned neighbor after all. He began down the road and around that same corner the stranger disappeared earlier.
After a couple of slow, curious minutes Smallmouth could see the evidence of a great big fire in the near distance, beyond where the road ended. Through the bare trees and against the snow it cast orange and red that could surely be seen a mile in every direction, that is, if there were anyone there to see it.
Slightly intimidated, Smallmouth decided to turn off his headlights and let the fire guide him as he slowed up to 5mph and gently crackled his last few yards of gravel up to the remnants of the nearest mailbox post. It seemed the fire was on the land of the farther property, whose mailbox posthole was about 30 feet from where he came to a stop and parked his truck. Smallmouth turned it off and quietly got out into the cold. He crouched down as he walked over to the farther driveway, getting down on one knee to give it a stealthy closer look.
The abandoned property boasted a busted up trailer that sat pitifully about 500 feet from the mailbox memorial. Beyond that was a good ten acres of field that ended at the forest edge, which marked the beginning of thousands of acres of wildlife refuge. As Smallmouth peered on, it was obvious that the fire was way out in that field, blocked by the old trailer, which wore the hot light and columns of smoke on it like a devilish crown. Given the cover, Smallmouth crept over to the trailer and started easing around the right side.
Rounding the corner he noticed a propane tank that would be perfect for hiding behind and getting the best look he could at the mysterious activity. He got down on his belly and crawled his way over to the tank, before sitting up and peeking slowly over the top and out into the field.
Way down there, a couple acres away from the tree line, was a huge fire, made up of about fifty wooden pallets. It raged and lit up the whole field like it was just the beginning of sunset. Somewhat near the fire was the black Dodge Ram 3500 and trailer. Smallmouth could see a group of people dressed in all red, as if covered in bloody bedsheets from head to toe, circled around a crude cage, seemingly fastened together by pieces of metal fencing. They stood still as the pines, and twice as silent. Smallmouth, in a rare moment of curious courage, decided he had to get closer. He got back on his stomach and began to crawl through the cold, knee high grass.
Using the fire light as his North Star he crawled and crawled, feeling his hands, clothes, and beard get wet with snow. He didn’t care. Something was up that wasn’t normal, wasn’t right. He could feel it in his cold gut. When he thought he was close enough without giving himself away he planted his palms and ever so slowly raised his torso up into a weak push up to try and see out. He was glad he didn’t go any further. He may have been too close already.
He was close enough to read the name of the truck and count the holes in the livestock trailer. There were seven strangers in red sheets all around the makeshift cage, all holding long spears. One of the figures had a crown of black thorns on his head. They all had two eyeholes and one hole for the mouth. They didn’t move a muscle for the longest time, before the Crowned One forcibly touched the end of his spear to the ground.
“Now is the time, Brother and Farmer Abraham…there is no more for us in waiting.”
Smallmouth had just noticed the passenger window to the black Dodge was down, and he could hear the driver door open and soon saw a normal looking older man in a ball cap at the back of the trailer. He was holding a leash of some sort. He opened up the trailer and whistled into the dark of it. After a couple of loud, heavy thuds a gigantic, and I mean GIGANTIC Yorkshire pig came slowly shrugging out of the trailer. It was light pink in color but filthy, and gave wet sounding oinks as it came to the man’s hands expecting food. The thing must’ve weighed 1500 pounds, and at least ten feet long. It actually had to lower its head to reach the man’s hands, its ears coming up to the man’s chest. Smallmouth couldn’t believe his eyes. The man reached in his pocket and revealed a handful of some type of feed, which he tossed on the ground at the pig. It started right in as the man fixed a collar on the pigs girthy neck, then attaching a leash. The pig gave a slight squeal.
“Good girl, good girl…cmon now” the man called Farmer Abraham sweetly coaxed the animal. He gave his end of the leash a tug and the monstrous swine reluctantly left its food and followed the man over close to the Crowned One. The fire raged and raged nearby, throwing crazy shadows all over the place.
“What have you brought us, Brother and Farmer Abraham?”
“Yeah, uh, this is Old Azazel, she’s been in my family for years, man.”
The Crowned One dropped his spear and knelt down to the jowls of the hog, the dark holes of his eyes meeting those of the animal. The other red cloaked figures remained statuesque around the cage.
“Ah, yes, Old Azazel, hello. You are to be of great importance in the history of the Earth tonight, old friend.”
The Crowned One got back up to address Brother and Father Abraham, who seemed obviously put off, yet submissive.
“And is this Old Azazel a natural specimen? Is it fed only of the earth and the filths therein?”
“Yessir, I’d reckon so.”
“This is necessary for a proper sacrifice, Brother and Farmer Abraham. You may only bring your best, your cleanest, your most dear to the alter of the Almighty.”
“I understand.”
“May I take her now?”
The farmer gave his end of the leash to the black gloved left hand of the Crowned One. The Crowned one stood with it for almost a full minute in total stillness and silence. The only noise Smallmouth could hear was the sloppy smacks and oinks from Old Azazel. The farmer anxiously waited, wringing his hands expecting the next move from the Crowned One.
“Turn away, Brother and Farmer Abraham. Turn away from us and toward the fire now.” The Crowned One finally spoke.
“Phew, alright. We’re still good on our deal? Do you still promise to make my little girl better? Like you said?” The farmer asked, with some hopeful desperation.
“Turn now.”
“Well okay” the farmer turned his back to the Crowned One and toward the fire.
“I can assure you with all of the knowledge in my mind and in my heart, you will never see your daughter sick again in this lifetime, Brother and Father Abraham. You may find peace and solace in this truth.”
The farmer nodded in relief as he looked upon the fire. Smallmouth, taking it all in with great confusion, could see a smile on the farmers fire lit face, and turned back to the Crowned One just in time to see him reach under his red garment and pull out a pistol and shoot a round into the back of the farmers head, blowing his cap off, which frisbeed down near his shaking, crumpled body. Old Azazel threw a fit immediately, screaming and trying her best to flee. The Crowned One held the immense beast with one hand, and with seemingly little effort. The other red clothed figures finally made noise, laughing deep and heartily around the cage. The Crowned One, keeping Old Azazel close, walked over to the doubled over farmer, putting two more bullets into his head, essentially hollowing it out into a carnal mess. The farmers shaking mercifully stopped.
Smallmouth had to slam his forearm up to his mouth to muffle the scream that would’ve come out and blown his cover. His eyes were flown wide open and his arms were shivering.
The Crowned One put the pistol back under his red cloak and led the great pig, still squealing as high pitched and piercing as the human ear can withstand, over to the mouth of the cage, which was opened by the nearest red clothed stranger. Old Azazel flew in to the cage, having been unleashed by The Crowned One. It struggled around the cage, which was no bigger than 15x15 feet, giving it no room to get comfortable. It circled the inner perimeter, showing impressive speed for such a large animal. It squealed and squealed. The sound stung Smallmouths ears, and he covered them with his hands. He was still out of sight in the tall grass. The Red People around the cage laughed at the hogs entrapment. The Crowned One raised a hand to signal silence. The Red People were still and quiet again.
“Now, my brothers, the sacrificial gift is in our possession. Tonight…is a HOLY NIGHT.” The Crowned One raised his voice as if getting to the climax of a fire and brimstone sermon.
“TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY WHAT WAS ONCE CAST OUT BUT NEVER VANQUISHED!! WE WILL RID THE EARTH OF A GREAT ARMY!! AN ARMY OF HELL THAT HAS FAR TOO LONG ROAMED AND SICKENED OUR LANDS AND KILLED OUR LOVES!! TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY THE DESTROYERS…THE LEGION OF SATANS SOLDIERS BORN JUST AFTER THE GARDEN OF EDEN FELL…”
The Crowned One fell to his knees, his arms up and stretched toward the frozen sky. A mighty wind began blowing at Smallmouths back. He had to lower his head as it roared over him. After a moment it calmed and he was able to lift up again to see. Winds from all corners of the field met at the cage, swirling over it in a great snowy funnel that led up to the clouds. Old Azazel screamed and screamed from the cage.
“I SEE YOU VILLIANS!! I HEAR YOU HOSTS OF HELL!! I KNOW YOU LIVE IN THESE TREES!! I KNOW YOU COWER WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!! SHOW YOURSELF!! TAKE THE BODY OF THIS ANIMAL THAT I HAVE SET BEFORE YOU!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW AND FACE ME!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE I-“
The Crowned One’s vocal cord shredding performance was cut short by a single burst of black lightning that shot down from the middle of the snowy funnel cloud that surrounded the cage. The Crowned One and all the Red People were thrown several feet back from the blast. Thunder immediately exploded across the field. Smallmouth buried his face as the force and sound raced over him. Ears ringing, he kept his face down for a few seconds. He squinted back up to the strike zone.
The strange black lightning had blown the cage completely apart. Two of The Red People had been hit with the metal fencing. One laid motionless. The other gargled in pain as he put a hand to the pole that was sticking out of his sternum, having penetrated all the way through. His legs buckled and he fell forward, the end of the pole hitting the ground first and propping him up for a moment, before his body slowly slid down to the ground around the metal. He went silent. The other four Red People, yelling in surprise, gathered themselves, looking to the charred hole in the ground where Old Azazel should be, right in the center where the cage used to stand. The Crowned One got to his feet and picked up his spear.
