Teddy Roosevelt and the Hunt for Sasquatch - Intro

Mandala

Schoo' project!

Charlie Whiskeyfingers

“Charlie, though that’s just what we call him, came out of the creek that runs over behind the church. We called him Charlie Whiskeyfingers ‘cause when we found him, he was clinging to a whiskey bottle tighter than a…Well, he was holdin’ it pretty tight. It wasn’t till we got him off the damn thing we saw what was in it. There was a blank piece o’ paper and a gun in there. Now, God knows how they got the gun in that bottle, but we pulled him out of the river and finally got that bottle away from him and cleaned him off. We never really gave him an official name, we just introduced him to the kids over at the schoolhouse and they started callin’ him Charlie. The Whiskeyfingers didn’t come ‘till later.
It was his twelfth birthday. A couple o’ really shady looking fellas came ridin’ into town. They didn’t talk to no one. And they didn’t look at no one. They just rode in, tied off their horses, walked on into the mayor’s office, shot the mayor, wrecked the place and rode on out. We went in to see what they did to the place and we just found a note that said “For the boy,” and there was a bottle o’ whiskey left on the desk. They shot the mayor clean through his skull, too. Looked like they sat him down in that big ol’ chair o’ his and all shot him at the same time. His papers were all over the place, blood splattered. They drew crosses all around the room too. And there these big white feathers all over the place. We didn’t know what to make of it.”
“Did you give it to him?” Hal asked.
“Excuse me?” Steve asked, indignantly.
“Did you give him the whiskey?” Hal repeated.
“Well, no shit, we gave it to him! You don’t not give a boy whiskey when a mayor’s been shot over it. I mean we were caught with our pants down. We figured the best thing to do was not ask questions and just do what those murderers said. Now, no more interruptions. So, we gave the boy the bottle o’ whiskey and he started suckin’ on it like a regular baby to a regular bottle. He just drank the whole damn thing. Hell, it didn’t even smell like whiskey when he was done with it. Then, he ran back to the church. He busted open the bottle, we found him with, lit the blank piece o’ paper on fire and took the gun. He strapped the pistol to his belt and ran off into the woods. He was gone two weeks before we saw him again. Some folks headed for California picked him up. They said when they found him, he was naked and covered in soot, like he’d run through a wild fire or something. Anyway, they brought him back to the church, cleaned him up, got some clothes on his back and asked him what happened, but he wasn’t speakin’ English. Tell ya the truth, we still don’t know what he was speakin’ and any time we ask him about it, he doesn’t remember. It took three months, four doctors, eight priests, a rabbi and two medicine men from the local Indian folks before we could at least get him to at least speak Spanish. When we finally got him speakin’ English again, he just kept sayin’ somethin’ about demons and “fighting the blackness” and what not. He was still drinkin’ that whiskey, too. We all just figured it was doin’ the talkin’. We tried to get him to give up the drink, but he wouldn’t stop. He said he couldn’t stop. He needed it.. We tried everything. We tied him to a tree, but he broke the ropes. For a while we made drinkin’ in town illegal, but when this here saloon started goin’ under, we had to end it. We didn’t know what to do, so finally we just said “A’right! That’s enough! We don’t wantcha here no more!” and ran his little ass out of town. Two days later, though…as soon as he was gone, that’s when all the trouble really started. The first day he was gone, the river ran dry. After that, the crops started turnin’ brown and the cattle started goin’ hungry. Once they started dyin’ we started lookin’ for him. We couldn’t find him anywhere. We brought in detectives and bounty hunters and even a few psychics, but no one could tell us where he went. Ten long years we looked for that boy. This town really went to shit. The river stayed dry. All our livestock took ill and died. People started leavin’. Before long, it was just me, my saloon, and the priest who just stayed in his empty church all day, readin’ books, I guess. ‘Bout the time I was gettin’ ready to pack up, lock the doors and roll on out o’ here, who do you think shows up on the edge of town? Old Charlie Whiskeyfingers, bottle in one hand, gun in the other. He looked like a regular pistolero. He had a big scar runnin’ down the side of his face. He wore a leather duster with a big red cross on the back and on his belt, you wouldn’t believe it, but he had one o’ them swords the crusaders used to have. He said he got it in Jerusalem, but I just figured it was the booze talking. He probably got it from some old city slicker who got stuck in the mud on his way out here and figured he didn’t need it weighin’ him down anymore. After that, he went back to the church and just read all day, probably with the priest. Sun up to sun down, he had his nose buried in a book.”
“So, where do these guys come in?” Hal asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
“Oh, these guys?” Steve replied, with a little chuckle. “Charlie says these guys are here for him. Demons, he called ‘em.” Hal looked back over his shoulder.
“They look pretty normal to me.” He said, innocently.

