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.

Nick and the Big-ass Demon

I stood in the middle of the road, peering through the evening's foggy darkness as the moon watched, nervously from her perch in the sky. Across the field, to the east, the trees shook. I held my spear, an old dowel with a point whittled on one end, tightly in my hand and took a deep breath. I could hear the rush of water from the river behind the trees and the sound of heavy breathing, but not my own. The rasping breath seemed to struggle as it dragged air into its lungs. A choking growl came and the leaves trembled.
To the south, a bit of light began to grow and an engine revved. I took a few steps back, keeping my eyes on the far branches as a large truck, roared down the road. I turned my eyes away as the bright lights zoomed by. I raised my head again, and watched as truck's red lights dwindled, finally disappearing around a bend in the road. I turned my head back to the treeline.
"Come on," I said, in a hushed tone. The moon took refuge behind a cloud. My eyes readjusted to the darkness quickly. The brambles across the field gave a violent shake and a black mass shot into the sky. It reached the acme of its height and a pair of broad, leathery wings erupted from its back. It floated down to the ground, landing with earth shaking force, despite its attempt at grace. As the creature landed, the moon reemerged, revealing a pair of beady black eyes, resting in a giant head. Atop the head were two horns, one broken, the other long and curved, like a wildebeest's, and a pair of pointed ears, like those of a bat. Below the eyes, a pair of narrow slits opened and closed as the cool night air was sucked in and out of the monster's lungs. The rest of its body was much like that of a twenty foot tall man, save for the hooves, which dug deep into the grassy field.
"There we go," I said. "How are you, Caldar?" The beast said nothing and drew a giant, gnarly scimitar from a sheath on its belt. It stepped forward, shaking the ground with each stride until it stood in the middle of the road, blocking out the moonlight, casting a giant shadow on me.
"I'm tired," the beast grumbled. "What do you want?"

What? (draft I)

Diane sat on the side of the bed, looking over her shoulder at Evan. He smiled up at her. She moved her hand and he covered it with his. He took it, gently and kissed the top, near the knuckle. Her lips curled into a smile and she leaned in for a kiss. Evan sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting next to her. His dark green eyes gazed lovingly into hers and it was quiet. She leaned forward to pick up her stockings. Evan put his hand on her back and massaged it gently. Diane came up and pulled on her stockings. Evan kissed her on the cheek. She grabbed his chin and turned his head, putting her lips on his. She stood up and took his hands.
"Come on," she said. "I'm gonna take a shower..." She picked up a towel and wrapping it around herself, opened the door and slipped out into the hallway, save for her head. "That was an invitation," she said, coyly. Evan hopped off the bed and ran after her.
Diane, rounded the corner and came into the living room, where she was met by a pair of glasses, masking a pair of envious, burning eyes. They watched her as she nonchalantly crossed the soft rug to the guest bathroom. Evan made the same turn and stumbled awkwardly into range and the eyes stabbed through him. He stammered a "Hullo, er...Edward" and disappeared down the hallway. Below the eyes, a hand, resting on the arm of the chair tensed into a hard fist, but it did not move. Diane came out of the bathroom, carrying a loofah. The eyes darted back to her and watched as she came to the corner. Before disappearing down the hall, she stopped. She stood for a long time, as if she were waiting for something, then turned around to face the man glaring at her. Leering back at him, she remained as silent, and he barely made a sound, save for his heavy, stressed breaths. The early morning sun came blasting through the skylight, illuminating the gold band on his third finger. Finally, she rolled her eyes and shifted her weight.
"What!?" She demanded. He remained still. She grimaced, meeting his glare with her own and turned down the hall, toward the bathroom.

The Long Walk...