“My brothers, gather your arms…” the Crowned One whispered, breathing heavily under his red cloak.
“The work is not over…”
The four remaining Red People grabbed their spears and slowly walked over to the burnt, smoking hole, holding an attack pose over it until further instructions were given.
“Are you with us, you age old tormentors?” This was the first time Smallmouth could hear fear in the tired voice of the Crowned One.
“Are you with us now? Are you ready to die, you infernal bastards? Are you ready to-“
The Crowned One was interrupted by a booming noise from the hole that tore Smallmouths wits to shreds. It was similar to the cry of Old Azazel, but much deeper and ten times louder and angrier. It was as if a freight train was blaring its horn and slamming its brakes at the same time.
“NOW MY BROTHERS!! STRIKE THE BEAST OF HELL WITH YOUR SPEARS! NOW!!!”
The Red People all threw their weapons down into the smoking hole. The hellish noise from within stopped in an instant. The Red People crowded closer to the edge of the hole, waiting for the smoke to clear. The Crowned One walked over to them, putting his black gloved hand on the shoulder of the nearest man.
“Oh, Brothers. Oh my dear, dear Brothers. Your acts tonight have rid the earth of a Great and Powerful Evil…”
Before he could continue, a fully enraged and re-inspired bellow thrust itself up and out of the hole like a serrated blade. Much, much louder and angrier than before. The Red People were taken aback in terror. Suddenly, from within the hole, a large head emerged and gaped a huge, disgusting maw up at the crowd. The head was burned black and its eyes were half boiled white and without pupils. It shrieked out that most terrible noise as if it didn’t need oxygen.
“There’s no way” Smallmouth heard himself say under his breath.
All in one motion, the beast leaped out of the hole, and turned to face its attackers. It was Old Azazel, except swollen with burnt mass. It appeared to have grown a half a size at least. Three spears stuck out of its sizzling, charcoal colored back. It snapped its gigantic jaws at the Red People, who shuddered in horror. The Crowned One spoke:
“DO NOT RELENT BROTHERS!! ATTACK!! ATTACK THE BRUTE!!”
He pulled his pistol back out of his cloak and fired the remaining three rounds on the new and horrible black burnt Old Azazel. The beast’s cloudy boiled egg eyes shot open along with its unnaturally stretched jaws. It took the three bullets as if they were tennis balls. At the speed of a charging grizzly and with multiple times the power Old Azazel raged over to The Crowned One and dove onto him mouth first, putting both front hooves on his chest as he was knocked down. The Crowned One cried out in a shockingly high pitched wail, like a man being electrocuted. The Beast bit right into the soft of his belly, and began to shake him around like an Orca trying to separate a seal from its pelt.
“OH GOD!!!! AHHHHHH GOD OHHHHH!!! HELP ME!!!! NOOOO!!!! OH GOD HELP ME!!!! MAMA!!!! OHHHH!!! MAMA!!!!!”
The beast ate and ate and shook and shook and tore and broke and destroyed while the Crowned One lost more and more of his body, all while crying out to the sky at the top of his punctured lungs. The other Red People sprinted to the black Dodge Ram, opened its doors and piled inside. Smallmouth heard it crank up and it began to speedily turn around and race away from the fire and back toward the road. The beast unhooked from the Crowned One and let out another ghastly roar of victory before biting into his neck, ending his screaming forever. The beast then left his half devoured body and began a tremendous and terrible charge after the truck, which was greatly slowed down by the trailer. Smallmouth put his face down as the beast passed him by only about 10 feet on its way to the truck, which had just made it back to the road and was using every RPM possible to get away from the demon charged killing machine on its heels. Smallmouth turned around to watch both parties disappear down the road, the echoes of that great and evil blasting noise stabbing his ears again. He remained on his stomach in the tall, snowy grass for another two minutes as he normalized his breath and tried to make any sense of what he just witnessed.
Eventually he slowly rose up and looked to make sure that terrible thing was indeed out of the area. No signs of life or death from up at the road. The danger was at least a couple miles away by now. Smallmouth then turned back toward the fire and to the dominated body of the Crowned One. He carefully walked up closer and closer. To his amazement he heard wheezy noises coming from the emptied out torso of the man, a scattering of insides and flesh and blood strewn all around him. Troubled, rattling breaths escaped from under the red clothed head, whose crown of thorns had flown off in the attack. Most of the red cloak had been ripped to shreds, and all that remained covered were his shoulders and above. The cloth slowly ebbed and flowed with breath. Smallmouth could not believe this man was still alive. His entire digestive system was eviscerated and his ribs were exposed. Smallmouth knelt down beside him and lifted his cloak over his head to let him at least breathe his last in the open air.
Smallmouth let out a gasp. This man had a face that Smallmouth knew very well. He recognized him immediately from the old church he worked at. The clean shaven face. The short, silver hair. The sharp nose. This was a man that had joined his church two weeks before the schism. He never spoke in church but it was rumored he would meet at the homes of different members and try to sway them to his strange ideas. He was the one rumored to have led the radical faction somewhere in the middle of the woods. To Smallmouth, it was all starting to make more sense.
“I know you,” Smallmouth said softly, “I know who you are. You tore a church in half didn’t you? You’re the crazy guy that split up my ole church! What the hell have you done?”
The man struggled to breathe and tried his best to spit up a couple of words. His neck had deep lacerations that flowed with escaping life.
“I…I…I…uhh…I only…I only…I only did what I believed…” he whispered before a wet, stifled breath.
“What did you do?!!!” Smallmouth grew angry, and his voice followed suit. This man had ruined his job and now he had unleashed something horrifying on his neighborhood. He had tampered with things that man has no business tampering with.
“I…I…I have…have…I have failed, Smallmouth Bassett” the man croaked. Smallmouth couldn’t believe he had bothered to remember his name.
“I have failed. I have failed. God help you all…” with that the man’s face fell and he let out one last slow exhale before all was still.
Smallmouth got back on his feet and looked away from the dead man and toward the fire, which towered and raged in the reflection of his eyes.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no” he said in between terrified breaths.
Then another though hit him like a wrecking ball.
“Uncle Chuck…”

On the night when it all happened a young man called Smallmouth found himself in quite a pickle. He shivered and paced clumsily all over the second story porch of a cabin that used to be very nice, which overlooked a snowy down-sloping field that used to be kept up properly and carefully. He was already six packs deep into a carton of cigarettes he had bought only two days ago from a Casey’s General Store on his way up. He could recall the look on the young woman’s face at the register when he asked for a carton of Parliament Menthols, her eyes showing one blink of humorous surprise and another couple blinks of obvious concern, which faded to professional indifference as she rang in the sweet, icy killers. Smallmouth stopped his nervous dallying when he caught himself in the kitchen window; a large, shadowy figure sulking between the inside lights and the cold, almost glowing world downhill. His eyes still on his murky reflection, he patted his coat pockets for his seventh pack, pulling it out and smacking it against his left palm before cracking open and lighting it at his mouth. In a slow, warm flash, he could briefly see his own face in the window.
“Oh man, it’s bad” , he thought to himself.
He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard grew coarse and thick. A face that his mother had once called handsome had become a clean plate covered in steel wool. Well, maybe not so clean. Under and around his eyes were the obvious bruising of sleeplessness and his skin had lost its lively color and clarity of yesteryear.
“Ughhh” he groaned, turning away from the window to look over the porch and into the freezing, beckoning night.
The pickle that Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett found himself in involved his uncle, and his uncle’s evening logistics, to be precise. Smallmouth had been kicked out of his parents home on December 27th due to a slight misunderstanding at 2am when he believed the living room Christmas tree to be the downstairs bathroom. He had passed out on the couch after drinking a fire pit full of crushed Hamm’s cans and his brain tried desperately to get him up and to the nearby toilet. His little sister Stacy was tucked in fast asleep on a loveseat by the tree when she was brutally torn from her sugarplum dreams to hear the terrible hiss of Smallmouth’s folly. She screamed, the parents woke up, and, well, there you go. After well over three strikes, Smallmouth’s temporary residence had come to an end, and he was thrown to his mother’s brother’s cabin to dry up and straighten out before he could ever even be considered to return.
“You two deserve to live together. He can’t say no either because he owes me a lot more than this!” Smallmouth’s mother had screeched over him as he sat at the kitchen table the following morning with a cold bag of peas against his throbbing right temple. “You go there and you GET RIGHT!! I don’t care how long it takes just clean up your act and MAKE something of yourself! And for goodness sake tell Chuck to do the same, while he still has time!”
Yes, Uncle Chuck had his own shelf full of good time problems, and that’s what put Smallmouth in a bind tonight as he pondered over the white yonder that led to a black nothing, a black nothing that in the daylight pretended to be a forest. At night, it showed its true nature, an endless world of dark secrets and aching regret. At least that’s how Smallmouth saw it in this moment.
Chuck had gone down to the ranch he worked on for a New Years party with his work buddies. They liked to gather at the big barn where all of the vehicles and equipment were kept, sitting around a card table passing out stories about women and other trophy game that were either outright lied about or illegally poached. Oh, and they also liked to pass the bottle around. Therein lied the conundrum for Smallmouth.