Two men in black dusters stood outside in the street, the wind blowing their coats like pirate flags. Across from them, stood a tall man, wearing a beige ten gallon hat, a deep scar running from his forehead to his jaw line. He wore a light brown duster, a white shirt, a red vest and a pair of khaki pants. Wrapped around his neck was a bright red bandana and draped over his shoulders, a tan duster with a big red cross on the back. Charlie took a step toward the men, resting his hand on the sword at his hip.
“You boys ought to ride on back where you came from.” He said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. The men laughed and took a step forward to match him.
“We’re not going anywhere,” One of them said. “We’re gonna burn this town to the ground. Then we’re gonna tear that church of yours apart board by board and brick by brick. Then when we’re done, we’re gonna take you and drag you behind our horses for…How long do you think we should drag him for, Jimmy?”
“Till there ain’t nothin’ left,” the other said. He spat. “We’re gonna drag you through the dirt, till there ain’t nothin’ but dirt,” he said, shortly. Charlie smiled and took another mouthful of whiskey.
“Well, that’s good and all,” he said, wiping his chin. “But see, I protect this town. So, if you’re plannin’ on destroyin’ anything here, it’ll have to be me first.”
“With pleasure,” one of the men said. The ground started to shake. The wind picked up and dust whipped around, getting in everyone’s eyes. The glasses rattled on the shelves of the saloon and the various bottles of hard alcohol smashed on the floor. People cleared the streets. Charlie smiled and had a bit more whiskey. Behind him, to his right and left, a pair of men, dressed in the same dusters, swords on their hips landed hard on the ground. Folding a pair of giant, gray wings behind their backs, they stood up, drawing their swords.
“That’s them!” Steve said.
“Who’s them?” Hal asked, hurrying over to the window to get a better look.
“Those are the same two fellas who shot the mayor!” Steve said. “I don’t think I’ll be stickin’ around for this one,” he said, and he jumped behind the bar. Hal wished he could move, but his eyes glued him to the spot.
“Looks like you fellas are outnumbered,” Charlie said, drawing his own sword. The men in black laughed.
“We like it like this,” one of them said, hissing at the end of the sentence. The men drew swords of their own. The blades were curved, still black from the forge and once out they didn’t stay still for very long. The men charged and Charlie and his compatriots readied themselves for the onslaught. The swords flashed in the noontime sun and sang, like the bells in the church, as the combatants hammered at one another with them, trying to land them somewhere important. Charlie’s reinforcements took to the sky, but were followed by balls of flame as the men in black unleashed a battery of fiery destruction. The winged pistoleros went unharmed, but the bank, the blacksmith and the stable all exploded, sending splinters of wood, charred bits of money and cattle, and flecks of hot iron everywhere. Amidst the screams and shrapnel, Charlie managed to fire off a few rounds from his pistol, knocking off both of his adversaries’ hats. They lowered their hands and turned to face him.
“Come on, half breed,” one of them said. “Let’s just get this over with.” Charlie’s comrades landed behind them, drawing their swords again. The men in black smiled manically and took off their coats. From each of their sweaty backs, a pair of black leathery wings, like those of a bat, stretched out and the skin on their faces began to slide off, leaving behind faces that matched their swords, both in color and jaggedness. Their eyes glowed red and fire traveled up from their hands to the tips of their blades. Charlie finished what was in his bottle.
“Well, shit,” he said, holding it up to the sunlight. “Looks like I’m all out. We’d better wrap this up pretty quick.” He took off his duster, revealing a pair of grand white wings. They fanned out, spanning almost the entire width of the street. The demons hissed at him and rattled their sabers. Behind them, the other two also removed their dusters revealing the same light, feathery wings as Charlie.
“I don’t know about you,” Steve yelled, peering over the bar. “but I’d get the hell outta here if I was you!” Hal, suddenly remembering he hadn’t nodded off into the nightmare unfolding in the street, snapped to attention and headed for the back door. Once outside, he untied the first horse he saw and headed off, in no particular direction. The sounds of the battle, though ear-piercingly loud began to fade. From a hilltop, probably less than a mile away, he watched as one of the black specters launched a massive, infernal ball straight down to the center of the town. The blaze consumed everything. The saloon was quickly incinerated, along with the gunsmith’s shop, which exploded as powder kegs were ignited, sending ammunition everywhere. Hal crossed his heart, took off his hat, and disappeared.

