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Adventures In Living With The Mythical |
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A military veteran is adopted by a werewolf and brought into his pack. Insanity ensues. About "Life With A Werewolf" Life with a werewolf is a dramatic blog. As such the characters in this blog are not real but maybe loosely based on real people. The situations represented are not real but maybe loosely based on real things that have happened in my life. There are a multitude of ways to view life, this is simply one of the ways I have chosen to view mine. Updated Every Friday unless I can't or don't want to. If this is your first time reading this...start here: https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1040400-Welcome-To-The-Pack The first year is available as a compilation in print and on Amazon Kindle: https://a.co/d/gBLLL7E The first year is currently available on audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/B0G3SMJGFN/?source_code=AUDFPWS0223189MWT-BK-ACX0-482... My book, "Dreamers of The Sea" is available now on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0uz7xa3 |
| It's been one hell of a week. Boss said stay away from Garrett and his wannabe crime family, so that's what I did. Or at least tried to. I didn't follow him anywhere after that fiasco at the office, didn't bother trying to talk to him when I got out of my own ass chewing. Crash just grumbled "figures," when I came home that night and told him what happened. Then he asked if I filled out those reports like he asked. Which, of course I had. I filled them out with his NCIS forms, "National Claw InciSors" form to be precise. He got a smile out of that one. During my typical running around that week, I'd seen a lot of their family. Marissa standing at the pharmacy when I arrived, looking as if she'd ran down there to beat me into it. She had her cell phone out and ready when I'd arrived, recording me. I had to leave and wait an hour before she finally left. Tarissa pulling into the gas pump and pumping gas directly behind me, cell phone in hand, presumably recording. She flipped her hair back, and batted her attractive eyes. "I always did like a man in uniform. They give you one of those cute sheriff things or a pretty blue cop one?" I turned and snarled, biting my lip and squeezing my hand hard enough to leave impressions of my fingernails in my palm pads. She giggled at me from behind her cellphone. "Oh come on! It's rude to not answer someone when they're talking to you!" Part of me wanted to spin around and snarl back, "It's even more rude to kill a couple and con a community with a fake land scam!" Of course, I didn't. If it was just my own freedom at stake, I would have done it in a heartbeat. However, Crash, and the gang don't deserve to suffer for my own mouth, as dumb as the circumstances may be. So, I did the only thing I could legally do - I left. Most of the week was like this. As inconspicuous as I was trying to be with it, it seemed they weren't. They were enjoying making me squirm, and enjoying more making sure other people watched me squirm and avoid eye contact, cell phone always recording me like I was a cheating ex being called out. And like a cheating ex, they relished in every public humiliation I was forced to suffer. These days, a good portion of folk will just stand back, pull the cell phones out and record for their social media, snickering the entire time. You still have some decent hearted beings out there who will turn their heads and do their best to not get involved, muttering sayings about circus and monkeys. But every once in a while, though, you'll get that one individual who will have to interfere. The kind of person who will be willing to stand up for you no matter what. The type of person who you wish, for the love of God, would just shut up. They pushed and pushed and talked and talked, not exactly following me, but still popping up in enough places around our little town that it felt like I was being constantly watched. The pressure got to the point that sobriety for me was about to take a few days sabbatical until the entire thing blew over. Outside of the liquor store, Marissa (or is it Tarissa? I can never get those two straight) showed up. All I wanted was a bottle cheap liquor. Marissa, Tarissa, Clarissa explains it all, whatever her damn name was stopped me in front of the door and wanted to talk. "Aww, poor little cripple needs a drink? I can help ya get one, honey?" If I'd heard him pull up, I would have said something, honest I would have. But I gritted my teeth so hard they hurt. I took two steps back towards my car seeing red, about to explode, when someone did for me. And about the worst person in that situation who could have. "I know not why you make trouble for friend! But you make trouble for him, you make trouble with me!" Charles' voice was distinct. And he was already losing his grammar, which meant Charles was beginning a slow shift. He was going to smash, rip, rend and tear anyone in his way. Marissa, the door, the liquor store, the attendant behind the counter, the bird in the tree behind the store. It didn't matter. Of course, Marissa/Tarissa whoever she was, didn't care. She had started turning green herself, and was preparing to go all rougarou on me and Charles. "You best get your Hulderfolk pet on a leash, human," she snarled. I tried to grab Charles arm and pull him back. "Come on, big guy. It's not worth it," I tried. "She insult you! She insult me! She is bad person! Bad person DIE!" And there it was. The push she had been spoiling for. Her cell phone was out and before I could shout 'Shut up, dummy,' she was recording again. "What's that?! You're going to hurt me?" Charles took the obvious bait and ran with it, snapping the metaphorical line. "I'll more than hurt! I'll chew your bones and feast on entrails!" I could see what she was doing. It was very careful: poking, prodding. Pushing just enough to rile him up, but without making a clear threat of her own. Everything was said in the form of a question, and when the police arrived, which didn't take long, everything was presented. "More threats, officer. Me and my family can't get a moment's peace," was the official line. "We were just going to the grocery store and there he was!" A few taps and she pulled out a video of me at the grocery store. She swiped to another video. "Here we are just trying to get gas and he had to jump in ahead of us!" She swipped angrily to two more videos and snarled at the cop, "It's like he's stalking us, I swear!" When he looked at me, she gave me the briefest of glances. There was a look of triumph in that glance. The way the videos appeared was the moment the camera came out, I turned my head, blushed in embarrassment like I'd just been caught, and tried to get out of the way. Hell, even I thought I looked guilty in how those videos were edited. So, I didn't blame the local officer when he started asking pointed questions. Not that Charles helped much in that regard either. The cop was in his mid thirties, looked to still be doing patrol, which to me meant that he was likely already over this entire endeavor. His thinning hair almost pulled forward in the scowl the man was giving me. "Would you care to explain what happened?" I believe it was the cops tone. But, hulderfolk are notoriously unpredictable, especially when angered. So, likely it could have been anything. "Don't you dare question friend!" It went down hill from there. Charles snarling obscenities, and becoming more and more troll by the second, the officer snarling for Charles to stop, Marissa - or whatever twin she claimed to be, was crying about how scared she was, playing it up real big for a cop who seemed to be getting real sick of all of it. And me without any means of fighting back. Crash had to come out and interrupt things before they got worse. He barely got Charles restrained and calmed down enough to get him home. Marissa or whatever wonder twin she was, was practically dancing when that happened. Then the other shoe dropped. "We can't take this anymore, officer! I'd like to press charges," the toxic twin shouted, her voice holding a note of triumph as the officer rounded on me with a frustrated, weary look. "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in for further questioning." "But!" "We'll be impounding your vehicle as well sir." It's not like I hadn't been expecting as much. I believe I took it about as respectful and kind as I could. My official statement has me saying "What the actual ever loving fuck!" But I still say I said "whatever". Either or, things only got more fun for Marissa explains it all, recording the entire endeavor. Being tased hurts. Especially when it's done twice. There's no shame in admitting I was whimpering at the end of that. It felt like...no, I won't go into it. If anyone is curious enough, they go find a cop and get the experience first hand. Me? I don't want to relive that experience through explanation. Needless to say, I did end up on the asphalt of the parking lot, jerking and kicking. Of course none of these are memories I have. I remember the pain of it, then being on the ground. The videos I saw online though caught the whole incident in 4k. Someone caught it in 8k. At least my humiliation warranted the good resolution this time. On the way to the station, the cop gave me a look. I couldn't determine if it was pity, or just exhaustion. Either way, I didn't blame him. There was no telling what was going to happen when we got to the police station. But one thing was certain, it wasn't going to get any better for me that day. |