Uncle Chuck was many things, but one thing he wasn’t was a drunk driver. Chuck’s wife Rebecca had been struck and killed by a drunk driver almost ten years ago when she was out jogging the back roads early one morning. Everyone assumed that’s what led him to his openly hard drinking and sneakily pill popping ways in the first place. For Chuck, most nights were kept at home, parked in front of a TV watching old westerns and cleaning out a full bottle of Wild Turkey 101 before snoring in his recliner. On the few nights he would go out, he would always call a ride if things got out of hand. As you can imagine, he tends to need a ride home.
“I should be home bout 11:30. Service ain’t so good up there near the barn so if it gets bout 11:15-11:20 and I ain’t home, go head and do me a favor and come grab me son.” Chuck had told Smallmouth before he left, closing the warped screen door behind him.
Smallmouth had spent the evening trying his best to stay entertained without the help of any chemical enhancement. His family’s anger and resentment really struck him and this time he was determined to truly get right and get his life back on the rails. He was 29 years old. He had gone through college clean as a whistle, bright and driven, receiving his MBA with plans to work his way up in a promising career in business. That worked for a couple years. Then he found a calling in ministry, deciding to quit the corporate world to fill an opening of a tiny country church in the area. They needed a deacon who could take care of things around the building and assist in the worship service. He wasn’t much for public speaking, haven been given the nickname Smallmouth at a young age due to his soft spoken nature, but he could pass plates and give a hushed prayer every now and then. He liked to mow and paint and help old ladies up the stairs. The quiet country life was really nice for him, for a while. Strange, radical ideas eventually spread through the church though, and half of its members left overnight to form their own congregation. Its funding cut in half, the church had to close its doors and the other members absorbed into other churches. Smallmouth rarely ever saw the people that had departed from the church, but rumors creeped that they met at an old abandoned building deep in the woods, performing all sorts of different acts and rituals that would purify themselves and destroy all evils. Nevertheless, Smallmouth was out of work and picked up shifts bartending at a small town dive. His soft fortitude was no match for the booze and drugs and women that would pass through there and soon he was out the door. That landed him mooching off of his parents, draining their sanity and eventually draining himself on their Christmas tree. The last strike.
So there he was all night, waiting up for uncle Chuck. He was two days clean of everything except caffeine and nicotine, a major improvement. He felt a boost of hope and confidence the first morning after a sober nights sleep. He found the mornings to be the best parts of the day. At least he had coffee and cigarettes to get him out of bed. That would wear off quickly and the rest of the day was filled with trying to find distractions until the sun set about 5pm. Then he would watch a movie or two with Chuck. Last night he had been able to call it early and go to sleep at 7pm shortly after Chuck started sawing logs in front of True Grit (the original John Wayne version of course). Tonight he saw 7pm struggle and churn into 8…….8:13……..8:48……9:05……9:29………..9:31………9:52……..9:58……….10:11…….10:12 (oh cmon)……10:27…….10:56…….and finally 11:08. It was like the clock was a 35 year old four cylinder engine oiled with crunchy peanut butter. Now, crunch time sat in the cold air as Smallmouth finished his cigarette and stewed over his decision. He really didn’t feel like going down to the barn and getting Chuck, even though it was only a couple miles. In the infancy of his sobriety he found the smallest of choices and activities to seem dire and at the very least upsettingly out of his way. Surely Chuck can get himself home on his own, right?
“No. Who knows if someone’s Aunt Rebecca or grandmother or son is out there on the road tonight” he thought.
As much as he had tried to screw up his life, Smallmouth usually knew what the right decision would be, even if he so often refused to listen. It was there ever so clearly on this New Year’s Eve, wailing in the back row of his mind like a misbehaved child during a church sermon. Smallmouth left the porch and went inside to grab his keys.
He walked out to his truck, got in, cranked it, let it sit down to one rpm, and started down the gravel driveway, which led to the gravel county road that Chuck and his few and far between neighbors lived on. He got to the mailbox and suddenly shot his attention up the road, where headlights revealed themselves out of the deep dark. It was rare to see any cars this far down Chuck’s road. In fact, there were no other houses to the right of Chuck’s cabin, spare for a couple of empty ones that were condemned but were attached to a lot of forest property.
Smallmouth squinted his eyes as a large black Dodge Ram 3500 came barreling by with a livestock trailer. Even inside his own truck he could hear a terrible noise coming from that trailer. He recognized it instantly as a pig squeal.
“The hell?” He whispered as the truck and trailer tore down the road, going around a nearby corner and out of sight. He couldn’t guess what on earth that could be about at this hour, and especially since nobody lived down there anyway. He shrugged it off though, and turned left out of the driveway, headed for drunk Uncle Chuck down at the ranch.
Ten minutes and a couple of snowy country miles later Smallmouth found himself through the metal gate of the ranch and up to the main barn, where a couple of smiling ranch hands had Chuck held up between them just outside one of two closed garage doors. A lamppost nearby cast a glow of debauchery on all of their faces, especially Chuck’s. Smallmouth got out and walked up to them smiling and shaking his head.
“Well well well…” he said with a slight laugh.
“Your Uncle put on one hell of a clinic tonight ‘Mouth” one of the hands said.
“I…..I….I don’t know what they’re tawlkin bout son” Chuck slang out before a high pitched giggle.
“I got another couple rounds in me I thinks!”
Smallmouth laughed.
“Yeah I ain’t so sure about that uncle! Let’s get on home now and let these fellas get on too.”
“Y’alright alright” Chuck said as Smallmouth took him from his buddies arms into one of his own and led him to the passenger seat of his truck.
“Happy New Years boys!!! Let’s do it all again okay?” He hollered to his waving buddies as they drove back away from the barn and through the metal gate toward home.
“You have a good time Uncle?”
“Oh…ohhh…I reckon I showed those boys how to do it” Another childish giggle.
A light snow shower seasoned the cold air as the truck rolled down the gravel country road. In the yellow headlights it made a pleasant white noise for the eyes. Chuck put his hands up staggered and vertically, fingers together and outstretched, pointing out in front of the truck down the road like he was aiming up for a rifle shot. He closed one eye.
“Straight as an arrow ole son. You’re good at this.”
“I ain’t drunk pops” Smallmouth chuckled.
“Sure ya are. Everybody’s drunk son. Even people that ain’t drink. Ticket is to get drunk on good stuff” Chuck’s face calmed from a goofy grin as he kept his eyes out front into the slow swirling tube of visible night.
“You sound like you’re drunk on some pretty damn good stuff” Smallmouth retorted as they shared a look and a good laugh.
“Suppose’n you ain’t wrong. Gotta work on that just like you are. Proud o’ you for a couple days clean man. We’ll get right. We’ll get right. All I meant was that man is born to get drunk on somethin’ or other. What I mean is God. Man is born to get drunk on his God.” Chuck said as Smallmouth shot him a raised eyebrow look of confusion.
“Once God gets ya drunk then you’re home free ol’ son. That distillery is never ending eternal forever. That land flows with whiskey and honey.” They both shared another laugh.
“Okay okay I think I somewhat understand now Uncle.”
They rode in a few seconds of comfortable silence before Chuck put his hands up in an aim position down the road again.
“You know…man….man….man has a GOVERNOR…..you know that right?”
“A what? A governor?”
“That’s right a GOVERNOR…that’s right…a little bitty device in his brain that keeps him on the road…keeps him from turning right off into the dark. You ever hear that little voice that tells you you can turn off into the ditch…into oncomin’ traffic? Tells you you can shoot your buddy instead of the deer? That you can jump off the top of the building and onto the pavement when you’re up there enjoying the view?”
“I…uh…I don’t know…I mean maybe? Pretty sure those are intrusive thoughts and they’re normal.”
“Well whatever they are that’s what the governor is for. Keeps ya straight. Keeps ya from harmin nothin.”
“Alright man, alright.”
They pulled back into Chuck’s driveway and parked. Smallmouth helped his uncle out of the truck and up into the cabin, snow starting to color the roof and pile against the side of the house near the door. Arms locked Smallmouth propped open the screen door, opened the inner door, and led Chuck through the kitchen and to his bedroom. Chuck layed down on his camo comforter with a deep, long exhale.
“Ahhhh yes……yes” he whispered with a smile.
“I love ya son…I’m glad you’re heeeeere. Let’s get better….your mom needs it…..stay in the Lord’s light son…don’t let them devils get ya….let’s get better….lets….” He was off into the distant deep ether almost immediately, and his mouth hung open.
“Goodnight uncle…love ya too.” Smallmouth patted the bed twice before walking over and closing the bedroom door behind him.
He went and sat at the kitchen table. He regretted his behavior earlier in the night. How it pained him to have to stay up a little later to go help out his uncle.
“Cmon…” he whispered.
He agreed with Chuck. He was here to get better. To do better. Maybe Chuck was right. If he couldn’t get drunk off booze, it was time to pick something else to drink. Better things. Maybe even God? Smallmouth hadn’t paid much mind to God since his church job fell through. God surely hadn’t been there for him these last few years when he was at his lowest. Or was He there the whole time? Had Smallmouth just ignored Him? These things floated heavily in his mind and soon he realized he had been staring at the front door for several minutes. Had he even blinked? Then something else came to mind.