Buffalo Soldier

Tiffany stepped out of the noise, quickly wrapping her scarf around her neck. She rubbed her hands together and took out a cigarette. Holding it between her lips, she fumbled around in her purse for a lighter when a dark, nimble hand emerged from the shadows with one.
“Allow me,” it said, with a cool South African accent. The lighter came to life and she lit her cigarette.
“Thanks,” Tiffany said, after exhaling a cloud of smoke. The icy night air mixed with the smoke to make a huge cloud, which hung in the air for a moment before drifting off with a cold breeze.
“No problem,” said the voice. Its speaker came out into the light, revealing a dark, narrow face, bearing a wide smile. “Calls me Buffalo.”
“Buffalo?” Tiffany asked, blowing out more smoke.
“Buffalo Soldier. Dread lock rasta” He held up a lock of his hair, which was tightly wound around itself. Tiffany smiled, shyly.
“Well, where are you from, Mr. Buffalo?” she asked, taking another drag on her cigarette.
“Stolen from Africa,” the man said, grinning.
“Oh, I get it,” Tiffany said. “Big Bob Marley fan?” The man chuckled.
“I do love the Bob,” he said. He came all the way into the light, revealing the rest of his hair, which fell around his shoulders, where he wore a tight red leather jacket, which zipped around a black button down shirt. A pair of shorts came down just below his knees and on his feet, a pair of white Nikes.
“You get cold with those shorts on?” Tiffany asked, raising an eyebrow. The man smiled and looked down at his feet.
“Nah,” he answered. “I usually move around a lot.”
“Oh, like at work? What do you do?”
“Y’ask a lotta questions, miss…Didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh, gosh. I feel so stupid. I’m Tiffany.” The man paused for a moment, looking inquisitive.
“Tiffany Wells?” he asked. Tiffany’s face lost its color. She took a step back.
“How do you know that?” she asked, nervously.
“Seems we have common friend,” the man, said taking a step toward her. “A man calls himself “The Heathen.” You know him?” Tiffany didn’t say anything. She walked backward, stumbling through the gap between a marble column and the building. She fell down the stairs, breaking one of her shoes, landing in an icy puddle. She looked up as the man followed her. He stood between the building and the shaft of the column, hiding his face in the shadow.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Ya fell down. I’ll give ya a headstart.” He unzipped his jacket and from within he produced a small blade, which glimmered unmistakably in the light as he held it out. Tiffany pulled herself up and ran off. The man sighed.
“We don’t need…no more trouble” he said. He spun the blade around in his hand, and headed after her.
Tiffany, limping slightly from her fall, ran through the parking lot, searching desperately for her car. Her pursuer came around the corner, singing more loudly.
“Baby, baby we’ve got a date!” He kicked a large SUV and the alarm began to go off. “Baby, baby, don’t you be late.” Tiffany fumbled for her keys, trying to get a hold of her remote. The pressed the panic button and found her car, its horn blaring and the lights flashing. Ducking behind a truck, she scanned around for the man and his knife, but couldn’t see either of them. She ran across the aisle, taking refuge behind a smaller car. Keeping her head down, she crossed another aisle, then another, finally coming up to the last. As she peeked out from behind a minivan, she watched in horror as her assassin stood in front of her car, the hood open. He disconnected the battery, and the horn fell silent. Then, he slammed the hood down and hopped up on top of her hood.
“I wanna love you” he sang. “And treat you right,”
Tiffany fumbled through her purse. She found a book, one she’d never intended to read, and threw it across the parking lot. It hit a sports car a few yards away. The sound caught the attention of her hunter and he hopped off the hood of her car. He walked toward her, his eyes on the sports car. Tiffany held her breath as he passed by her and walked across the lot. When he disappeared behind a truck, she sprang for her car. She wrenched the door open and threw her bag inside, quickly inserting her key and turning it. Nothing happened. Panicking, she popped the hood, hoping the man wouldn’t hear. She looked around, and didn’t see anything. Then, as silently as she could, she moved around to the front of the car and lifted the hood. Using her nimble fingers, she slowly reconnected the battery with the dangling cable. The horn returned, just as loud as before, the lights flashing as well. With a quick look back, she watched the man and his knife cut between a few compact cars, making his way toward her. She slammed the hood down, abandoning discretion and jumped in the driver’s seat. She thrust the key back in and turned it, bringing the car to life. The horn stopped and she skidded out of the parking lot. She watched as the man grew smaller and smaller in her mirror. She sighed with relief, but when she looked back to the road, she was greeted with the thick trunk of an old tree. Her car smashed into it and everything went dark.

