Life With A Werewolf

Dead Man's Party

I think I’ve taken at least four showers and I still feel dirty. There are certain nights that I refuse to drink on: Christmas, Easter, and now, I will no longer drink on Halloween. Christmas drinking just leads to fighting. Alcohol is a social lubricant; it also lowers inhibitions. So, when your crazy uncle says something crazy at the holiday friendly family get together about politics or religion or both (as those crazy uncle’s like to do), just to wind people up, you spout off and say something. Pretty soon, you’re off to the races, ruining Christmas for everyone around you and being told things like “It’s alright if you don’t make it this year,” and “I appreciate it if you could not fight, or maybe not come.” Easter is the same way. I have a similar story with a different cast of characters but the same old ending. A “please don’t come, thank you” and “My eight-year-old will never look at an Easter Egg the same way you bastard.” To my credit, I thought it was a legitimate question: if the Easter Bunny actually does lay the eggs, then….you know what? I was drunk, and that is just a little too graphic for this blog. And if I complete that thought here, YOU won’t look at Easter Eggs or Skittles the same way, so I’ll end that thought there. Halloween’s story involves something a bit stranger, equal amounts of Al Cohol and his merry band of idiots, and a giant ‘I TOLD YOU SO’ from a certain part time furry, full time friend.

If you remember my previous blog entry, I had started drinking. If you don’t, just look below, hit the “previous” button once. It’s all there. I was mostly drinking to forget what had happened the previous day. But as the song says ‘wine is fine, but whiskey’s quicker’. And when you’re drinking to forget or just to cope with what had happened, only copious amounts will do.

After my third beer, and two thirds of the way into a bottle of Jack, there was a knock at the door. When I opened the door up, there standing on my door step was six of the dead. Four male two female, all in various stages of decomposition. Although the flesh was rotting, it hadn’t rotted completely off yet much to the delight of the maggots feasting on old and new open wounds. Not that any of the creatures or beings cared, mind you. They didn’t feel a thing. Couldn’t even feel when their limbs fell off.

Remember the invitation I got? The one I was contemplating on RSVPing on it, and maybe saying no? Well, turns out that if you don’t send it back, they’ll just come get you. Imagine my shock at finding four dead guys and two dead women were standing there, all with expectant looks on their faces. One had snagged a “trick or treat” bag somewhere, and was just holding it up to the door, groaning.

Everyone had been dead only a little while. Now, we don’t exactly have a large township where we live, so it was surprising to see so many freshly dead in such a place. I know of only about two burials in the past month. My only guess is that they must have been traveling, coming in from all over. Being drawn to our particular cemetery for and by whatever means. Our little town can’t be the regular location of the pilgrimage of the dead, or someone would have noticed by now. It must move around or something. Otherwise, by now we’d have news vans camped out along the highway, waiting for the arrival of the dead, all interviewing each zombie. Don Lemon or someone would cry at how beautiful it is to see the dead dance in the moonlight, all while flashing tweets at you every five seconds or so about how horrible a person you are for thinking…well something. They’d find a way to make you angry about it, just to keep you watching. Anything for ratings, after all.

Their skin had begun to rot in several places. Maggots were eating flesh right off of their corpses, and of course there was that oh so fresh smell that makes you want to vomit. But what got me in trouble was the eyes. When they did their in-unison groan which I think was supposed to be ‘surprise’, or ‘hi’ or could even have been, ‘what lovely weather you delightful living have. Would you mind spending the evening with us on this clear and cool night? We promise not to bleed on anything, haha.’ Whatever the question or statement may have been intended, my response was a resounding “NO” and trying to slam the door.

Like I said though, the eyes got me in trouble. I’m a dog lover. I don’t care as much about people as I probably should. Call it an occupational hazard from my previous profession. Soldiers, cops and fire fighters tend to not see the best sides of humanity in their work. But animals, pets especially, are a weak spot of mine. And slamming the door shut in their face felt too much like stomping on a litter of puppies. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. As drunk as I was already getting, I took a long swig from the bottle I was drinking. Went to where we stashed the booze and grabbed the other bottle of liquor, growled “lets do this,” and closed the door behind me as I followed the recently dead.

I only have flashes and glimpses of what happened after. When you drink to the point of deleting your memory, it doesn’t do everything completely. I remember sitting in a circle with a group of them, ten or more, at least, and talking about who they used to be. Despite not knowing anyone. I guess I reached philosopher drunk. At some point I was dancing with an elderly woman about my height, who didn’t have nearly as many maggots on her as some of the others. We just waltzed in a circle in the cemetery. There was no music, though some of the others tried to sing. Their ‘song’ came out as strangled grunts and groans, if they made any noise at all.