“Wait hold up”
That truck and trailer from earlier. What WAS that? He meant to bring it up to the ranch hands. They would’ve seen it come barreling down the road right by their front gate. Oh he wished he had brought that up to them. Oh well. It’s probably nothing. Smallmouth looked at the clock. 12:12.
“Happy New Year old boy.” He said to himself.
He sat for a moment in the warm kitchen light, his eyes not leaving the front door. Well, he’s up this late already, why not go run down and check on the abandoned properties?
No…no…it can wait. It’s probably nothing. Right?
Wrong. There’s that wailing kid in the back pew of his mind again. Come on kid can’t you just be quiet and listen to the sermon? No, no it can’t. It must be heard. Always. He knew he had to go check it out.
“Ughhhh FINE!” Smallmouth got up and grabbed his truck keys, patted to make sure his cigarettes were still there, and was out the door again.
The snow shower had ended. As he pulled up to the edge of the drive, he stalled for a moment and peaked out as far to the right as he could down the dark road. Nothing. It wasn’t very far to the end of that road, where two out of service mailboxes should’ve stood in a small cul-de-sac if it weren’t for teenagers beating them to splinters. Can’t really blame them either. Smallmouth considered his plan. Whether or not that truck belonged to the landowner down there, he shouldn’t feel like he needs to sneak around. He is merely a concerned neighbor after all. He began down the road and around that same corner the stranger disappeared earlier.
After a couple of slow, curious minutes Smallmouth could see the evidence of a great big fire in the near distance, beyond where the road ended. Through the bare trees and against the snow it cast orange and red that could surely be seen a mile in every direction, that is, if there were anyone there to see it.
Slightly intimidated, Smallmouth decided to turn off his headlights and let the fire guide him as he slowed up to 5mph and gently crackled his last few yards of gravel up to the remnants of the nearest mailbox post. It seemed the fire was on the land of the farther property, whose mailbox posthole was about 30 feet from where he came to a stop and parked his truck. Smallmouth turned it off and quietly got out into the cold. He crouched down as he walked over to the farther driveway, getting down on one knee to give it a stealthy closer look.
The abandoned property boasted a busted up trailer that sat pitifully about 500 feet from the mailbox memorial. Beyond that was a good ten acres of field that ended at the forest edge, which marked the beginning of thousands of acres of wildlife refuge. As Smallmouth peered on, it was obvious that the fire was way out in that field, blocked by the old trailer, which wore the hot light and columns of smoke on it like a devilish crown. Given the cover, Smallmouth crept over to the trailer and started easing around the right side.
Rounding the corner he noticed a propane tank that would be perfect for hiding behind and getting the best look he could at the mysterious activity. He got down on his belly and crawled his way over to the tank, before sitting up and peeking slowly over the top and out into the field.
Way down there, a couple acres away from the tree line, was a huge fire, made up of about fifty wooden pallets. It raged and lit up the whole field like it was just the beginning of sunset. Somewhat near the fire was the black Dodge Ram 3500 and trailer. Smallmouth could see a group of people dressed in all red, as if covered in bloody bedsheets from head to toe, circled around a crude cage, seemingly fastened together by pieces of metal fencing. They stood still as the pines, and twice as silent. Smallmouth, in a rare moment of curious courage, decided he had to get closer. He got back on his stomach and began to crawl through the cold, knee high grass.
Using the fire light as his North Star he crawled and crawled, feeling his hands, clothes, and beard get wet with snow. He didn’t care. Something was up that wasn’t normal, wasn’t right. He could feel it in his cold gut. When he thought he was close enough without giving himself away he planted his palms and ever so slowly raised his torso up into a weak push up to try and see out. He was glad he didn’t go any further. He may have been too close already.
He was close enough to read the name of the truck and count the holes in the livestock trailer. There were seven strangers in red sheets all around the makeshift cage, all holding long spears. One of the figures had a crown of black thorns on his head. They all had two eyeholes and one hole for the mouth. They didn’t move a muscle for the longest time, before the Crowned One forcibly touched the end of his spear to the ground.
“Now is the time, Brother and Farmer Abraham…there is no more for us in waiting.”
Smallmouth had just noticed the passenger window to the black Dodge was down, and he could hear the driver door open and soon saw a normal looking older man in a ball cap at the back of the trailer. He was holding a leash of some sort. He opened up the trailer and whistled into the dark of it. After a couple of loud, heavy thuds a gigantic, and I mean GIGANTIC Yorkshire pig came slowly shrugging out of the trailer. It was light pink in color but filthy, and gave wet sounding oinks as it came to the man’s hands expecting food. The thing must’ve weighed 1500 pounds, and at least ten feet long. It actually had to lower its head to reach the man’s hands, its ears coming up to the man’s chest. Smallmouth couldn’t believe his eyes. The man reached in his pocket and revealed a handful of some type of feed, which he tossed on the ground at the pig. It started right in as the man fixed a collar on the pigs girthy neck, then attaching a leash. The pig gave a slight squeal.
“Good girl, good girl…cmon now” the man called Farmer Abraham sweetly coaxed the animal. He gave his end of the leash a tug and the monstrous swine reluctantly left its food and followed the man over close to the Crowned One. The fire raged and raged nearby, throwing crazy shadows all over the place.
“What have you brought us, Brother and Farmer Abraham?”
“Yeah, uh, this is Old Azazel, she’s been in my family for years, man.”
The Crowned One dropped his spear and knelt down to the jowls of the hog, the dark holes of his eyes meeting those of the animal. The other red cloaked figures remained statuesque around the cage.
“Ah, yes, Old Azazel, hello. You are to be of great importance in the history of the Earth tonight, old friend.”
The Crowned One got back up to address Brother and Father Abraham, who seemed obviously put off, yet submissive.
“And is this Old Azazel a natural specimen? Is it fed only of the earth and the filths therein?”
“Yessir, I’d reckon so.”
“This is necessary for a proper sacrifice, Brother and Farmer Abraham. You may only bring your best, your cleanest, your most dear to the alter of the Almighty.”
“I understand.”
“May I take her now?”
The farmer gave his end of the leash to the black gloved left hand of the Crowned One. The Crowned one stood with it for almost a full minute in total stillness and silence. The only noise Smallmouth could hear was the sloppy smacks and oinks from Old Azazel. The farmer anxiously waited, wringing his hands expecting the next move from the Crowned One.
“Turn away, Brother and Farmer Abraham. Turn away from us and toward the fire now.” The Crowned One finally spoke.
“Phew, alright. We’re still good on our deal? Do you still promise to make my little girl better? Like you said?” The farmer asked, with some hopeful desperation.
“Turn now.”
“Well okay” the farmer turned his back to the Crowned One and toward the fire.
“I can assure you with all of the knowledge in my mind and in my heart, you will never see your daughter sick again in this lifetime, Brother and Father Abraham. You may find peace and solace in this truth.”
The farmer nodded in relief as he looked upon the fire. Smallmouth, taking it all in with great confusion, could see a smile on the farmers fire lit face, and turned back to the Crowned One just in time to see him reach under his red garment and pull out a pistol and shoot a round into the back of the farmers head, blowing his cap off, which frisbeed down near his shaking, crumpled body. Old Azazel threw a fit immediately, screaming and trying her best to flee. The Crowned One held the immense beast with one hand, and with seemingly little effort. The other red clothed figures finally made noise, laughing deep and heartily around the cage. The Crowned One, keeping Old Azazel close, walked over to the doubled over farmer, putting two more bullets into his head, essentially hollowing it out into a carnal mess. The farmers shaking mercifully stopped.
Smallmouth had to slam his forearm up to his mouth to muffle the scream that would’ve come out and blown his cover. His eyes were flown wide open and his arms were shivering.
The Crowned One put the pistol back under his red cloak and led the great pig, still squealing as high pitched and piercing as the human ear can withstand, over to the mouth of the cage, which was opened by the nearest red clothed stranger. Old Azazel flew in to the cage, having been unleashed by The Crowned One. It struggled around the cage, which was no bigger than 15x15 feet, giving it no room to get comfortable. It circled the inner perimeter, showing impressive speed for such a large animal. It squealed and squealed. The sound stung Smallmouths ears, and he covered them with his hands. He was still out of sight in the tall grass. The Red People around the cage laughed at the hogs entrapment. The Crowned One raised a hand to signal silence. The Red People were still and quiet again.
“Now, my brothers, the sacrificial gift is in our possession. Tonight…is a HOLY NIGHT.” The Crowned One raised his voice as if getting to the climax of a fire and brimstone sermon.
“TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY WHAT WAS ONCE CAST OUT BUT NEVER VANQUISHED!! WE WILL RID THE EARTH OF A GREAT ARMY!! AN ARMY OF HELL THAT HAS FAR TOO LONG ROAMED AND SICKENED OUR LANDS AND KILLED OUR LOVES!! TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY THE DESTROYERS…THE LEGION OF SATANS SOLDIERS BORN JUST AFTER THE GARDEN OF EDEN FELL…”
The Crowned One fell to his knees, his arms up and stretched toward the frozen sky. A mighty wind began blowing at Smallmouths back. He had to lower his head as it roared over him. After a moment it calmed and he was able to lift up again to see. Winds from all corners of the field met at the cage, swirling over it in a great snowy funnel that led up to the clouds. Old Azazel screamed and screamed from the cage.