A few moments later, she slowly opened her eyes. There was a cut on her forehead, probably where it hit the steering wheel and the front of her car was completely destroyed. She fumbled around in her purse for her phone and pressed a few buttons before holding up to her ear.
“Hi, honey, it’s me,” she said. “Look I got into an accident, can you come pick me up…maybe take me to a hospital? No, I’ll explain later, when can you get here? Half an hour? Great. I’ll be here.” She hung up the phone and tossed it in the back seat. A second later, it came back, bouncing on the passenger seat. Her blood turning to ice in her veins, Tiffany looked in her rear-view mirror and was greeted with a smile.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” a voice said. There was a sharp pain in her back and as everything started to go black, it said “Cause every little thing is gonna be alright.”

Widdershins

The room was dim, bursting with dozens of unsavory looking characters, anchored in the center by a table covered in poker chips, cross-sectioned and divided by stern emotionless looks. A smoky haze, made more obvious by the light over the table, hung in the room, emanated from the several smoking cigars dangling from the players’ mouths. Allan, stared at his cards. The two and the four in his hand dropped his aged face and caused his gray brows to furrow. He sat, silently cursing his misfortune when a voice broke his furious concentration.
“So, shall we go clockwise as usual?” it asked.
“Why don’t we go counter-clockwise this time?” another answered. Allan’s stomach turned over and he felt a little of his dinner try to come up. He downed a giant gulp of air, and leapt to his feet, nearly knocking the table over.
“NO!” he shouted. His opponents, all of them bewildered by Allan’s strange behavior watched him, for a moment, before one man, Harold, a man of Allan’s same maturity, took the cigar from his mouth.
“What is this outburst at my table?” he demanded. Allan threw down his cards.
“I’ll not play at your table, Harry, if we’re gonna play widdershins.” He answered, in his scruffy Scottish accent. The room buzzed with activity as whispers swarmed back and forth between the people just outside of the lamp’s reach. Harold raised his hand and the room went silent.
“And what, pray tell is so terrible about playing ‘widdershins’?” he asked, masking a smile. Allan sighed, and sat back down. Not looking up, he fiddled with his poker chips.
“Must have been about…fifty years ago, I think…”
Allan, his hair darker and tamer, his face smoother and his hands more steady, sat beside a fire, a pair of cards in his hand. Across the fire, sat Kutu, a frail man, dressed in only a pair of leopard skin undergarments and a necklace of human teeth. On his head, he wore a crown of large colorful feathers, two of which came down to his eyes, looking like great, blue brows. Behind him, a giant man, barely clothed as well, stood, breathing slowly, heavily and loudly. One of his biceps was surrounded by a silver bracelet that looked like it might break and fly off at any moment.
“So, all I have to do, Shaman, is beat you at cards and you’ll free my men?” Allan asked, smiling confidently. Kutu said nothing. He only slightly tilted his head forward, nodding. Allan turned and looked back over his shoulder. A dozen men, sailors by the look of them, sat on the ground, their hands bound behind their backs, their mouths gagged and a man with a spear aimed at their throats.