| We all get those parts of our jobs that we hate. Part of our job is dealing with unruly customers, the kind that drives us nuts and makes us want to violate one or two company rules and probably a law or two. I'm not exempted from this. Working part-time for Crash's special unit division thing, which I still don't know the name of, and which has become something of an office prank on me, I get those types of customers. It's worse when that customer is one that Crash was supposed to kill but had managed to get away. I'm still puzzled how he did it. But he sure as hell did. His gnarled wooden cane made a soft thwump thwump thwump on the floor as he walked across our office. Technically, as a part-time employee of the special division, unit thing that Crash works for, I'm not allowed to have a desk of my own. So, I've been forced to share one with Crash. Crash is getting the better end of this deal. Can't tell you the number of times I walked into an office only to find a stack of paperwork with Crash's scrawled and sometimes bloody signature on it. Only the words "fill these reports out and I'll sign it later. Thanks." on a Post-It note on top of them, each form had somehow had a different label for the department over the heading. "Special Investigations Unit", "Mythical Creature Commandos", "Law and Order: Fur and Claw Unit". Okay, that last one made me giggle. It's lead to more than one discussion of my duty around the office. Which has led me to not filling out the paperwork as he asked. Which has led to more pranks. We'll talk it out soon. We always do. But the man standing before me that day wasn't Crash. From his overalls, the shit eating grin on his face, the glint in his eye and the backwoods' hillbilly heroine millionaire look about him, it could only be Garrett. Despite having his tail ripped off, there was no loss of height. In human form, one leg had lost a lot of mass. His green eyes held a murderous look of triumph. "I understand there's a vacancy in your little town for my kind." If you don't remember Garrett. Him, Marissa and Tarissa some time ago had decided they were going to reconnect with their long-lost sister, Elouise. Elouise had stolen a significant sum of money from them, they wanted it back. But more than that, they attempted to scam the good folks of our little county out of money and had murdered an innocent couple in the process. The entire ordeal was covered in the 'New Business Ventures' episodes. The most shocking thing about that was the fact that he was standing there in front of my desk, in the middle of our office. Not in handcuffs, not in pieces. But in what looked to be his best overalls and flannel shirt! And none of the other mythicals in the building were doing a thing about it. "Didn't you murder a family and threaten to eat me or something? That sort of thing puts a bit of a damper on the whole 'Let's be neighbors' thing you're trying here." His lip didn't even curl up into a snarl, as if he expected the accusation. "You weren't an officer then. Heck, you technically aren't now, just the human secretary they suckered into doing this job. Besides, I got myself a pardon! Now where's that damn paperwork?" I left him at the desk, asking one of the mythicals on office duty to keep an eye on him. (Guy asked to be out of this blog. So, maybe I didn't even get the gender right, heh.) I went and talked to the boss, who only grunted, "send his tailless ass in. I'll speak to him." Curses flew under my breath as I walked over like a sequestered monk in humble prayer. When I sat down, I could see Garrett had heard every one from the shit eating grin on his face. "Boss will speak to you sir." "Ain't what you called me walking over," he laughed. "Why don't you stick around boy, I may want a bite after." He chuckled in the back of his throat at the comment. "I'll be an expensive meal, gatorboy. Go ahead and try it, I'd love a new pair of alligator boots." It shut his laughter up. Before he could retort I shouted over to the resident werebear or whatever his species is called and shouted "Hey boss! Garrett here is threatening your favorite human." "You're my only human. Tell him to get his scaly ass in here." Garrett gave me a dismissive snort and walked over to the bosses' office, his head held high as if he had won some grand prize. What I had expected and what happened were entirely different things. I had expected the boss to laugh, say hell no, and kick his sorry ass out, telling him 'pardon or no pardon, you're not welcome'. Instead, the boss snarled at him, and pointed a finger that was starting to become a claw at Garrett, shouting. I couldn't hear what was said, my hearing isn't good enough. But office gossip tells me it was nothing good. But he still agreed and processed the paperwork himself. That isn't the part that hurt. What hurt was what bossman had told me after. "Stay away from him and his family. That goes for you, Crash, and everyone else in your pack. Stay the hell away." It took a lot to bite back what I wanted to say then. Instead, I as respectfully as I could, pointed out the facts: they weren't going to stay away from us. Far from it, in fact. "I'm willing to bet, sir, that they'll try to move in next door." "Lucky for you, I vetoed that. They're buying property near the county line, near an entirely different town. You and yours should be left alone. If they bother you, Crash knows what to do. Don't you dare even glare at him." "He's the rougarou!" Boss sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Yes, but you're the human that threatened him." My jaw dropped for a moment. It took a couple of tries before I could respond without shouting at him. "He threatened me first. Said 'stick around, I may want a bite after'." "Yes, and he says he was inviting you to lunch, and you threatened him." I pounded the desk. "He threatened to eat me before!" Boss sighed and rubbed his temples. "Were you this much trouble in the military?" "No, in the military I could have shot him." He nodded at that and leaned back in his chair. "Believe me, I wish I could sink my teeth into that slippery bastard. But sometimes in law enforcement all you can do is play the long game. That means smiling and waving at scum like that while you wait for them to slip up. That's what you're doing Forte. Wait for him to slip up. Don't talk to him. Don't approach him. If he talks to you, don't respond. You got it?" "Got it," I said, dejectedly. Garrett had somehow beaten me before we had even had a chance for our next fight. He'd taken my two greatest assets off the board: my mouth and my pistol. What else could I do then but nod at him when I left the office, and go back to my desk. Fortunately, he didn't press his luck. After all, egging me on may get a rise out of me, but would destroy his entire 'innocent victim' shtick. But he did manage to walk by my desk one more time, thumping the cane extra loud to try and make me look at him. This entire situation would have been much easier to deal with in the military. A guy like Garrett would have been killed already. There wouldn't have been any of the jurisdictional nonsense. Bad guy is there. Located. Destroyed. End of list. But here, it's as if they're inviting him and his family into the damn county. Playing a game of chess with the lives in the county as chess pieces. I just hope that they figure something out soon, before Garrett tries to make a play for checkmate. That slippery bastard is smart enough to get it. |