“I SEE YOU VILLIANS!! I HEAR YOU HOSTS OF HELL!! I KNOW YOU LIVE IN THESE TREES!! I KNOW YOU COWER WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!! SHOW YOURSELF!! TAKE THE BODY OF THIS ANIMAL THAT I HAVE SET BEFORE YOU!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW AND FACE ME!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE I-“
The Crowned One’s vocal cord shredding performance was cut short by a single burst of black lightning that shot down from the middle of the snowy funnel cloud that surrounded the cage. The Crowned One and all the Red People were thrown several feet back from the blast. Thunder immediately exploded across the field. Smallmouth buried his face as the force and sound raced over him. Ears ringing, he kept his face down for a few seconds. He squinted back up to the strike zone.
The strange black lightning had blown the cage completely apart. Two of The Red People had been hit with the metal fencing. One laid motionless. The other gargled in pain as he put a hand to the pole that was sticking out of his sternum, having penetrated all the way through. His legs buckled and he fell forward, the end of the pole hitting the ground first and propping him up for a moment, before his body slowly slid down to the ground around the metal. He went silent. The other four Red People, yelling in surprise, gathered themselves, looking to the charred hole in the ground where Old Azazel should be, right in the center where the cage used to stand. The Crowned One got to his feet and picked up his spear.
“My brothers, gather your arms…” the Crowned One whispered, breathing heavily under his red cloak.
“The work is not over…”
The four remaining Red People grabbed their spears and slowly walked over to the burnt, smoking hole, holding an attack pose over it until further instructions were given.
“Are you with us, you age old tormentors?” This was the first time Smallmouth could hear fear in the tired voice of the Crowned One.
“Are you with us now? Are you ready to die, you infernal bastards? Are you ready to-“
The Crowned One was interrupted by a booming noise from the hole that tore Smallmouths wits to shreds. It was similar to the cry of Old Azazel, but much deeper and ten times louder and angrier. It was as if a freight train was blaring its horn and slamming its brakes at the same time.
“NOW MY BROTHERS!! STRIKE THE BEAST OF HELL WITH YOUR SPEARS! NOW!!!”
The Red People all threw their weapons down into the smoking hole. The hellish noise from within stopped in an instant. The Red People crowded closer to the edge of the hole, waiting for the smoke to clear. The Crowned One walked over to them, putting his black gloved hand on the shoulder of the nearest man.
“Oh, Brothers. Oh my dear, dear Brothers. Your acts tonight have rid the earth of a Great and Powerful Evil…”
Before he could continue, a fully enraged and re-inspired bellow thrust itself up and out of the hole like a serrated blade. Much, much louder and angrier than before. The Red People were taken aback in terror. Suddenly, from within the hole, a large head emerged and gaped a huge, disgusting maw up at the crowd. The head was burned black and its eyes were half boiled white and without pupils. It shrieked out that most terrible noise as if it didn’t need oxygen.
“There’s no way” Smallmouth heard himself say under his breath.
All in one motion, the beast leaped out of the hole, and turned to face its attackers. It was Old Azazel, except swollen with burnt mass. It appeared to have grown a half a size at least. Three spears stuck out of its sizzling, charcoal colored back. It snapped its gigantic jaws at the Red People, who shuddered in horror. The Crowned One spoke:
“DO NOT RELENT BROTHERS!! ATTACK!! ATTACK THE BRUTE!!”
He pulled his pistol back out of his cloak and fired the remaining three rounds on the new and horrible black burnt Old Azazel. The beast’s cloudy boiled egg eyes shot open along with its unnaturally stretched jaws. It took the three bullets as if they were tennis balls. At the speed of a charging grizzly and with multiple times the power Old Azazel raged over to The Crowned One and dove onto him mouth first, putting both front hooves on his chest as he was knocked down. The Crowned One cried out in a shockingly high pitched wail, like a man being electrocuted. The Beast bit right into the soft of his belly, and began to shake him around like an Orca trying to separate a seal from its pelt.
“OH GOD!!!! AHHHHHH GOD OHHHHH!!! HELP ME!!!! NOOOO!!!! OH GOD HELP ME!!!! MAMA!!!! OHHHH!!! MAMA!!!!!”
The beast ate and ate and shook and shook and tore and broke and destroyed while the Crowned One lost more and more of his body, all while crying out to the sky at the top of his punctured lungs. The other Red People sprinted to the black Dodge Ram, opened its doors and piled inside. Smallmouth heard it crank up and it began to speedily turn around and race away from the fire and back toward the road. The beast unhooked from the Crowned One and let out another ghastly roar of victory before biting into his neck, ending his screaming forever. The beast then left his half devoured body and began a tremendous and terrible charge after the truck, which was greatly slowed down by the trailer. Smallmouth put his face down as the beast passed him by only about 10 feet on its way to the truck, which had just made it back to the road and was using every RPM possible to get away from the demon charged killing machine on its heels. Smallmouth turned around to watch both parties disappear down the road, the echoes of that great and evil blasting noise stabbing his ears again. He remained on his stomach in the tall, snowy grass for another two minutes as he normalized his breath and tried to make any sense of what he just witnessed.
Eventually he slowly rose up and looked to make sure that terrible thing was indeed out of the area. No signs of life or death from up at the road. The danger was at least a couple miles away by now. Smallmouth then turned back toward the fire and to the dominated body of the Crowned One. He carefully walked up closer and closer. To his amazement he heard wheezy noises coming from the emptied out torso of the man, a scattering of insides and flesh and blood strewn all around him. Troubled, rattling breaths escaped from under the red clothed head, whose crown of thorns had flown off in the attack. Most of the red cloak had been ripped to shreds, and all that remained covered were his shoulders and above. The cloth slowly ebbed and flowed with breath. Smallmouth could not believe this man was still alive. His entire digestive system was eviscerated and his ribs were exposed. Smallmouth knelt down beside him and lifted his cloak over his head to let him at least breathe his last in the open air.
Smallmouth let out a gasp. This man had a face that Smallmouth knew very well. He recognized him immediately from the old church he worked at. The clean shaven face. The short, silver hair. The sharp nose. This was a man that had joined his church two weeks before the schism. He never spoke in church but it was rumored he would meet at the homes of different members and try to sway them to his strange ideas. He was the one rumored to have led the radical faction somewhere in the middle of the woods. To Smallmouth, it was all starting to make more sense.
“I know you,” Smallmouth said softly, “I know who you are. You tore a church in half didn’t you? You’re the crazy guy that split up my ole church! What the hell have you done?”
The man struggled to breathe and tried his best to spit up a couple of words. His neck had deep lacerations that flowed with escaping life.
“I…I…I…uhh…I only…I only…I only did what I believed…” he whispered before a wet, stifled breath.
“What did you do?!!!” Smallmouth grew angry, and his voice followed suit. This man had ruined his job and now he had unleashed something horrifying on his neighborhood. He had tampered with things that man has no business tampering with.
“I…I…I have…have…I have failed, Smallmouth Bassett” the man croaked. Smallmouth couldn’t believe he had bothered to remember his name.
“I have failed. I have failed. God help you all…” with that the man’s face fell and he let out one last slow exhale before all was still.
Smallmouth got back on his feet and looked away from the dead man and toward the fire, which towered and raged in the reflection of his eyes.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no” he said in between terrified breaths.
Then another though hit him like a wrecking ball.
“Uncle Chuck…”

On the night when it all happened a young man called Smallmouth found himself in quite a pickle. He shivered and paced clumsily all over the second story porch of a cabin that used to be very nice, which overlooked a snowy down-sloping field that used to be kept up properly and carefully. He was already six packs deep into a carton of cigarettes he had bought only two days ago from a Casey’s General Store on his way up. He could recall the look on the young woman’s face at the register when he asked for a carton of Parliament Menthols, her eyes showing one blink of humorous surprise and another couple blinks of obvious concern, which faded to professional indifference as she rang in the sweet, icy killers. Smallmouth stopped his nervous dallying when he caught himself in the kitchen window; a large, shadowy figure sulking between the inside lights and the cold, almost glowing world downhill. His eyes still on his murky reflection, he patted his coat pockets for his seventh pack, pulling it out and smacking it against his left palm before cracking open and lighting it at his mouth. In a slow, warm flash, he could briefly see his own face in the window.
“Oh man, it’s bad” , he thought to himself.
He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard grew coarse and thick. A face that his mother had once called handsome had become a clean plate covered in steel wool. Well, maybe not so clean. Under and around his eyes were the obvious bruising of sleeplessness and his skin had lost its lively color and clarity of yesteryear.
“Ughhh” he groaned, turning away from the window to look over the porch and into the freezing, beckoning night.