Robert hit the ground hard. His head, stuffed uncomfortably in the soaking, sweaty burlap bag, slammed into the hot earth. He heard the click of a knife blade locking into place. As his heart quickened, he felt a tug on the rope binding his hands. The cords gave way and he was released. He tore the bag from his face, ready to breathe in the hot dry air, but was met only by his trusted associate. Alexander struck the doctor and rolled over in the dust, lying face up.
"Farewell, gentlemen!" called Professor Lambert, from the driver's seat. He sped off in a cloud of dust, leaving Robert and Alex behind. Coughing, Robert clamored to his feet and watched the Professor's red Ferrari shrink and blend with the rising heat waves. He brushed the dust from his shirt and looked at his friend on the ground.
"Well, that's it, I suppose," he said. He turned back to watch the last bit of scarlet sports car fade away. Waiting for his comrade to move, he brushed a bit more dust from his shirt, adjusted his collar and ran his hand through his sweaty hair. Disgusted, he rubbed the mess off on his pants. "Alex?" He asked, cautiously, looking the man over. There was no movement. "Alex!" The man did not stir. Robert fell to his knees and rolled him onto his back. There was a large wet spot and a hole in his shirt. Robert ran his finger along the edge of the wet spot and it came away, stained red. His heart raced and the sweat on his brow took an icy chill to it. His ears buzzed as if a gun had gone off near his head. And a voice came.
"Hello, Doctor," it said, familiarly. "By now, I'm long gone and you've discovered the little present I left inside your friend." Robert clenched his fists and his blood began to froth in his veins. "There is a small jug of water about a hundred miles due East. The sun his now at Solar Noon. If you wait a few minutes and calm down, you should make it to the water by dawn. I wish you the best of luck, my old friend. Now, rest up. You've got a long walk ahead of you."
Robert fell on his back, shaking with the heat both inside and out. He let out a roar that shook the stones at his feet and slammed his fists into the ground, sending bits of caked mud flying. As he lay there on the ground, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face, the sun glaring down at him, he heard a quiet ticking.
"Oh, and one more thing," the professor's voice said. "You'd better get going," The ticking grew louder. Robert leapt to his feet and sprinted away as his partner exploded into a ball of flame and body parts, some of which struck his back. As the carnage fell, he turned around and studied the smoking, bloody crater for a moment. A bit of scalp landed next to his feet and a small mist of blood had coated his face. Robert lowered his head. "Good-bye, Alex," he said, and he turned to the east, beginning the long walk.

Just one o' those nights...

Tears welling up in his eyes, he slammed his foot down hard on the gas. The sound of the music flew out the open windows, meeting the cold air as it rushed in, lovingly ruffling his hair. He turned the heavy guitars up until the nob wouldn't move anymore and flew around the corner. He passed a sign that read "Speed Limit 45 mph" and grinned maniacally as he looked at his speedometer and saw that it read twice that. He swung around another corner, swerving into the wrong lane and narrowly missing a mailbox. He tore through a small village. Noticing the speed limit was 25 mph, he lightly tapped the brake pedal, slowing down but not enough. He turned the music down to avoid waking the sleeping town. As he zipped through the quiet streets, the song changed. "Who am I but you in the sun? A sad reflection of everyone" The song continued as he got the edge of the village. Then, as he passed a sign reading "Speed limit 35" already going twice that, he put his foot back on the floor, revving his engine in sync with the song's crescendo. "Look at me!" his stereo screamed. He tore up the hill, the wind whipping at his eyes, dragging the tears back to his ears, which burned with the cold. In no time, he came to another town, this one with a higher speed limit, still irrelevant to his actual speed. He raced up the long shallow hill toward the red light, showing no sign of slowing, or any intention of it. With the light still red, he broke through the intersection, passing the white church and the gas station like old people on a highway. In seconds he was out of the town and back on the dark road, music leaving a trail of fading sound behind him. He threw on his blinker and turned onto the Taconic, speeding up as he rounded the curve to merge. His foot back on the floor, he roared down the quiet highway. He drove for a while until he came to a point to turn around. Switched pedals, but kept his foot on the floor. The tires screamed as the car spun around. Now facing the opposite direction, he hurtled down the road until he came to a small rest stop. It was a small parking lot, a place for children to pee and parents too look at maps, cluelessly. He turned off his car and got out. He opened the trunk and took out his horrified guitar. He closed the trunk went around to the front. After a minute and a half, the lights went off and his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Behind him, the full moon shined her light brilliantly, lighting up the valley below him. He smiled a bit and wiped his eyes dry. Wrapping the guitar over his shoulder, he leaned back on the warm hood of the car, resting his back against the windshield. A car drove by and he laughed to himself.
"Just one o' those nights," he said, and he began to play.