“D’ya hear that boys? I’ve just got to be the little tribesman at a game o’ cards and we’ll be off this rock!” They mumbled through their gags, but were struck hard in the face and silenced. Allan turned back to face the shaman. Another man appeared. He was dressed similarly to Kutu, but where Kutu’s head dress was made of feathers, this man’s had been crafed of fine gold and was encrusted with jewels and a human skull.
“And who might you be?” Allan asked, bemused.
“I am Hitu,” the man answered, shortly. “You must also beat me.”
“Very well,” said Allan. “Shall we go clockwise or add a little spice to the game and go widdershins?” The natives looked to one another. Then Hitu turned back and answered.
“We have no fear of demons, white devil. We will play widdershins.”
“Alright. Widdershins it is. Now, I don’t have all night to play this game, I’ve got to be back in Crooked Island when the sun comes up, so if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna go ahead and go all in.” Allan took the two skulls and five femurs in front of them and tossed them into the fire. It crackled and sparks flew up like fireflies, vanishing as they went out against the dark sky. Kutu and Hitu looked at one another, and then also put their bones in the fire. Allan shuffled the cards and dealt them around the fire. The two men looked at theirs and looked up. Allan looked at his, and a small smile creased his cheeks.
“Alright, let’s see your cards, gentlemen.” Hitu tossed his cards into the fire. A large number four rose up out of the flames. It flickered for a moment and then exploded, coming back together as a five. Kutu then threw his cards in the fire. Two fours came up. Then, with a smile, Allan flicked his cards into the embers, releasing a large crown followed by a letter A.
“Ha! Looks like I win.” He said, turning over his shoulders. “Free my men, please.” The tribesmen cut the ropes and ungagged the sailors. They quickly stumbled to their feet, tripping over themselves, as they headed toward the small skiff on the beach.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, but I hope we don’t meet again for a very long time.” Allan stood up, put on his large wide brimmed hat and strode off toward the boat.
Kutu, looked into the flame, glaring at the cards as they continued to burn. The ground began to shake. The hot coals at the base of the fire shifted and a giant clawed hand wrenched out of the flames. It slammed down on the beach and pulled the rest of the hulking body it belonged to out of the blaze. Kutu pointed to the crew as they climbed into the skiff. The beast, roared and launched itself at them. As it hit the water a loud hiss filled the night, sending flocks of birds out of the trees and a huge plume of steam rose. The men screamed and a piece of the skiff hit Allan in the back of the head.
Allan looked up. All eyes were on him. The room was completely silent.
“I was picked up two days later by an Spanish fisherman and his wife. They brought me back to Crooked Island and I got on the first ship back to Scotland.” He picked up one of his poker chips and held it between his thumb and index finger, rolling it back and forth. “I’ll not be playing widdershins any time soon, Harry” he put down the chip. “and that’s that.”
“Wait a minute,” said a voice from the back. “Are you saying that because you played widdershins you summoned the giant fire demon? Could it have more to do with the fact that you beat a tribal shaman out of dinner for a month? I mean, I’m no expert, but I have a feeling he was none too appreciative of you takin’ his food right out from under him!”
“Well, we don’t know they were cannibals for sure,” Allan insisted.
“Oh, no! They just happened to have enough bones lying around that they could use them as poker chips! Come on!”