| Sometimes, my mind runs away with me. I and Crash were standing in the kitchen in the morning. He was in human form, drinking a cup of coffee. Light filtered in, the early morning light that feels as reluctant to be up as we humans are at such an early hour - especially during winter. Breakfast was made and eaten in its usual fashion: I did some eggs, and Crash did his thing he does occasionally with the bread and bacon. He fried the bacon next to me, then used some of the grease left over to fry the bread. The scents still hung in the air as the coffee was doing its job of arousing our senses and wills. That was when I'd broached the subject. "So, what do werewolves do differently around Christmastime?" Crash shrugged. "Trim the tree with entrails and blood. We meet..." "Very funny," I interrupted him. He laughed and shook his head, taking a sip while I continued. "What does your species do differently? For real." The images that I had were, well, different to say the least. I'd imagined a werewolf family going north and building a hunting bunker out of snow, then going to take on the biggest game they could, the only game that could challenge them - polar bears and moose. But, as usual, my active imagination had it wrong. I had developed a story about a family of werewolves trying to survive such a trip after one of the polar bears starts going after them instead, and they get injured. It was turning into a Cormac McCarthy type story about the brutality of life in general. But my imagination was quite a ways off base. "Not a lot, to tell you the truth. We're living with you humans cause we want what you have. We want a peaceful life in a nice neighborhood with pleasant neighbors who are friends. With cars in the driveway and children playing in the backyard. A lot of our traditions are yours." "So the tree?" "That was a werewolf tradition at first. We wanted to put something in your home that smelled like us, so we'd go out at night and mark a tree, then convince you to put it up in your homes. Kept the vampires and the trolls away." Crash took another sip, an extended one. I couldn't tell if it was to hide a smirk, or not. I still think he was hiding one. He's kidding right? Of course, he's got to be kidding. "So, besides operation stinky tree, what other traditions do you guys have?" Crash gave a soft chuckle and shrugged. "My family does a hunt. Well, we used to, but as my parents get older it's harder for them. So, I do the hunt. But I tend to stream it for them so they can watch it live and talk to me." "So werewolves hunt?" "No, not all werewolves." He set his cup aside, and looked down as if lost in thought a moment. "Some do. We do. But others don't like hunting much. Had a friend who insisted on baking. She was crazy, even for a werewolf. She'd shift, then bake a sheet cake or a dozen different kinds of cookies. Said she'd rather bake than kill." That threw me for a loop. I looked at him for a moment, then asked the obvious question. "How much fur?" He laughed. I wouldn't let it go. "I'm serious, how much fur in the baking?" "Let's just say it was extra fiber." Just when you think that you know everything about someone. Those Christmas traditions, they're special in their own way. We all have them. Watching Charlie Brown and Garfield, that claymation special with the California Raisins in them. Attending that one church that does the fantastic Christmas pageant. Watching our children put their own Christmas pageant on. It's strange to think that werewolves and other mythical kind do these things as well. They watch the same specials, attend the same services, go to the same pageants. But there's not one special tradition for them. Have they been integrated into our society so long they no longer have their own? Have they always been with us? These are anthropologist questions that I'm not certain will ever be answered. Crash picked up a dish and brought it to the sink. As he prepared to wash a load he said, "Of course there's the annual howling at the moon. We all have to get out and do that." Which I smiled at, because I knew he was kidding. In the reflective surface of the window above the sink, I swore I saw that smile, so I know for certain he was kidding. Had to be kidding, right? |
| It's troubling times for everyone, I suppose. There are memories I hear from others, memories of Christmas presents piled so high in front of Christmas trees in the living room that you could barely see the star at the top of it. Boxes lovingly wrapped with expensive paper, ribbons and bows, each with their own name and card attached. Gifts piled so high it becomes a literal sea of wrapping paper for small children to wade through and a garbage truck's nightmare come day after to deal with. Then there's the food, food that was lovingly prepped and baked. Fights in the kitchen are almost always forgotten in the mornings. That is, unless you're the guy half drunk by ten AM in the corner with the children trying to explain to them that Santa Claus is really a stalker looking for any excuse to snatch a bad child up and make them disappear before New Years. Yeah, a quick apology to my ex brother-in-law about giving your kids nightmares. Guess I got carried away with my description. But this year feels a bit more subdued than those. The gifts for a lot of people aren't piled as high. The food budget has been trimmed back. As a parent, I can imagine that feels a bit like a failure to your kids. They may believe in Santa, but you know where Santa really comes from, and your bank account isn't capable of conjuring up as generous of a version of the fat man this year. At times, it can be easy to forget that there's still magic in the season for children, regardless of how many gifts they get or how many times you've watched Charlie Brown. I've asked Crash if there were any special werewolf traditions. He told me the story of Krampus, of course, which I think I've talked about before. About how he steals bad children in the night and gives them to good werewolf pups. It makes sense for a werewolf's version of Christmas, if you think about it. But, there was something mentioned. He hadn't specifically banned me from talking about it, so I'll mention it. It was how him and his mother would shift, and hunt together. They'd bring the beast down and bring it in for his father to help clean, that they'd later cook. The meal was then shared by them, with all the fixings that they'd throw in and assist together with in their own special way. This leads me to the thought of Christmas being more than just boxes covered in enough wrapping paper to lose a small child in. It seemed to be more in that description for one family than fighting over gifts in a store, or wearing out the Amazon delivery people. There was a true magic of the season at that moment for that family. Perhaps the magic of Christmas, if there's any real magic in it, comes from things just like that. Not from hearing Mariah Carey for the millionth time. Not from overworking store employees. But from the small moments in time that are shared with loved ones. Driving around and looking at the decorated houses. Watching the Christmas specials with your family. Enjoying that special holiday performance by a local group. And of course, the Christmas villages. I wonder if mythicals have their own version of a Christmas village? Maybe where kids come and sit on Krampus's knee. Perhaps one child plays the bad kid caught by Krampus. I could see the Rougarou doing some sort of version of eggnog that wouldn't be edible for humans. Heck, it might not be edible for most mythicals. The minotuars would, of course, run a Christmas tree lot. Cause of course they would. Then there would be the caroling, oh boy can I imagine the caroling. Sadly. Mythicals of all kinds in their shifted forms, singing a chorus of songs designed for their special version of the year. All to celebrate, well, what we celebrate really. Whether that's the religious reason, or the familial one. And I can hear all choruses of voices singing in their own off-key tones that may sound beautiful with special kind of ears. But to my human ones, it would sound like a pack of dogs trying to chase down a bull, an alligator and a confused troll. Well, however you enjoy it, just try to enjoy this coming holiday season. After all, just like the special says, Christmas doesn't come from a store. Perhaps it means just a little bit more. Or something like that. |
| Thanksgiving is one of those truly underappreciated holidays. For some families, at least. For others, it's a time to set the ropes up, get the guys in the corner limbered up and ready. It's a time to ensure that everyone understands the three knock down rule, and to respect the ref at all times. At one point in my life, I was the guy who would not only start these kinds of festivities at a get-together, but I'd be the one who to throw the first metaphysical, and sometimes literal, punch. People who run from their hometown are always running from something. I, in a way, had been running from myself. It's a flight that took me halfway around the world and left me buried in the bottom of a liquor bottle waiting to drown. That's one of the things I'm truly thankful for. To have a roommate, a friend, a pack member, who not only can see through the cantankerous shenanigans, but give it right back to me. Who, with a joke, a poke, a turn of phrase, can pull a smile out of me. That snarling, walking, talking, overgrown child's nightmare has literally saved my life. For that, I'll be eternally grateful. Another thing I'm thankful for is my roommates. Zack, Kris, Sean. They're their own versions of crazy, it's true. But it's a version of crazy that we all need. A version that seems to lean on each other and, in some strange way, keep us all sane at the same time. After Zack's recent adventure, I've tried my best to show him that he's loved and appreciated around here. After all, it's not everyone who find an indie party game and get all of us together, screaming and shouting