Hmm...

He sat there, still wet from the shower, a towel around his waist, not ready to get dressed yet, thinking about how long it'd been since he'd last written anything just for the sake of writing it. Way too fuckin' long. That's how long.

Wednesday Night Write

My head's about to bust open. I can't take it anymore so I hit the space bar, pausing the movie that put this whole thing into motion. I get up and check the fridge for somethin' to wet my throat. Nothing. Just some scraps o' food and a bottle of hot sauce, hardly the right stuff for gettin' rid o' this headache. I throw on my jacket, grab my keys and I'm out the door. I get in the elevator and there's a girl already in it. She seems like kind of a bitch, so I don't mind when she gets out. As soon as she's out I put on my gloves. Tight, leather, beautiful black gloves. Perfect for an assassin, like me. But not really. The elevator doesn't stop until the lobby, 'cause it's late at night. I'm just getting the second glove on when the door opens into the white-floored room where the security guys are. I nod to them and head out into the city. I walk down the street, still thinkin' of that movie and how cool I feel since I've been watchin' it. Then it hits me. I should write this down like I'm in the damn picture! I'll sound just like Marv. It'll be great. Only I'll be me so it'll also be a bit funny...'cept when I drag it out for too long like I do with everything...Well, not everything. I giggle to myself as I walk down the street. I see Steve and the guy whose name I don't know but I see him all the time. I learn it eventually. My eyes start to water as a cold wind hits me square in the face. I wipe away the tear with my glove and admire the dark line on the finger when I take it away. It shimmers in the street light and I look at it till I'm at the corner. It's not that long. I cross the street, diagonally 'cause it's late and I can do that. Also, 'cause I've been watchin' that movie and it's something the folks in that flick would do. I walk into the deli and my ears get angry at the Christmas music comin' over the radio. I get mad, but then I remember it's after Thanksgiving. I go over to the drinks and choose my poison. A $0.99 can o' Arizona Green Tea. Too much sugar for this time o' night, but too good to pass up. I put it on the counter with a dollar. The guy behind the counter smiles at me and gives me my penny. My shiny lucky penny. Get me home safe, little guy. I put the penny in my pocket, tell the guy to have a good night and leave. On the corner I spot Nikki, a sweet girl I met during orientation. She's got a good heart and a pair of eyes to go with it. We talk about majors and room mates till we get inside. Once we're in the elevator the good-byes don't need to be said. They're assumed and once we get to my floor I say "Good night" and that's that. I walk down the hall way, takin' off my gloves and diggin' into my pocket for the keys. I stick my door and turn it to make sure it feels it. When the damage is done and my door is defeated, I push it open with my foot and walk in. I toss my gloves on the bed and sit down at my desk. The movie's still there. Right where I left it. I crack open my Green Tea and bring up Firefox. Then my favorites. I click the link that takes me to my blog and open up a new entry. I start typing. I hammer away at those keys, like Mozart, only I'm not makin' music. I'm paintin' pictures. About half way through my brush strokes I hear a familiar voice. It's Carolyn. I go out and say hi and tell her what I'm workin' on. It's a little bit silly how excited I am. She says she'd like to read it so I get her e-mail address. I send it to her when it's done. I come back in and finish it. It's done. I click "Publish Post."