The pickle that Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett found himself in involved his uncle, and his uncle’s evening logistics, to be precise. Smallmouth had been kicked out of his parents home on December 27th due to a slight misunderstanding at 2am when he believed the living room Christmas tree to be the downstairs bathroom. He had passed out on the couch after drinking a fire pit full of crushed Hamm’s cans and his brain tried desperately to get him up and to the nearby toilet. His little sister Stacy was tucked in fast asleep on a loveseat by the tree when she was brutally torn from her sugarplum dreams to hear the terrible hiss of Smallmouth’s folly. She screamed, the parents woke up, and, well, there you go. After well over three strikes, Smallmouth’s temporary residence had come to an end, and he was thrown to his mother’s brother’s cabin to dry up and straighten out before he could ever even be considered to return.
“You two deserve to live together. He can’t say no either because he owes me a lot more than this!” Smallmouth’s mother had screeched over him as he sat at the kitchen table the following morning with a cold bag of peas against his throbbing right temple. “You go there and you GET RIGHT!! I don’t care how long it takes just clean up your act and MAKE something of yourself! And for goodness sake tell Chuck to do the same, while he still has time!”
Yes, Uncle Chuck had his own shelf full of good time problems, and that’s what put Smallmouth in a bind tonight as he pondered over the white yonder that led to a black nothing, a black nothing that in the daylight pretended to be a forest. At night, it showed its true nature, an endless world of dark secrets and aching regret. At least that’s how Smallmouth saw it in this moment.
Chuck had gone down to the ranch he worked on for a New Years party with his work buddies. They liked to gather at the big barn where all of the vehicles and equipment were kept, sitting around a card table passing out stories about women and other trophy game that were either outright lied about or illegally poached. Oh, and they also liked to pass the bottle around. Therein lied the conundrum for Smallmouth.
Uncle Chuck was many things, but one thing he wasn’t was a drunk driver. Chuck’s wife Rebecca had been struck and killed by a drunk driver almost ten years ago when she was out jogging the back roads early one morning. Everyone assumed that’s what led him to his openly hard drinking and sneakily pill popping ways in the first place. For Chuck, most nights were kept at home, parked in front of a TV watching old westerns and cleaning out a full bottle of Wild Turkey 101 before snoring in his recliner. On the few nights he would go out, he would always call a ride if things got out of hand. As you can imagine, he tends to need a ride home.
“I should be home bout 11:30. Service ain’t so good up there near the barn so if it gets bout 11:15-11:20 and I ain’t home, go head and do me a favor and come grab me son.” Chuck had told Smallmouth before he left, closing the warped screen door behind him.
Smallmouth had spent the evening trying his best to stay entertained without the help of any chemical enhancement. His family’s anger and resentment really struck him and this time he was determined to truly get right and get his life back on the rails. He was 29 years old. He had gone through college clean as a whistle, bright and driven, receiving his MBA with plans to work his way up in a promising career in business. That worked for a couple years. Then he found a calling in ministry, deciding to quit the corporate world to fill an opening of a tiny country church in the area. They needed a deacon who could take care of things around the building and assist in the worship service. He wasn’t much for public speaking, haven been given the nickname Smallmouth at a young age due to his soft spoken nature, but he could pass plates and give a hushed prayer every now and then. He liked to mow and paint and help old ladies up the stairs. The quiet country life was really nice for him, for a while. Strange, radical ideas eventually spread through the church though, and half of its members left overnight to form their own congregation. Its funding cut in half, the church had to close its doors and the other members absorbed into other churches. Smallmouth rarely ever saw the people that had departed from the church, but rumors creeped that they met at an old abandoned building deep in the woods, performing all sorts of different acts and rituals that would purify themselves and destroy all evils. Nevertheless, Smallmouth was out of work and picked up shifts bartending at a small town dive. His soft fortitude was no match for the booze and drugs and women that would pass through there and soon he was out the door. That landed him mooching off of his parents, draining their sanity and eventually draining himself on their Christmas tree. The last strike.
So there he was all night, waiting up for uncle Chuck. He was two days clean of everything except caffeine and nicotine, a major improvement. He felt a boost of hope and confidence the first morning after a sober nights sleep. He found the mornings to be the best parts of the day. At least he had coffee and cigarettes to get him out of bed. That would wear off quickly and the rest of the day was filled with trying to find distractions until the sun set about 5pm. Then he would watch a movie or two with Chuck. Last night he had been able to call it early and go to sleep at 7pm shortly after Chuck started sawing logs in front of True Grit (the original John Wayne version of course). Tonight he saw 7pm struggle and churn into 8…….8:13……..8:48……9:05……9:29………..9:31………9:52……..9:58……….10:11…….10:12 (oh cmon)……10:27…….10:56…….and finally 11:08. It was like the clock was a 35 year old four cylinder engine oiled with crunchy peanut butter. Now, crunch time sat in the cold air as Smallmouth finished his cigarette and stewed over his decision. He really didn’t feel like going down to the barn and getting Chuck, even though it was only a couple miles. In the infancy of his sobriety he found the smallest of choices and activities to seem dire and at the very least upsettingly out of his way. Surely Chuck can get himself home on his own, right?
“No. Who knows if someone’s Aunt Rebecca or grandmother or son is out there on the road tonight” he thought.
As much as he had tried to screw up his life, Smallmouth usually knew what the right decision would be, even if he so often refused to listen. It was there ever so clearly on this New Year’s Eve, wailing in the back row of his mind like a misbehaved child during a church sermon. Smallmouth left the porch and went inside to grab his keys.
He walked out to his truck, got in, cranked it, let it sit down to one rpm, and started down the gravel driveway, which led to the gravel county road that Chuck and his few and far between neighbors lived on. He got to the mailbox and suddenly shot his attention up the road, where headlights revealed themselves out of the deep dark. It was rare to see any cars this far down Chuck’s road. In fact, there were no other houses to the right of Chuck’s cabin, spare for a couple of empty ones that were condemned but were attached to a lot of forest property.
Smallmouth squinted his eyes as a large black Dodge Ram 3500 came barreling by with a livestock trailer. Even inside his own truck he could hear a terrible noise coming from that trailer. He recognized it instantly as a pig squeal.
“The hell?” He whispered as the truck and trailer tore down the road, going around a nearby corner and out of sight. He couldn’t guess what on earth that could be about at this hour, and especially since nobody lived down there anyway. He shrugged it off though, and turned left out of the driveway, headed for drunk Uncle Chuck down at the ranch.
Ten minutes and a couple of snowy country miles later Smallmouth found himself through the metal gate of the ranch and up to the main barn, where a couple of smiling ranch hands had Chuck held up between them just outside one of two closed garage doors. A lamppost nearby cast a glow of debauchery on all of their faces, especially Chuck’s. Smallmouth got out and walked up to them smiling and shaking his head.
“Well well well…” he said with a slight laugh.
“Your Uncle put on one hell of a clinic tonight ‘Mouth” one of the hands said.
“I…..I….I don’t know what they’re tawlkin bout son” Chuck slang out before a high pitched giggle.
“I got another couple rounds in me I thinks!”
Smallmouth laughed.
“Yeah I ain’t so sure about that uncle! Let’s get on home now and let these fellas get on too.”
“Y’alright alright” Chuck said as Smallmouth took him from his buddies arms into one of his own and led him to the passenger seat of his truck.
“Happy New Years boys!!! Let’s do it all again okay?” He hollered to his waving buddies as they drove back away from the barn and through the metal gate toward home.
“You have a good time Uncle?”
“Oh…ohhh…I reckon I showed those boys how to do it” Another childish giggle.
A light snow shower seasoned the cold air as the truck rolled down the gravel country road. In the yellow headlights it made a pleasant white noise for the eyes. Chuck put his hands up staggered and vertically, fingers together and outstretched, pointing out in front of the truck down the road like he was aiming up for a rifle shot. He closed one eye.
“Straight as an arrow ole son. You’re good at this.”
“I ain’t drunk pops” Smallmouth chuckled.
“Sure ya are. Everybody’s drunk son. Even people that ain’t drink. Ticket is to get drunk on good stuff” Chuck’s face calmed from a goofy grin as he kept his eyes out front into the slow swirling tube of visible night.
“You sound like you’re drunk on some pretty damn good stuff” Smallmouth retorted as they shared a look and a good laugh.
“Suppose’n you ain’t wrong. Gotta work on that just like you are. Proud o’ you for a couple days clean man. We’ll get right. We’ll get right. All I meant was that man is born to get drunk on somethin’ or other. What I mean is God. Man is born to get drunk on his God.” Chuck said as Smallmouth shot him a raised eyebrow look of confusion.
“Once God gets ya drunk then you’re home free ol’ son. That distillery is never ending eternal forever. That land flows with whiskey and honey.” They both shared another laugh.
“Okay okay I think I somewhat understand now Uncle.”
They rode in a few seconds of comfortable silence before Chuck put his hands up in an aim position down the road again.
“You know…man….man….man has a GOVERNOR…..you know that right?”
“A what? A governor?”
“That’s right a GOVERNOR…that’s right…a little bitty device in his brain that keeps him on the road…keeps him from turning right off into the dark. You ever hear that little voice that tells you you can turn off into the ditch…into oncomin’ traffic? Tells you you can shoot your buddy instead of the deer? That you can jump off the top of the building and onto the pavement when you’re up there enjoying the view?”