The Wolves and I

I was back in the middle of the road tonight. The moon was brighter than I've ever seen her. I couldn't stop smiling as I made shadow puppets. I could see my breath float out of my mouth into the chilly darkness. I chuckled a bit, but I got so serious when I heard that soft growling. I was too far from the door and it was too close for me to run, so I waited. I breathed in through my nose and held the air in my lungs for a moment, before breathing it out slowly. I heard a stick snap and a furry foot came out of the shadow. My heart skipped a beat, but then raced to catch up. I heard a truck coming, so I slowly took a step back, not taking my eyes off that foot. The lights came around the corner and the truck came rushing by. The driver honked his horn at me, probably wondering what I was doing outside at this time of night, just standing in the road. Not an unfair question. When the truck had past, I saw it. It's gray, matted fur shimmered a bit in the moonlight. It's tail seemed a bit ratty, but it's legs and the rest of its body pretty much made it clear there would be no easy way out of my predicament. It's head was bigger than I would have expected, and it's snout was full of those fabled teeth I'd always been warned about. It took another step toward me, licking it's snout, apparently certain of the meal it thought it was about to have. I looked down the road, to where the truck had come from, only to see the silhouette of another one.
"Shit." I said, not kidding myself. I slowly took a step to the side, hoping maybe I could make it close enough to make a break for it. A third blocked off that way. I rolled up one of my sleeves and looked over my shoulder, half expecting to see a fourth. They didn't disappoint. "God damn it." I rolled up my other sleeve as they tightened their circle. There were no clouds in the sky for the moon to hide behind and I could hear her teeth chattering as the wolves got closer. Closer. And still, closer. I closed my eyes and took in what I thought would be my last breath, when I heard the scratching claws on pavement behind me. I opened my eyes and jumped up in the air, swinging my leg around, spinning my foot right into the furry bastard's head. It didn't have time to yelp, but instead I heard its neck crack as it fell limp to the ground. The two in the road rushed at me at the same time. I rolled over on my back and they crashed into each other, but didn't seem too hurt, when they got back up. Now, the three of them stood in a line, still licking their snouts, probably glad they'd have less me to share amongst themselves. There were still no cars to help me. Again, the two on the sides came at me at the same time. I charged the one on the left, punching it square in it's big wet nose, before spinning around and nailing the second in the face with my elbow. What I didn't count on was the third one, which I couldn't see anymore to run around to my back. As my elbow made contact with the second wolf's face, a huge paw slashed me across the cheek. I took a step back, my heart beating ridiculously fast and wiped the blood from my face with my hand. It coated my hand with one pass. Now, furious and determined not to die, I stopped the second slash with my forearm, which didn't go unscathed. I grabbed the wolf and trapped it on its hind legs. It snapped at me, but I turned it around, using it as a "human" shield against the other two. Then, I sent my fist straight down on what I guess you could call its elbow, and listened for the satisfying crunch, which came, perfectly. The wolf howled in pain and I let it go. It hobbled back and toppled over, struggling to get up as the other two, once again tried to double team me. They both came at me from the front, and there was no chance they'd fall for the same trick again, so, when the one on the left jumped first, I caught it in mid flight and pushed it over my head. I heard its neck crack as the one on the right knocked me over. We both hit the ground pretty hard. It was up before me and grabbed me by the arm in it's mouth. I'm not gonna lie. I screamed like a small child as its teeth dug into my bicep. I thought a good hit to the head would get it off me, but its teeth only went in deeper. It started to pull me off the road, when a bit of light started to appear around the corner to the south. My eyes watering, blood soaking my shirt, which I could hear ripping, I pulled back against the fangs in my arm; probably a bad idea, but when those lights came into view, I knew what I had to do and ignored the horn which blared at us to get out of the way. I punched the wolf in the ribs with my good arm and dragged it into the middle of the lane. The truck came and ripped the wolf out of my arm, but spun me around and I slammed my head on the side.
I woke up in a puddle of my own blood. Groggily, I pushed myself up of the ground and sat in the road. I turned to see my arm in the moonlight. It was fine. My shirt was bloody and ripped, but the wounds were gone. In fact, my arm felt amazing! I looked around and didn't see the fourth wolf anywhere. Assuming it just hobbled back into the woods, I got up and stretched. I yawned, but I noticed it sounded a little weird. Assuming it was just the concussion I probably had, I ignored it and picked up the two wolves and tossed them into the field. Into the middle...of the field. From the road. It's a pretty big field. Now, thoroughly confused, I stumbled inside and sat down at my computer to tell my story. I could really use a steak.