96 in a 55

The red and blue lights sliced through the darkness of the misty evening like a knife through hot butter. As the polished boots and badge climbed out of the gleaming car, the driver's hands, encased in black leather, remained still and on the mahogany wheel before him. The window sang its low, droning song as it was lowered, bringing in the sound of the officer's shoes as he approached, already writing his ticket.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?" he asked, robotically. The driver gave a small chuckle and turned his head up.
"Well, assuming you don't know about the large cache of weapons in my trunk, or the toxic chemicals in my passenger seat, or even the fact that I didn't pay for my coffee at the last rest stop, I'd say it was for my speed." The officer drew his gun and took a step back.
"Out of the car!" he ordered, aiming for the driver's chest. A shot split the breeze. The man stood firm, holding his ground. The driver hadn't moved. A second shot came, then a third, finally knocking the officer off balance. The door behind the driver's seat opened and a small pair of shoes hit the pavement.
"Also, there's an armed dwarf in the back," The policeman looked up at him in terror. The sound of a blade coming out into the world to play, crept into his ears and he watched helplessly as the little man leapt upon him and drove the blade into his throat. As he lay in the street, blood on his badge, the tiny assassin withdrew the dagger and jumped back into his seat.
"Thank you, Oliver," the driver said, still not turning his head. The only reply came as a gruff grunt from directly behind him. "Well, that's one. We've still got plenty of work to do! And the night is still so youthful!" With the push of a button, an old Ennio Morricone tune exploded through the stereo. The tires screamed and the vehicle vanished up the black pavement, leaving the flashing red and blue lights to illuminate the fallen officer.