“I…uh…I don’t know…I mean maybe? Pretty sure those are intrusive thoughts and they’re normal.”
“Well whatever they are that’s what the governor is for. Keeps ya straight. Keeps ya from harmin nothin.”
“Alright man, alright.”
They pulled back into Chuck’s driveway and parked. Smallmouth helped his uncle out of the truck and up into the cabin, snow starting to color the roof and pile against the side of the house near the door. Arms locked Smallmouth propped open the screen door, opened the inner door, and led Chuck through the kitchen and to his bedroom. Chuck layed down on his camo comforter with a deep, long exhale.
“Ahhhh yes……yes” he whispered with a smile.
“I love ya son…I’m glad you’re heeeeere. Let’s get better….your mom needs it…..stay in the Lord’s light son…don’t let them devils get ya….let’s get better….lets….” He was off into the distant deep ether almost immediately, and his mouth hung open.
“Goodnight uncle…love ya too.” Smallmouth patted the bed twice before walking over and closing the bedroom door behind him.
He went and sat at the kitchen table. He regretted his behavior earlier in the night. How it pained him to have to stay up a little later to go help out his uncle.
“Cmon…” he whispered.
He agreed with Chuck. He was here to get better. To do better. Maybe Chuck was right. If he couldn’t get drunk off booze, it was time to pick something else to drink. Better things. Maybe even God? Smallmouth hadn’t paid much mind to God since his church job fell through. God surely hadn’t been there for him these last few years when he was at his lowest. Or was He there the whole time? Had Smallmouth just ignored Him? These things floated heavily in his mind and soon he realized he had been staring at the front door for several minutes. Had he even blinked? Then something else came to mind.
“Wait hold up”
That truck and trailer from earlier. What WAS that? He meant to bring it up to the ranch hands. They would’ve seen it come barreling down the road right by their front gate. Oh he wished he had brought that up to them. Oh well. It’s probably nothing. Smallmouth looked at the clock. 12:12.
“Happy New Year old boy.” He said to himself.
He sat for a moment in the warm kitchen light, his eyes not leaving the front door. Well, he’s up this late already, why not go run down and check on the abandoned properties?
No…no…it can wait. It’s probably nothing. Right?
Wrong. There’s that wailing kid in the back pew of his mind again. Come on kid can’t you just be quiet and listen to the sermon? No, no it can’t. It must be heard. Always. He knew he had to go check it out.
“Ughhhh FINE!” Smallmouth got up and grabbed his truck keys, patted to make sure his cigarettes were still there, and was out the door again.
The snow shower had ended. As he pulled up to the edge of the drive, he stalled for a moment and peaked out as far to the right as he could down the dark road. Nothing. It wasn’t very far to the end of that road, where two out of service mailboxes should’ve stood in a small cul-de-sac if it weren’t for teenagers beating them to splinters. Can’t really blame them either. Smallmouth considered his plan. Whether or not that truck belonged to the landowner down there, he shouldn’t feel like he needs to sneak around. He is merely a concerned neighbor after all. He began down the road and around that same corner the stranger disappeared earlier.
After a couple of slow, curious minutes Smallmouth could see the evidence of a great big fire in the near distance, beyond where the road ended. Through the bare trees and against the snow it cast orange and red that could surely be seen a mile in every direction, that is, if there were anyone there to see it.
Slightly intimidated, Smallmouth decided to turn off his headlights and let the fire guide him as he slowed up to 5mph and gently crackled his last few yards of gravel up to the remnants of the nearest mailbox post. It seemed the fire was on the land of the farther property, whose mailbox posthole was about 30 feet from where he came to a stop and parked his truck. Smallmouth turned it off and quietly got out into the cold. He crouched down as he walked over to the farther driveway, getting down on one knee to give it a stealthy closer look.
The abandoned property boasted a busted up trailer that sat pitifully about 500 feet from the mailbox memorial. Beyond that was a good ten acres of field that ended at the forest edge, which marked the beginning of thousands of acres of wildlife refuge. As Smallmouth peered on, it was obvious that the fire was way out in that field, blocked by the old trailer, which wore the hot light and columns of smoke on it like a devilish crown. Given the cover, Smallmouth crept over to the trailer and started easing around the right side.
Rounding the corner he noticed a propane tank that would be perfect for hiding behind and getting the best look he could at the mysterious activity. He got down on his belly and crawled his way over to the tank, before sitting up and peeking slowly over the top and out into the field.
Way down there, a couple acres away from the tree line, was a huge fire, made up of about fifty wooden pallets. It raged and lit up the whole field like it was just the beginning of sunset. Somewhat near the fire was the black Dodge Ram 3500 and trailer. Smallmouth could see a group of people dressed in all red, as if covered in bloody bedsheets from head to toe, circled around a crude cage, seemingly fastened together by pieces of metal fencing. They stood still as the pines, and twice as silent. Smallmouth, in a rare moment of curious courage, decided he had to get closer. He got back on his stomach and began to crawl through the cold, knee high grass.
Using the fire light as his North Star he crawled and crawled, feeling his hands, clothes, and beard get wet with snow. He didn’t care. Something was up that wasn’t normal, wasn’t right. He could feel it in his cold gut. When he thought he was close enough without giving himself away he planted his palms and ever so slowly raised his torso up into a weak push up to try and see out. He was glad he didn’t go any further. He may have been too close already.
He was close enough to read the name of the truck and count the holes in the livestock trailer. There were seven strangers in red sheets all around the makeshift cage, all holding long spears. One of the figures had a crown of black thorns on his head. They all had two eyeholes and one hole for the mouth. They didn’t move a muscle for the longest time, before the Crowned One forcibly touched the end of his spear to the ground.
“Now is the time, Brother and Farmer Abraham…there is no more for us in waiting.”
Smallmouth had just noticed the passenger window to the black Dodge was down, and he could hear the driver door open and soon saw a normal looking older man in a ball cap at the back of the trailer. He was holding a leash of some sort. He opened up the trailer and whistled into the dark of it. After a couple of loud, heavy thuds a gigantic, and I mean GIGANTIC Yorkshire pig came slowly shrugging out of the trailer. It was light pink in color but filthy, and gave wet sounding oinks as it came to the man’s hands expecting food. The thing must’ve weighed 1500 pounds, and at least ten feet long. It actually had to lower its head to reach the man’s hands, its ears coming up to the man’s chest. Smallmouth couldn’t believe his eyes. The man reached in his pocket and revealed a handful of some type of feed, which he tossed on the ground at the pig. It started right in as the man fixed a collar on the pigs girthy neck, then attaching a leash. The pig gave a slight squeal.
“Good girl, good girl…cmon now” the man called Farmer Abraham sweetly coaxed the animal. He gave his end of the leash a tug and the monstrous swine reluctantly left its food and followed the man over close to the Crowned One. The fire raged and raged nearby, throwing crazy shadows all over the place.
“What have you brought us, Brother and Farmer Abraham?”
“Yeah, uh, this is Old Azazel, she’s been in my family for years, man.”
The Crowned One dropped his spear and knelt down to the jowls of the hog, the dark holes of his eyes meeting those of the animal. The other red cloaked figures remained statuesque around the cage.
“Ah, yes, Old Azazel, hello. You are to be of great importance in the history of the Earth tonight, old friend.”
The Crowned One got back up to address Brother and Father Abraham, who seemed obviously put off, yet submissive.
“And is this Old Azazel a natural specimen? Is it fed only of the earth and the filths therein?”
“Yessir, I’d reckon so.”
“This is necessary for a proper sacrifice, Brother and Farmer Abraham. You may only bring your best, your cleanest, your most dear to the alter of the Almighty.”
“I understand.”
“May I take her now?”
The farmer gave his end of the leash to the black gloved left hand of the Crowned One. The Crowned one stood with it for almost a full minute in total stillness and silence. The only noise Smallmouth could hear was the sloppy smacks and oinks from Old Azazel. The farmer anxiously waited, wringing his hands expecting the next move from the Crowned One.
“Turn away, Brother and Farmer Abraham. Turn away from us and toward the fire now.” The Crowned One finally spoke.
“Phew, alright. We’re still good on our deal? Do you still promise to make my little girl better? Like you said?” The farmer asked, with some hopeful desperation.
“Turn now.”
“Well okay” the farmer turned his back to the Crowned One and toward the fire.
“I can assure you with all of the knowledge in my mind and in my heart, you will never see your daughter sick again in this lifetime, Brother and Father Abraham. You may find peace and solace in this truth.”
The farmer nodded in relief as he looked upon the fire. Smallmouth, taking it all in with great confusion, could see a smile on the farmers fire lit face, and turned back to the Crowned One just in time to see him reach under his red garment and pull out a pistol and shoot a round into the back of the farmers head, blowing his cap off, which frisbeed down near his shaking, crumpled body. Old Azazel threw a fit immediately, screaming and trying her best to flee. The Crowned One held the immense beast with one hand, and with seemingly little effort. The other red clothed figures finally made noise, laughing deep and heartily around the cage. The Crowned One, keeping Old Azazel close, walked over to the doubled over farmer, putting two more bullets into his head, essentially hollowing it out into a carnal mess. The farmers shaking mercifully stopped.