together. But, Zack is more than the video game guy. He's the guy who will come out with that strange hidden wisdom when we're all too stressed to see it. There was that time when Crash got really sick and Zack called the doc. There was also other times that I haven't talked about publicly before. When I was getting really into myself, walling myself off to the rest of the world, and Zack was the only one who sat me down and talked to me about it. We both discussed heavy things that day. I'm grateful for him doing it. Kris and Sean are the regular odd couple. Two guys who seem to be polar opposites, but when they get together, they begin zinging and riffing in their own colorful playful way. I swear they could put on a stage show. That is if Sean didn't get stage fright and Kris didn't, well, lash out in his own unique Kris manner. That is, I'm thankful for everyone in our makeshift pack. I'm thankful that I get to interact with each of them in our ways. Thankful to have everyone of them in my life. And I know they're thankful to have me as well. Thanksgiving this year was done a little different. Instead of sitting around our poor, neglected dining room table, we instead sat around the television and watched a movie. I did spend much of the day hiding in my room, watching old Thanksgiving specials from my childhood and being grumbly. There wasn't any one thing I could put my finger on then. But, I understand it now. I suppose Crash understood it better than me. Darn werewolf hearing, he could hear the grumbles I was giving myself in my room. I, for one, thought I was being quiet. So, I did jump a bit when Crash shoved the door open. He was in his human form (which he always is during Thanksgiving, unless he's called to an emergency call). He sat down on the bed next to me, and patted my shoulder. It was one of those strange situations that felt comfortable, yet foreign. I wanted the pat on the back, the bro hug as it where, but still I turned away, grumbling about "touchy, feely werewolves". "Look, Jason," he said, standing. "The past can't be re-written. So why keep planning for it? You're loved and appreciated here. Forget about yesterday. You're missing today." It wasn't exactly Shakespeare. But he had a point. It sunk in slowly as I was watching an old Garfield cartoon. It was then that I stepped out of the room and joined everyone else in what was going on. I didn't get a chance to say what I was thankful for yesterday. So, I'm doing it here. One of the things I learned a long time ago: If you want to apologize or be grateful to someone: don't wait. You don't know if you'll ever get the opportunity to do it again. So, guys, just know that I am thankful for you. I don't always show it, but it's true. Thank you for being you. |
| A while back I asked Crash to hear some werewolf music. At that time, Crash would send me things like Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark At The Moon" or Metallica's "Of Wolf and Man", or other songs that reference werewolves in some way across rock, country and blues. At the time, I'd given it up, figuring that there either wasn't any such thing as werewolf music, or that it was Crash's way of saying "I don't want to share this with you right now." Turns out, there may be such a thing as werewolf music though. And it came from a slip of the tongue from Crash. We were watching a documentary one evening on YouTube about a style of rock called, "Psychobilly". This genre of music is a blend of punk, of hillbilly, of country, and its a fantastic, chaotic, wonderful madness of music. It's Jackson Pollock on LSD and speed, ramped up to 200 bpm. During the documentary, one of the popular bands, one of the originators of the genre in fact (no I won't say which one), came on screen. Crash pointed and said "he's a werewolf." Crash does this from time to time. There's a lot more famous people who are werewolves or vampires than you'd think. And the occasional minotaur. But very rarely trolls though. I guess being in the public limelight doesn't interrupt their own unique lifestyles or whatever. I don't know. I just know if I ever happen to catch one of them at a convention in an elevator or something, I'm asking how they balance all that. But, it makes sense for psychobilly to be a sort of werewolf style of music. It's aggressive, yet playful. Has it's own snark and attitude about it, yet it's strangely respectful of it's own roots, unlike some other musical styles which actively try to shun their roots the moment they rise slightly above them. You can figure which genres of rock and country I'm talking about, I won't go naming names here. Yes, I may be stirring the shit pot today, but I'm not licking the spoon. Even the clothing, the torn off sleeves, and the jeans. The stylized hair, it makes for easy shifting if you think about it. Plus, if you do manage to tear up your clothing a little in the midst of a shift, who could really tell? Wouldn't it just add to the aesthetic? Put some safety pins in it to hold it together, and keep rockin! All in all, this just makes me want to attend a psychobilly concert. I'd like to see some of these groups in action, to see if I can spot a werewolf or a vampire on stage singing and crooning while most of the crowd is oblivious to what's going on around them. Come to think of it, much of the subject matter in psychobilly - the songs of vampires and werewolves, of dark love and fantasies, actually fits right in to the entire mythical life style. Perhaps it's a musical style tailor-made for mythicals? Mythicals singing about things that they'd be able to relate to, but done with enough sarcasm, snark and fantasy to hide the truth between the lines in the song? Who knows? Crash wasn't very talkative when I asked him about this. Though he did get that look on his face that said I was close to something he didn't want me to be close to just yet. So, I don't know if my idea is accurate, but it works for me for now. And if psychobilly is really built for werewolves, vampires and the like, then I say I hope they enjoy it. I hope their musical style is fantastic. And I hope they don't mind me listening along too. Cause some of those songs are pretty catchy. And it's a small ear into their real culture. Into how they'd interact and know each other without the knowledge of a regular human being around. A small ear into them being themselves, in other words. Themselves that this world rarely ever gives them a chance at being. Come to think of it, how many times do any of us get to be ourselves? That side the world rarely ever sees? We all have the friendship side that our friends know. The family side only parents and siblings could know. The work side that's only brought to the office and the service side that's only brought into other professional settings, like a doctors office or a grocery store. They're all different versions of a person presented in different ways. But how often can someone be that other side, the one that doesn't see the light of day all that often? This isn't necessarily that side that wants to be painted lime green and run down the street naked holding a red ball on your head while screaming "I'm an olive! I'm an olive!" I mean, it could be. And if you have that side, more power to you. But that does mean you're crazy. Or live in Florida. Or both. No, this is that side that maybe likes those things others may find strange or embarrassing. This is that side that may attract silent judging instead of jokes. As the ages creep up, it's the silent judging that hurts more than jokes. After all, zingers can always be swatted back with another good zinger. Silent judging? Any zingers back at silent judging, only gets worse silent judging. Which could be another reason that psychobilly very well could be werewolf music. Or mythical music, anyway. What better way could there be to hide your culture than to hide it in plain sight with old B-grade horror movie references sprinkled in here and there? To be able to talk about your struggles to the public without the public ever knowing? It'd be a blast to go to a psychobilly concert, having this knowledge on my side, and these unconfirmed suspicions. The entire concert would take a different level for me then, and hold a complete different meaning. Maybe I could talk Crash into going? Well, if the overworking oaf could wrangle some time off, that is. |