The Fury of the Empire

Blood still dripping from his wounds, the battered man once again took his throne. He looked to his guards, then at the broken bodies on his formerly polished floor. Shouts and cries from the hall just outside the heavy oaken doors echoed into his chamber, boiling his blood. He glared at the man standing to his left, breathing heavily beneath his black armor, and fantasized the man's very much timely demise. The daggerous pain in his shoulder planted his feet firmly back on the ground and he clenched his teeth as the stinging wound bit him. He reached his hand up to squelch it, but only got blood on his pale hand. Furious, the Emperor called for his highest remaining official. Surprisingly, a general strode through the door, blood smeared across his face, his sword still clenched in his hand.
"What is it, my liege?" he asked, falling to one knee, a bit unsteadily, and offering up his sword.
"I want to address my people tonight. Take what men you have left and spread the word. I want everyone who can stand present."
"It will be done, Emperor," The general rose to his feet turned. He snapped his fingers and two guards near the doors followed him out, his sword still dangling by his side. The bleeding emperor sat in his throne as the sun took its leave in the west. As the blood began to dry and become hard, the sovereign imagined what words would wind their ways through his lips and over his crowd. When the sun was all but gone, the entirety of the city had been assembled in the Imperial Garden, just below the Emperor's window. He looked out at them, and tried to stand, but a burning needle seemed to pierce his leg and he fell back down into his seat. He motioned for one of his guards to come near and whispered something into his ear. The man nodded and ran out the door, returning within the minute with the Emperor's most trusted adviser, who also held a sword in his hand, a sight very uncommon for a man of such poise. The man passed through the doors a bit hindered by an injury that ran red from his thigh to his ankle. He went before the Emperor and took a kneel.
"What is it, my lord?" the man asked to the floor. The emperor beckoned for the man to come closer and whispered something into his ear.
"Yes, of course, my lord. As you wish!" The man snapped his fingers and the two guards came to attention. "Carry him outside," the adviser ordered. The men looked puzzled, as they looked from the man to the throne, a solid granite chair that had not been moved since its construction, several millenniums ago. "Pick him up and lean him against the railing," the adviser demanded, impatiently. The guards moved quickly, but carefully took the emperor, one on each side, and helped him outside. Upon seeing him, the crowd burst out in a rather loud celebration, some praising his strength, while others sang at his injuries. The guards propped the Emperor up and left him leaning on the railing. The adviser followed closely, sheathing the sword, and making himself a bit more presentable. He wiped the blood from his face and straightened his dirty clothes a bit. The cheering died down and the Emperor beckoned to his servant. The adviser leaned over and put his ear near the injured ruler's mouth. The emperor whispered his decree into the man's ear.
"His Majesty would like to thank all of you for coming out on such short notice. He is well aware of the busy schedule you all seem to have." The man glared out over the crowd, which showed no reaction. The emperor tapped him on the hand and he leaned closer. Another whisper entered the man's ear and he turned to the crowd.
"The Emperor wishes to thank you for your honesty. It takes a great deal of courage and a huge sense of community to accomplish what you have accomplished. His majesty congratulates you on what you accomplished. He is proud to be the ruler of such a unified people. He applauds you in his heart and welcomes you to do so now." The audience burst out into an uproarious cheer. A few fireworks went off, illuminating the darkening plaza as the sun nestled low beneath the mountains. The adviser watched them with slightly disdainful eyes and looked to his master who wore a grim smirk on his face. When the people recomposed themselves, the Emperor leaned over and whispered into his adviser's ear again.
"His majesty would like you all to know that because of your cry for change, he will be making several changes in the way his subjects are treated. His ways have been wicked and he wants to make up for his actions in recent days and asks for forgiveness for his wrongdoings of the past." The adviser snapped his fingers and a great rolling of drums began and armored footsteps created a symphony as hundreds of soldiers emerged from doors. Among them were spearmen, who lined the ground level, cornering the citizens, archers, who took their posts on the balcony, and sprinkled throughout the courtyard, a few swordsmen drew their blades. The outcry came in short bursts until the entire plaza was filled with shocked and infuriated citizens, among them, the Emperor's guards, wielding the smooth curved blades entrusted to them. The adviser raised his hand to quiet the fretting crowd and addressed them once again, with the Emperor's words.
"His imperial highness apologizes for his rash actions, but were he able to address you today, his mood would be much better!"
"This only proves that we were right!" Cried an anonymous voice from below. The adviser pointed to the general direction, from whence the voice was heard and three swordsmen moved in. With a flash of their swords, they left a bloody mess of subjects behind as others recoiled in fear. As the men shook the blood from their swords, the Emperor's adviser spoke again.
"To ensure no misunderstandings in the future, His majesty is holding each and every one of you responsible for the crimes that took place here today." He raised his arm and the archers loaded their bows. The creaking of their wooden arcs came as a haunting song for the men and women and children standing below them. A few people who attempted to escape were either cut down by the swordsmen or skewered by a long spear. The fearful eyes of the people turned back to the balcony. The adviser stood, his hand poised to strike. The Emperor gave him one last message to relay.
"It's time all of you learned what it means to rise up against a God." He snapped his finger. The sound echoed off the walls. The archers' song came again, but their strings were accompanied by bloody vocals.