I don’t remember what all happened. A bobbing for apples thing was done, but the water ended up more brown and muddy than anything. I think I ended up with some old guys less than mentionables instead of an apple. I have no idea how it got in there, though that dead guy must have gotten a kick out of it, pointing and making an attempt to laugh. I guess I know which one was the practical joker of the group. Alcohol does kill germs. That’s what I told myself when I rinsed my mouth out with booze a couple times before taking another long swig after that.

I’m not certain how long they wanted to go on. I don’t think they knew either. Everyone must have just been there till they felt the call to return to rest. Little by little, they drifted off or so I’m told. They wandered back towards whatever graves they came from, their bodies having been put at ease to rest in the knowledge that they weren’t abandoned by their spirits and souls. They wouldn’t be forgotten by everyone. At least one soul was here who still cared. Maybe more would show up eventually.

By the time the barest whispers of dawn was spoken on the horizon, I was left alone, sitting against a grave stone, drinking what was left of my bottle, and just wondering what in the world had happened. According my own memory, other than the flashes and glimpses that had started to come back, I had just been drinking at the party with the dead folk, things had just started, and then, there I was. Alone.

Well, not exactly alone. Crash was there, standing over me. A heavy clawed paw rested on my shoulder as the sun began to rise over the horizon. “Come on,” he growled. “Let’s get back home, and you can tell me what happened.”

His fur always looked pitch black in the early morning light. As if a piece of darkness had come alive and was preparing to dismember you. His eyes glowed like a cat’s, the shine of it sending shivers up my spine. It isn’t a thing I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing.

Most of what’s been recounted here comes from Crash. He insists that most of the night, other than that disastrous bobbing for apples and other party games the dead attempted to play, was spent talking. We sat in a circle, while I drank, talking to everyone. I had what every philosopher drunk wants, a captive audience. Though, Crash insists that what I was attempting to do, was to help them. That’s the part that gets me the most.

Me? Help? Ha. I’ve never been good at that. Talking to others isn’t exactly something I’m well versed in doing. It’s why I write. I write because I don’t like to talk. Talking to people is difficult, writing about them is easy. There’re too many things inside of all of us. Sharped edges and smoothed out roughness to catch skin and pull scabs. Scars and injuries that we all attempt to hide and end up attacking people over because someone accidentally poked a sore spot. Too many reasons to cut others out of your life. To antagonize them. To hate them.

And we all seem far too willing to do that these days. To hate. Antagonize. Attack. Kill the enemy at all costs because they posted a meme, said something dumb about a video game or movie we don’t like. Saw the wrong news article. Listen to the wrong songs. Followed the wrong individuals on social media. They didn’t step on the correct eggshells at the correct moments, so they deserve to be flogged in public for their transgressions.

I’ve never been good at any of that. Some of us walk perfectly amongst the eggshells. They dance like gentle fairies amongst the pristine fragile white feelings and opinions of others easily defying and dodging and deftly handling any issue that comes up. I’m one of the others. Those that get frustrated at the eggshells and their existence. I’m more likely to kick them back in your face than to try and walk amongst them. How can someone like me actually help?

I never expressed any of this to Crash as we stood in the kitchen that morning, watching the approaching light enflame the white cabinets, blue tiled floor and walls. As the light played out against dirty dishes and clean counter tops. I stood pontificating in my own mind, holding a cup of coffee instead of liquor. Wishing that I had slept the night before. That I hadn’t drank so much I forgot what happened. Wondering how I drank so much that I had forgotten.

“You know, most people when the discover the existence of the zombies, they freak out. Some like to try and shoot them. Others try and ignore them, pretend they don’t exist. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who tried to sit down with them and talk to them. Comfort them,” Crash said. His large paws gripped a single coffee mug, one the size of a large soup bowl. The dark liquid inside it rippled as he took a gentle lap of it, his muzzle still prevalent. His thick fur coat still visible.

I laughed. “So basically, I wasted my time.”

Crash patted me on the shoulder. “Kindness, is never a waste of time.” He said, before taking a couple more laps from the mug, and setting it on the counter. Then he disappeared back into his room and I guess to go sleep. Or be human again for a while. Whatever it is that he does when he gets like this.

And here I am. Half drunk as I write this, though I know I’ll be sober when I post it. Wondering exactly what happened, why it happened and what will happen to me. I’ve seen my fair share of horrible. Had to do my own share of horrible to survive, just as anyone. Have been a jack ass, an asshole, ignored others. Started arguments, fights. Cut people out of my life for no other reason than I just really didn’t want to be the one to start talking to them.

 How can someone like me be….kind? I’m not kind. Ask my ex. I’ve never been kind. I’ve been a kind…a kind of asshole. But never kind. And try to help others? It’s enough to make my head spin. I think I’ve pontificated enough. I’ve wasted enough oxygen for one day. I’m going to get another shower and get some sleep. I still feel grimey.