| Hey everyone, it's Zack. Jason is forcing me to write this. He says if I want him to ever forgive me, then I have to do the update. I feel a bit like Gordon Freeman in Half Life, but I understand in a way. I do owe it to everyone to explain what happened. Mainly cause it's kind of my fault why this update has taken so long to get out. When Milton's men jumped me, I'd nearly died. I had just left my shift when it had happened. I still remember looking up at the sky completely exhausted, rubbing the back of my neck. Then something solid hitting me in the gut. I hit the cement as blows rained down on me, that bastard's mocking laugh in the background. When I awoke in so much pain in that parking lot, without any idea of my friends had lived or died, I vowed then that I'd get my vengeance. Normally, I'm a pretty easy going person. I try not to get in anyone's way, and it takes a lot for me to make a vow like that. If I make a vow, like I did that day, I'll do everything in my power to keep it. But, I didn't get the chance. Jason and Crash, like usual, handled everything. And this time, I really wished they hadn't. My goal in life is to get through life. When you grow up like I did, with the insane family that I had, you learn to keep your head down, get your chores done, and just try and get through with whatever escape you can find. Escapes like video games, for instance. They're a way for me to lose myself into something else for a while, to not worry about the world and it's troubles for a few hours. But this time, video games wasn't working anymore. I'd play a game and get frustrated as something reminded me of that day. Of those blows raining down on me. Of his mocking laughter. Jason must have seen right through me from the start. Wanting to go to the range with him, to learn how to shoot, to, well, everything. He had such trouble wrangling the zombies it was easy for me to sneak the pistol out of the house on occasion for some additional practice. He keeps a close eye on that pistol, but he's not perfect. I was careful. Well, I thought I was being careful. To be honest, it's a wonder I didn't kill anyone. And despite whatever mojo working that keeps the zombies and the werewolves and things away from regular public's knowledge, they still know a gunshot when they hear one. Whenever I took a practice shot at a zombie, there wasn't anyone behind the it; nothing back there but trees. We were outside of town, there was no housing near us. It's not like anyone is going to go hunting or anything in the middle of the week, right? Besides, there was literally no one for miles around other than a couple of zombies doing their dead man shuffle towards whatever thing they constantly do on Halloween that Jason has to get drunk for. They're just dead meat anyway, who cares if they go back to the grave with a few extra holes in them? Not like anyone was going to dig the corpse up and check, right? I considered it live fire target practice. The corpse shuffled, slowly along, almost ignoring me. It turned to me once, gave a smile, then kept moving, it's expensive and rotted coat flapping in the cold breeze. I pretended it was call of duty, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. The report was as loud as I remembered it in the range. I opened my eyes, and a zombie was glaring at me. There was an extra oozing hole in his arm from where I'd hit him. He gave me the finger, and kept shuffling forward, going where ever zombies go to do whatever they do. That wasn't the only Zombie I shot that day. There was others. An old woman in a gown shuffling towards a graveyard. An old man that looked as if he'd been the victim of a fire. I was stalking this teenage zombie that must have died in a car accident before Crash grabbed me by the collar and dragged me home. He didn't say anything nearly the entire time. When we got home, he half shoved, half tossed me through the front door, then glared at me in that manner in his human form that makes me think of his werewolf side. A chill ran through me from that glare. I think I'm more afraid of that human glare than I am his werewolf snarl. Call it a product of my upbringing. Jason was waiting for me when I got home. He can yell when he wants to. He's got his normal "I'm mad at this game, or this or that" volume, then he's got this whole other volume that he calls his "military mode". That second one is what I was hearing when I curled up on the edge of the sofa. Their words washed over me as I made little fists and glared at the television. When I was younger, I'd retreat into a video game fantasy, or think about a new level, character, a new product coming out. But, right then? All I could think of was blowing that meth headed vampire's head off. If Crash already killed him, I was going to settle for the damn corpse, regardless of what they said. Jason's actions broke me out of my fantasy when he waved the butt of the pistol in my face. "I should beat you to fucking death with this! Are you even listening to me?! Do you know how fucking reckless that was!?" I looked up at him. I didn't answer him then. I just glared at him. "He's not listening," Crash grumbled. I still didn't answer. They both stormed off after that. Then Jason changed the hiding spot for his pistol and Crash effectively told me if I touched a gun again without his permission, he'd use my gaming console for a chew toy. I threw up my hands after that. "Alright, alright. I won't go shooting any other zombies. I promise." Any other except for Milton's corpse of course. That meth headed rotting bastard of a vampire's corpse. Of course, when Halloween came, and the zombies picked Jason up, I broke that promise. I didn't know what he was thinking at the time, but I suppose I was so angry I wasn't thinking clearly. The hiding spot Jason had chosen was easy to figure out, and he never uses a trigger lock on his weapon. And of course he keeps it loaded, cause according to Jason, "a loaded hand gun is treated with respect. An unloaded hand gun you treat as loaded? You forget sometimes. Accidents happen." So, I didn't bother checking the ammunition inside. It felt full, at least what I thought full feels like in a pistol. I followed them at a distance, being careful not to approach Jason and his rotting entourage too closely. I stayed out of sight as the zombies walked with Jason, shuffling along after the trick-or-treaters had gone home. Bile rose in my throat at the thought of him, that mouth full of rotten meth teeth to go along with his rotten face. I swallowed it down with a helping of bitter anger, the weight of the pistol in my hand comforting me. We passed the darkened houses, porch lights going out as candy runs dry or as families go to bed, leaving the night to the wild and the dead. We left town, pressed on towards a familiar place. It was a local cemetery. It was the one Crash had found Jason in the first year he moved in. Very close to our house. Close to town and populated centers. Not that I cared in that moment. It was also where he was buried. And where he was currently wandering around, holding his head in his hands, literally. The world grew blurry. When did the world get so damn blurry? I was holding the pistol, my hand shaking. My breath was catching in my throat. It shook as I aimed, gritting my teeth hard. I'd hit two zombies along with him, and God only knew what else behind him. None of that mattered in that moment. "I was wondering when you'd get here," Jason slurred. I snarled and whirled on him. "Don't stand in my way. He's dead, he can't feel this." I raised the pistol again. "How about the folks behind him? The innocent people beyond those trees over there? You think they'll feel it," he asked. "I....I...." I began. I didn't give a shit at that moment. All that mattered was vengeance. All that mattered was the liquid magma in my veins that was my own pain. It pulled the trigger on the pistol before I could think or say anything else. The pistol barked loud fire, the shell was throlwn out the side. That bastard had been in my sights! And...nothing. He didn't go down. He didn't react. There wasn't even a new hole in his body. I looked at the gun, stunned. "Blanks," Jason said. "I figured you'd try this." I cried in anger, wheeling the gun back on him. He shouted at me, and knocked the pistol out of my hands. "What the hell you doing!? Just because it's a blank don't mean it can't hurt, ya bastard! They still throw out particles and shit for a few feet. You trying to blind me or somethin?!" "You fucking bastard! You can't even let me have this?!" I punched him as hard as I could in his bad hip. He cried out and collapsed, grabbing it. I kicked him in his back for good measure. It felt good at the time. "You asshole," he screamed out in pain. The zombies crowded around me. They were giving that low moan / growl thing they always did. Zombies creep me out. They always had. I backed up, unsure of what was going to happen. Then I felt it: the cold flesh of a dead head pressing me in the back. I whirled around and faced him. I'd never gotten the chance to see what had happened. Crash mauled his head, literally biting and ripping it off. muscle tissue and neck bone stood up out of the wound. Maggots fed in the open socket. I cried out, the fight leaving me. I was surrounded! There was no escape. Jason was no help. He was still moaning on the ground, calling me a cheap shot bastard. The circle of zombies got closer. They're growls and moans grew louder. I stood tall, though my pulse was pounding in my ears. I gave two dry swallows, and said. "You're gonna kill me now? Fine. Go ahead, you asshole, finish the job you started two months ago." I closed my eyes, and waited. Then I felt dead, cold arms wrap around me. The head was pressed against my back, and his body pressed against my front. Inward, I was giving a full body revulsion. Outward, I kept a stone face. Then he let me go. Stepped back and looked at me, almost head tilting. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick his head a thousand miles and make him go searching for it. I wanted to burn the entire cemetery down with every zombie in it. "It's his apology, you asshole," Jason said. He was seated on the ground somewhere behind me, that much I could hear. I heard him take two large gulps from something, and he grumbled, "you expect him to jump in a time machine and go back, undo everything? re-write the past like some giant fucking editor of life? No, he can't do that. It's not even really Milton anyway. He's burning in hell, or reborn as an ant or whatever happens to assholes when they die. That's only his fucking corpse. The flesh can only mourn what the spirit has done." I didn't know what to say. I closed my eyes then. Part of me wished that my parents had visited after they'd gone. That they had tried to hold me the way that Milton's corpse did. That they had apologized for the neglect, the shouting, the tricks and schemes. I didn't get any of that. All I had was Milton's corpse, looking at me in that confused manner that zombies usually have on their rotting faces. "I can accept, I guess," I said. "If you can forgive me for trying to kill you again." Milton's corpse held his head up to me. The face was smiling. The zombies opened the circle, letting me leave. I'd walked over to Jason, but they stepped in front of me again. "I don't want to fucking talk to you, right now," Jason said. He was taking another long pull from a dusty and cobwebbed bottle of booze. Someone had been buried with it, it seemed. It explained where the zombies kept getting liquor from. What else, could I do? I went home. I showered, feeling the weight of a thousand mistakes upon me. I'd done the thing I'd swore I'd never do. I took advantage of someone's friendship. I even literally kicked them when they were down. After I got out of the shower, I looked myself in the mirror, and said, "I guess you are your father's son." I didn't know what else to do. When Jason was up, I tried to not be. It seemed like a good idea to simply just not be there when he was around. It's how everything was handled in my family growing up. Life was a giant game of "hide the evidence and pretend this never happened". When you spend four days trying to avoid someone, they tend to notice. I spent the days going from work, showering, eating something, then straight to my bedroom. I couldn't look him in the eye in the rare occasions that we did happen to be in the same room. During those times, I did my best to just get the hell out of the area as quick as I could. He threw the door open on my room one night, growled at me, "get your ass up so you can apologize, asshole." "What the actual fuck," was what I said, or something to that effect. "Look, be an adult, apologize for attacking me." I sighed. I looked at the floor at his feet as I rubbed my neck. I muttered, "I"m sorry. For hitting you. And kicking you. And using you, and trying to shoot someone with your pistol without your permission and, well, everything." "Good," Jason grumbled. "You write the end of this damn blog then. If you want my forgiveness, you have to confess to everyone. You do that, we're square." And that was that. Things are kind of returning to normal. Though, Jason has found these candy bars somewhere that are in the shape of zombies. I don't know where he got them from, probably Amazon. He cuts the heads off them, then leaves them, head on top of the body, on a plate near my controller in the living room during the day. I suppose I have it coming. I'll have to figure a way to get him back. Maybe I'll plaster his car with Minecraft stickers? |
| From the rotten stench, ambling shuffle, and vague look of confused happiness on their faces, I could tell it was that time of year again. Time for the freshly dead to climb up out of their graves to shuffle towards a graveyard or two, do whatever it is they're set to do this year, and move on. It was also time for me to help. I'll never get used to the smell. The rot of death is something you shouldn't get used to. Well, unless you're a necrophiliac, I guess. But then that stench may do a whole different thing for you. And where was I going with this? Flowers, yes. Pretty flowers. ANYWAY.... This year was ending up like most years for me. I'd already given several corpses trips to a chosen graveyard, this one outside a forgotten town nearby our own. Crash responded with his usual tact and understanding nature for my plight: I was given a custom "Zombie Taxicab" hat, complete with custom badge in the center, and a custom license plate surround that said "Hauling Dead". I swear, Etsy is officially off my Christmas card list. This year, I wasn't going alone. Zack had volunteered and practically jumped into my vehicle before I had a chance to say no. We'd taken two trips and he stuck it out, squirming in his seat at their site and smell, but stuck around anyway. I knew what he wanted. He had a look that was easy to identify. It was why he accompanied me to the gun range a few times. It was why he kept asking questions about my time in service. More about how we did certain things, performed certain moves. Zack wanted vengeance. After what happened to him, I don't blame him. Those guys had beaten him within an inch of his life. His left arm was still technically healing, and the wrap wouldn't come off of it for another two weeks. All for the crime of having a friend. That's what it boiled down to. He dared to have a friend that they didn't like so Zack got caught in the crossfire. Anyone could understand where Zack was coming from. It's not like Milton had many friends to begin with, his family all but disowned him, which is why he ended up in a paupers grave in our county instead of going home for burial. And, it's not like the corpse will feel much of anything. But, there was a wrinkle in his plans. It was now my official job to help these undead shufflers, and that meant the zombies had to be protected. They had to go from grave to graveyard safely. From what I'm told they generally find their own way back pretty easily. It's the way to whatever graveyard they're drawn to that confuses them all. So, no matter how much I sympathized with Zack on the issue. Which made it difficult on our second night out. He'd of course begged me to go out. Knowing who he was looking for, and also knowing why, I agreed. It's easier to misdirect someone when they're next to you, after all, and Zack was going to stay by my side the entire night, whether he wanted to or not. The night began easy. He played a song or two on the radio and we both sang along. It felt almost like an episode of carpool karaoke, only without that annoying host, the staged questions and incidents. That all stopped when we picked up our first "hitchhiker". This freshly dead corpse slid into the back as my car pulled up, almost as if it knew why it was there. Zack flinched a bit when he saw it, pulling a snicker from me that I couldn't suppress. "Shut up," he grumbled, staring out the window. "I...didn't say anything," I said, fighting back my smile. The zombie, a maggot feast of an elderly lady tried to give Zack a comforting touch on his shoulder. He cried out and nearly jumped out of his seat. I'd never thought I'd ever see a zombie nonplussed. "How did you get this job," he asked. "I think I'm the only one that'll do it. Or I'm the only human in the office, or I'm the new guy, one or those reasons." I shrugged as I dropped the corpse off at the graveyard. I looked over the tombstones. They were peaceful where they sat mostly forgotten. The light of the small town behind them barely touched their centuries old stones, with names and dates mostly washed away by weather and time. "You think he's here?" Zack was staring at the stones, looking across to the couple of zombies that was out there. "Milton's dead. He's not," I said. Zack looked at me. "I don't give a shit." Then he looked back out at the zombies milling around. "What he did..." I looked over at Zack. "You'll never get an apology. He'll never be able to. He's wherever guys like him go after we die. Hell, hades, oblivion, I don't know. But, I know he won't be out there." "Well, whatever," Zack grumbled. "Just take me home then." I put on my zombie cabby hat, and shrugged. "Okay, you're the boss." Then, I started for home. In the rear view mirror, I saw the shape of what could have only been Milton, carrying a head that looked as if it had been gnawed on. It gave a wave to the car, and kept shuffling on. Thankfully, Zack didn't see it. What should I even do, here? It's bad enough holding a grudge against someone who is alive. But what about someone who wasn't even a someone anymore? Holding a grudge against the corporal form of that person after the soul that makes them who they are has long since vacated the body? I wasn't even certain. All I knew was that, under no circumstances could I let Zack and Milton's corpse get together. Whatever happens, this will be one long month. Thanksgiving can't get here fast enough. |