Smallmouth had to slam his forearm up to his mouth to muffle the scream that would’ve come out and blown his cover. His eyes were flown wide open and his arms were shivering.
The Crowned One put the pistol back under his red cloak and led the great pig, still squealing as high pitched and piercing as the human ear can withstand, over to the mouth of the cage, which was opened by the nearest red clothed stranger. Old Azazel flew in to the cage, having been unleashed by The Crowned One. It struggled around the cage, which was no bigger than 15x15 feet, giving it no room to get comfortable. It circled the inner perimeter, showing impressive speed for such a large animal. It squealed and squealed. The sound stung Smallmouths ears, and he covered them with his hands. He was still out of sight in the tall grass. The Red People around the cage laughed at the hogs entrapment. The Crowned One raised a hand to signal silence. The Red People were still and quiet again.
“Now, my brothers, the sacrificial gift is in our possession. Tonight…is a HOLY NIGHT.” The Crowned One raised his voice as if getting to the climax of a fire and brimstone sermon.
“TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY WHAT WAS ONCE CAST OUT BUT NEVER VANQUISHED!! WE WILL RID THE EARTH OF A GREAT ARMY!! AN ARMY OF HELL THAT HAS FAR TOO LONG ROAMED AND SICKENED OUR LANDS AND KILLED OUR LOVES!! TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY THE DESTROYERS…THE LEGION OF SATANS SOLDIERS BORN JUST AFTER THE GARDEN OF EDEN FELL…”
The Crowned One fell to his knees, his arms up and stretched toward the frozen sky. A mighty wind began blowing at Smallmouths back. He had to lower his head as it roared over him. After a moment it calmed and he was able to lift up again to see. Winds from all corners of the field met at the cage, swirling over it in a great snowy funnel that led up to the clouds. Old Azazel screamed and screamed from the cage.
“I SEE YOU VILLIANS!! I HEAR YOU HOSTS OF HELL!! I KNOW YOU LIVE IN THESE TREES!! I KNOW YOU COWER WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!! SHOW YOURSELF!! TAKE THE BODY OF THIS ANIMAL THAT I HAVE SET BEFORE YOU!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW AND FACE ME!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE I-“
The Crowned One’s vocal cord shredding performance was cut short by a single burst of black lightning that shot down from the middle of the snowy funnel cloud that surrounded the cage. The Crowned One and all the Red People were thrown several feet back from the blast. Thunder immediately exploded across the field. Smallmouth buried his face as the force and sound raced over him. Ears ringing, he kept his face down for a few seconds. He squinted back up to the strike zone.
The strange black lightning had blown the cage completely apart. Two of The Red People had been hit with the metal fencing. One laid motionless. The other gargled in pain as he put a hand to the pole that was sticking out of his sternum, having penetrated all the way through. His legs buckled and he fell forward, the end of the pole hitting the ground first and propping him up for a moment, before his body slowly slid down to the ground around the metal. He went silent. The other four Red People, yelling in surprise, gathered themselves, looking to the charred hole in the ground where Old Azazel should be, right in the center where the cage used to stand. The Crowned One got to his feet and picked up his spear.
“My brothers, gather your arms…” the Crowned One whispered, breathing heavily under his red cloak.
“The work is not over…”
The four remaining Red People grabbed their spears and slowly walked over to the burnt, smoking hole, holding an attack pose over it until further instructions were given.
“Are you with us, you age old tormentors?” This was the first time Smallmouth could hear fear in the tired voice of the Crowned One.
“Are you with us now? Are you ready to die, you infernal bastards? Are you ready to-“
The Crowned One was interrupted by a booming noise from the hole that tore Smallmouths wits to shreds. It was similar to the cry of Old Azazel, but much deeper and ten times louder and angrier. It was as if a freight train was blaring its horn and slamming its brakes at the same time.
“NOW MY BROTHERS!! STRIKE THE BEAST OF HELL WITH YOUR SPEARS! NOW!!!”
The Red People all threw their weapons down into the smoking hole. The hellish noise from within stopped in an instant. The Red People crowded closer to the edge of the hole, waiting for the smoke to clear. The Crowned One walked over to them, putting his black gloved hand on the shoulder of the nearest man.
“Oh, Brothers. Oh my dear, dear Brothers. Your acts tonight have rid the earth of a Great and Powerful Evil…”
Before he could continue, a fully enraged and re-inspired bellow thrust itself up and out of the hole like a serrated blade. Much, much louder and angrier than before. The Red People were taken aback in terror. Suddenly, from within the hole, a large head emerged and gaped a huge, disgusting maw up at the crowd. The head was burned black and its eyes were half boiled white and without pupils. It shrieked out that most terrible noise as if it didn’t need oxygen.
“There’s no way” Smallmouth heard himself say under his breath.
All in one motion, the beast leaped out of the hole, and turned to face its attackers. It was Old Azazel, except swollen with burnt mass. It appeared to have grown a half a size at least. Three spears stuck out of its sizzling, charcoal colored back. It snapped its gigantic jaws at the Red People, who shuddered in horror. The Crowned One spoke:
“DO NOT RELENT BROTHERS!! ATTACK!! ATTACK THE BRUTE!!”
He pulled his pistol back out of his cloak and fired the remaining three rounds on the new and horrible black burnt Old Azazel. The beast’s cloudy boiled egg eyes shot open along with its unnaturally stretched jaws. It took the three bullets as if they were tennis balls. At the speed of a charging grizzly and with multiple times the power Old Azazel raged over to The Crowned One and dove onto him mouth first, putting both front hooves on his chest as he was knocked down. The Crowned One cried out in a shockingly high pitched wail, like a man being electrocuted. The Beast bit right into the soft of his belly, and began to shake him around like an Orca trying to separate a seal from its pelt.
“OH GOD!!!! AHHHHHH GOD OHHHHH!!! HELP ME!!!! NOOOO!!!! OH GOD HELP ME!!!! MAMA!!!! OHHHH!!! MAMA!!!!!”
The beast ate and ate and shook and shook and tore and broke and destroyed while the Crowned One lost more and more of his body, all while crying out to the sky at the top of his punctured lungs. The other Red People sprinted to the black Dodge Ram, opened its doors and piled inside. Smallmouth heard it crank up and it began to speedily turn around and race away from the fire and back toward the road. The beast unhooked from the Crowned One and let out another ghastly roar of victory before biting into his neck, ending his screaming forever. The beast then left his half devoured body and began a tremendous and terrible charge after the truck, which was greatly slowed down by the trailer. Smallmouth put his face down as the beast passed him by only about 10 feet on its way to the truck, which had just made it back to the road and was using every RPM possible to get away from the demon charged killing machine on its heels. Smallmouth turned around to watch both parties disappear down the road, the echoes of that great and evil blasting noise stabbing his ears again. He remained on his stomach in the tall, snowy grass for another two minutes as he normalized his breath and tried to make any sense of what he just witnessed.
Eventually he slowly rose up and looked to make sure that terrible thing was indeed out of the area. No signs of life or death from up at the road. The danger was at least a couple miles away by now. Smallmouth then turned back toward the fire and to the dominated body of the Crowned One. He carefully walked up closer and closer. To his amazement he heard wheezy noises coming from the emptied out torso of the man, a scattering of insides and flesh and blood strewn all around him. Troubled, rattling breaths escaped from under the red clothed head, whose crown of thorns had flown off in the attack. Most of the red cloak had been ripped to shreds, and all that remained covered were his shoulders and above. The cloth slowly ebbed and flowed with breath. Smallmouth could not believe this man was still alive. His entire digestive system was eviscerated and his ribs were exposed. Smallmouth knelt down beside him and lifted his cloak over his head to let him at least breathe his last in the open air.
Smallmouth let out a gasp. This man had a face that Smallmouth knew very well. He recognized him immediately from the old church he worked at. The clean shaven face. The short, silver hair. The sharp nose. This was a man that had joined his church two weeks before the schism. He never spoke in church but it was rumored he would meet at the homes of different members and try to sway them to his strange ideas. He was the one rumored to have led the radical faction somewhere in the middle of the woods. To Smallmouth, it was all starting to make more sense.
“I know you,” Smallmouth said softly, “I know who you are. You tore a church in half didn’t you? You’re the crazy guy that split up my ole church! What the hell have you done?”
The man struggled to breathe and tried his best to spit up a couple of words. His neck had deep lacerations that flowed with escaping life.
“I…I…I…uhh…I only…I only…I only did what I believed…” he whispered before a wet, stifled breath.
“What did you do?!!!” Smallmouth grew angry, and his voice followed suit. This man had ruined his job and now he had unleashed something horrifying on his neighborhood. He had tampered with things that man has no business tampering with.
“I…I…I have…have…I have failed, Smallmouth Bassett” the man croaked. Smallmouth couldn’t believe he had bothered to remember his name.
“I have failed. I have failed. God help you all…” with that the man’s face fell and he let out one last slow exhale before all was still.
Smallmouth got back on his feet and looked away from the dead man and toward the fire, which towered and raged in the reflection of his eyes.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no” he said in between terrified breaths.
Then another though hit him like a wrecking ball.
“Uncle Chuck…”