| There was no way that I was going to get away with my shenanigans from the previous adventure. So, when Crash said his boss wanted to see me, I was ready. As he was rousing himself for a full day at the office after a full night in the woods, I had time to shower, get dressed and brew coffee. My attire consisted of a simple set of slacks, a cotton buttoned up shirt and a tie. It was the same clothing I'd bought for that disastrous job that I had for less than two weeks. I noticed this over the second cup of coffee as Crash was filling a thermos with what was left of the pot. In a way, I'd expected things to turn out in a similar manner. I'd had fun as a temporary deputy for Crash's little department, but I suppose all good things must come crashing down sooner or later. Crash for his part seemed chipper. He teased me a bit here and there about getting mauled by the bear. I smiled and teased him back, but I took it for exactly what it was: an ass chewing. I had a good idea why I was going to get my ass chewed. After all, it hadn't even been a week since I'd blown up two cars, started a house fire, and killed several well known and least liked criminals as my status as a temporary deputy. In most other fields of law enforcement, I'd have been arrested for results like that. Some places on Earth I'd have been executed. Maybe I'd have been promoted in Russia for that, but who really knows? There's an artform to getting a proper ass chewing, one that you only learn threw time honored experience. Since my ass still had metaphorical teeth marks from some of my shenanigans in the army, and I still say I didn't know a HMMWV would get that much air time at only 45 miles an hour, I have a lot of experience. To survive a good chewing, you got to keep in mind your goal, and to not take everything personal or literal. My goal was to preserve the pack, protect everyone from the threat that the late Milton presented. Something, I felt I'd accomplished.Crash had a scar on his shoulder, but he was doing okay. Zack, Sean, and Kris had a few mental scars and more than a couple bruises, but otherwise, they were recovering nicely. Not only that, I'd killed a member of society who was threatening to murder Crash, a member of their own department, and was using a gang like a paramilitary outfit. Milton had eyes on poisoning half our state with his meth. If you asked me, I think I did a good job. But, instead of getting thanked for that, I was looking forward to a screaming/growling session. And Crash, I think he was enjoying watching someone else get their butt chewed instead of him for a change. "Actually, there'll be more growling than screaming if you've done it right," Crash said, his grin growing wider on his face. I must had given him a look, cause he started snickering after. The top was down and we were enjoying the last warmth of the year before it starts to get colder around here. It was doing nothing for my well combed hair, but I think that was the point. I went into the office, trying to smooth out my hair as best as I could, and stood in front of the desk of Crash's boss. I had saved everyone. I had stopped a threat. In my eyes, I did the right thing. I kept that firmly in mind when I saw the large man in front of me stand up, draw a deep breath, and began his tirade. The first thing to keep in mind is if you'd accomplished the good and righteous mission you set out to accomplish. I certainly had. The secong thing is never, and I mean ever, look smug about what you did. Of course, I wanted to. I wanted to smile at him, scream back "But the vampire's dead, isn't he? His whole gang?! Your not up to your neck in meth addicted assassins?! You're fucking welcome!" I didn't do or say any of that. I looked in his face, tried to look slightly apologetic, and nodded in the appropriate places. But, I think he could smell it on me that I wasn't sorry and not even afraid at that moment. Maybe that's what made the ass chewing go on for so long. Or maybe he's just a long winded and angry guy. Or perhaps he uses his little rants like some people utilize exercise. I don't know. The office was a corner office on the second floor of some ignorable glass structure that you'd seen a million times in a million different places on the planet. I swear they must sell them in the back of Ikea next to the furniture and past the meatballs or something. He had a fantastic office I think partly because no one wanted to try and take it from him. Around his office was mementos from his long career in alternate policing. There was one photograph of him in his human form standing with a wife and child. I didn't ask about his family. Not because I wasn't curious, I was. But because I figured if I did ask he might perceive the question as some sort of threat. You never threaten a were anything either on purpose or on accident. Ever. Especially one a werewolf is afraid of. During the forty five minute screaming/growling session, hair sprouted twice. Though he fought it back down, his finger wavered, and twitched as if it was going to grow a claw. I looked him in the eye and waited, absorbing the ass chewing but not really giving it much thought. Truth was, I was starting to feel a little upset. After all, didn't I do something good for the community? Didn't I help everyone out by removing this threat? That meth gang had literally attempted to murder four people, myself included. There wasn't a whole lot of care about humanity left in them. And then there's the vampire, who had glamoured how many people? The very thugs that the cartel had sent to kill him he turned into his personal body guards. He cut me and drank some of my damn blood. My shoulder is still bleeding, and probably should have been stitched up. It still burns like a son of a bitch when I'm dumping peroxide on it at night. Why am I being punished like some imputent stepchild? "Next time, you try anything that reckless, you inform me first! You're not allowed to fart in the damn wind without my approval!" He screamed this in my face, pounding my chest with his fingertip. His words brought me back to the present, and stunned me a little. I arched an eyebrow at him, trying to play off my shock. "Next time? There's going to be a next time?" He growled and ran a hand through his hair a moment, looking away as he did. "You're damn right there's going to be a next time! Look, you're reckless, sometimes downright suicidal. You have a complete disregard for procedure..." I gave him a small shrug and said "I don't know your procedures." He paused. "Yeah, well, perhaps you should." He sat back into his chair, then leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. He laced his fingers behind his head, as if he was deep into thought. "You're the craziest human I've ever met, you know that? Most humans run screaming from this. I've known military veterans who've told me that they'd rather just pretend they never saw anything and go on their entire lives pretending this weirdness doesn't exist. You on the other hand, you keep shoving your muzzle where we don't want, forcing your way into our cases in order to help solve them. Hell," he smiled, "I've sat here screaming at you for over forty minutes and you just look bored." He wasn't starting to make a whole lot of sense. "I'm completely lost here. What's going on?" Grabbing a thick book that was obvious a government regulation of some kind, he tossed it at me. It landed on the desk in front of me. I stared down at this thing. It was blue, with a large paw print of a werewolf, and a human hand print in the paw. "You won't stop disrupting our cases, despite repeated warnings from your alpha, and I can tell from your look, you won't stop with warnings from me. Look, I served. I understand where your heart and your head is." He pushed the manual closer to me. I can't give you the title, cause you're not allowed to read it, but it was a list of laws and regulations that anyone in Crash's position was supposed to follow. That I was supposed to follow. "Read that, cover to cover. That's your new bible. You better be able to quote chapter and verse from that in the next few days." My mouth was dry. I swallowed hard. "I...uh..." "You're only working with Crash when he needs you and invites you into the case. This won't be an every day, or even every week deal. But from now on, you're not interfering in investigations, you're working them in an official capacity. Do you understand?" My mind went blank for a moment. "A job?! I'm getting a job?!" I was numb. I had believed I was getting arrested. Everything was turning out strange. Did I want this sort of job? Could I handle this sort of job? He smiled as if he could read my mind. "Sport, in our profession you must respond with calm and professionalism to aggression. Otherwise people get hurt or killed. I've given you my worst, you've seen the worst our kind can give, and despite you breaking several laws, you accomplished the job. But from now on, ignorance will not be leeway." He stood up, snarling, he did sprout fur. A low growl that really was threatening formed in his throat as he grabbed my collar and pulled me close to stare in his shifting, snarling face. "Next time, though, you pull a stunt like that, you really will see what the inside of my digestive tract is like. You understand?" With a hard swallow, I nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll have this whole book memorized." "Good." He smiled as he released me, then said, "Oh, and Jason?" "Yes sir?" His grin turned into a threatening one. "No one is to read that besides you and Crash. If any one else, even in your pack, reads that manual, you and they are in a lot of trouble." I tucked the manual under my arm and gave him a firm nod. "Yes sir." Before I left the room, I borrowed a white binder to keep the manual in. After all, if no one is supposed to read it, then perhaps they shouldn't see the title. Crash waved me over from where his desk was. Unlike his boss, our boss now, Crash was in a cubicle sharing a desk with two others in his division. Apparently that's the first thing to know, they're divisions not departments. They don't work for the regular police but along side them. The entire thing is strange. "Here, ya go," he told me, and slid the keyboard in front of me. It was a form of some kind on their intranet, something to get my vitals and family information. Typical first day on boarding procedures. "Holy shit, this is really happening," I muttered to myself as I sat there typing in information. I was working with Crash. I looked over at him. "I just don't know what to say." "Say you'll study that manual hard until you can literally quote it," he smiled. "I'll help you when I can." Everything was going to be different. For one thing half the things I'd been regularly doing had been technically illegal or at least frowned upon. I don't mean just with the last thing with Milton, I mean the entire time. Crash was supposed to warn me off or kill me. And despite his repeated warnings, I kept going deeper into this. I guess there's no backing out now, not that I'd want to. Life can be funny. This might be the only job on the planet that is chaotic and dangerous enough for me to feel at home in. Maybe someone or something up there honestly has a plan for my life. I certainly would appreciate it if they'd let me in on it. But, I suppose so wouldn't anyone. I'll just keep rolling with the punches and doing my best. I guess that's all I really can do. |
| It had been a long night, and felt like it’d be an even longer morning. Part of me felt as if we all had finally awakened from a years long nightmare. It was a familiar feeling, one I’d gotten after every deployment. Usually the feeling fled, days into being home. I couldn’t help but wonder how long that feeling would last. There was a beer in my hand immediately when I got home. Neither Elouise, nor Crash said a word. The first sip felt like a warm comfortable mistake, one I’d be struggling not to make over and over. Still, it was one I felt I’d earned, so I took one, then a longer sip as I avoided eye contact with both of them. I wanted to be pissed, but I couldn’t be. After all, wouldn’t I have done what they did in their shoes? Haven’t I literally done the same before to some of the others in the very house I lived in? All questions that I wasn’t certain there was any good answers for. I looked towards the woods, and sipped my beer again. The desire to chug it was hard to ignore, but ignore it I did. At least for the time being. “She brought you along, didn’t she?” Crash might have given me a nonchalant shrug. I couldn’t tell. He wasn’t looking me in the eye at that moment, that much I did know. His muzzle stared at the horizon for a moment, in that manner that I could tell he was trying to judge what to say to me. “You had training wheels on,” he eventually said. “Don’t trust the FNG, huh?” I looked over at Crash, he did actually shrug then, his ear tipping. “Don’t take it personal, you’re just a bit too green to trust doing that job alone,” Elouise said for him. I just gave her a look, shrugged and turned back to the woods. She took my shrug as a question and decided to press her argument. “You bombed two vehicles. You had no consideration for anyone that might have been inside, if anyone might have gotten hurt. I mean, Jesus, Jason! What if they had kids?! You went off half cocked hell-bent for blood and fire.” I glared at her. “No toys in the yard, no bikes, nothing so much as even a tire swing. Windows with black curtains over them, nothing else. No car seats in the cars, do I need to go on?” She crossed her arms, and snarled at me. She was in her human form now, but there was more than a bit of gator in that snarl. “The explosion was designed to do two things, surprise them, and shock the hell out of them. Shake them from clear thinking for a second, a half a second. It was the only advantage we had. The only chance of survival I had. You wanted a fair fight? All three of us would be dead right now.” Crash’s growling voice broke through my developing stormy mood. “Lighten up on her, Jason.” I looked at Crash. “You were supposed to be in bed. I was going to kill him.” “Heh, with what, a hammer and a stake?” He’d posed it as a joke, but I nodded. “Yes. A hammer, a stake. And a pole to mount his head on outside his fucking house as I burned it to the ground.” “Pike. You’re supposed to mount it on a pike, which they didn’t have.” I looked over at Elouise, and she cracked a grin. The comment hung between us a moment, and I couldn’t help but to start laughing. Crash joined in, then her. Soon, jokes were flying back and forth about the proper way to kill a vampire. My beer sat, temporarily forgotten. “So, I wasn’t authorized to kill Milton.” Crash shook his head. “I was only authorized to kill the humans.” Crash nodded. His silence routine was starting to get on my nerves. “Do I need to get your leash and take you on walkies?” “We both know, that’d end up with me giving you walkies.” Chuckles all around followed that one. Elouise and Crash then began talking about the appropriate way to walk a human. I jumped in where I could with that. Apparently, I’d need to be muzzled, and have my hands bound behind my back, be wearing a harness, because you know a collar is just cruel. I’d apparently choke myself to death on it in my own stupidity. “What I don’t get,” Elouise said eventually. “Is why that guy in the suit. Why was he even there?” “Drug connection. I didn’t recognize him, but apparently he was some drug lord who had shown up to get to Milton. All of that meth about drained Milton’s abilities, but he must have had enough strength to mesmerize the men that guy brought with him.” I took a long sip of my beer, then set it down. “I figure, Milton originally got some weight from the guy. Probably a kilo, I don’t figure Milton was smart enough to negotiate more. Then, he missed his payments. That guy was probably there to collect.” She nodded. “Yeah, I remember him talking about payment. Shit, it’s why we made our own down in Louisiana. No one to come knocking, trying to collect on ya.” I nodded and looked over at Crash. He still wasn’t looking at me. “You pissed at how I did the job?” He didn’t answer for a moment or two. To be honest, it did make me a little nervous. “No, I think you did fine, considering your limitations. If we ever have humans involved, expect to get a phone call.” I grinned. “Well, next time, I won’t do it for free.” He grinned back, finally looking at me. “Since when do interns get paid?” Well, fellas, I must get running, a girl’s gotta get her beauty sleep. Come here cher.” She leaned in and motioned for us both to hug her, which we happily did. Then, I finished my beer in a few large swallows and wished Crash a good morning. It was hard to ignore the desire for another, but I’d managed to do it. Everyone had come out of the hospital the next day. Crash picked everyone up in his car. We looked at each other, hugged once, and then climbed inside. Zack asked two questions. “Is he dead and did he suffer?” I looked at him. There was an anger in his eyes I hadn’t seen on Zack’s face, I think in ever. It pained me to see it there. Zack normally had a kind face, the sort that’s more designed for smiling than growling. I felt fresh rage at Milton for stealing some of that from him. For stealing some of that innocence. “Yes to both, and both were self-inflicted,” I said. He nodded. “Good.” And then didn’t say anything else the rest of the car ride home. No one did. Kris and Sean leaned against each other gingerly. Zack glared out at the sidewalk. I sat in the back by the door, wondering what this would mean for us. How it would change our little group. For the first time in a long time, I found myself praying. I prayed that it didn’t. I just hope my prayers weren’t in vain. |
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