Brain Spewings Teaser

Once upon a time in Schmexico, Pepe the goat was happily walking down the rocky, dirt road. The night was warm and his furry body bobbed up and down as he strode carefreely down the dusty lane. The moon was singing a beautiful song above him and the stars joined in, like the always attractive back up singers at ever concert ever. Pepe hummed along as he neared his home. Behind him, the bushes twitched and shivered as an unknown presence lurked in the shadowy shadows.
Across the river, on the far side of a very tall fence, two men, one with blazing red hair, the other with darker hair and a more pointed face, rolled a barrel full of gunpowder down a grassy hill. It crashed into the fence with a jingle-jangle and came to a stop.
“Hey, Chiff, why we doin’ this again?” asked the dark haired boy.
“Because, Miss! If we blow a hole in the fence, there won’t be a border no more, and we can be the ones who united Schmexico with the United Greats of Spamerica.” He reached into his pocket, looking for his box of matches, but only found the bottom of his pocket and an old wheat penny.
“Miss, did you take my matches again?” he asked, flusteredly. Miss looked at him.
“Well, yeah!” he answered, also flusteredly.
“Why would you take my matches?!” Chiff demanded. Miss looked at him as if he were stupid.
“Well, you said to get rid of the matches before we went into that patch o cactuses.” Chiff rolled his eyes and put his hands on his head.
“I said ‘Don’t get any scratches!’” Miss turned his head to the side.
“Well that’s just stupid! You can’t go into a patch of razor plants and not expect a few scratches!”
Further to the North, in a Diner filled to the brim with fluorescent lights, but with only half of them working, a woman with fiery red hair and a knife on her belt, sat with a root beer float and a vengeance.
“Evenin’ Sheriff,” said a waitress as she poured coffee all over the table.
“Evenin’” replied Sheriff, gazing out the window.
“You expectin’ trouble tonight?” asked the waitress, sitting in the hot puddle on the seat.
“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” answered Sheriff. She glared through the glare on the glass of the flickering window and watched the south, for any movement.
Pepe turned the key and opened the door to his house. He turned on the light and stood in shock as he saw his wife and three sons bound on the floor, surrounded by a slobbery gang of chupacabras. Their flat, squarish heads, filled with teeth, looked up from their dastardly deeds and they shot fire out of their eyes in a small poof of excitement. Pepe froze, his little goat beard becoming stiff and rigid. The horns on his head straightened and the hair on his back shot straight up. He screamed in terror and something hit him from the back.
Chiff rummaged around in his pockets hoping to find any scrap of fire making equipment, but only found disappointment and frustration in his otherwise empty pockets. He thrust his hand deep into his pocket, but again pulled out only air.
“How are we supposed to be saviors and unifiers if we can’t even blow this stupid thing up?!” He demanded. Miss stood, watching him.
“Well, ya know,” he said, slowly. “We could just use my lighter.” Chiff turned red. Steam started to spout from his ears like a geyser. His teeth clenched together and every muscle in his body tensed. From the deep anger growing in his stomach, he launched his furious interrogation on his brother with the intensity of a thousand camping trips.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU HAD A LIGHTER!?” he roared, shaking the needles out of the cacti.
“Cuz you wanted matches,” Miss responded, shrugging his shoulders. Chiff’s hair burst into flame, and lit the area around them. He paused and felt the top of his head, to ensure that it was indeed ablaze. Then, with a manic look in his eye, he grabbed the powder keg and smashed his head into the side of it.
The lights flickered and the dishes all clashed together for a moment in the shockwave of the explosion. Sheriff’s eyes got huge as she watched the column of fire explode across the sandy plane of cacti and scorpions. She grabbed her root beer float and slammed the whole thing down her throat, then wiping the foamy ice cream and soda mustache from her upper lip, she leapt out of her booth and ran to the door, which she wrenched open and sprang down the steps. Her large boots sent dust clouds out from under them as she crashed to the ground, shaking it almost as much as the explosion, but only for effect. She then leapt into the air and somersaulted into her jeep. She landed in the driver’s seat and started the engine, which came to life, not with a roar, but with an odd kind of belch. She grinned and flared up one eyebrow. She put the car in gear and slammed her foot on the gas pedal, disappearing among the tumbleweed.
Pepe sat tied up on the floor, beside his wife and three kids. The largest of the chupacabras stood, hunched over in the little home.
“So, Pepe,” he began, with his slippery tongue. “It seems to me, that you and your family have been talking about us behind our backs.” He slinked over to Pepe’s wife, Pilar, and stuck his forked tongue in her ear. She shuddered and jerked her head away from the beast. It laughed and looked over at Pepe.
“Listen,” he said, slitherly. “We just want you to talk to your doctor friend.” Its slippery tongue jutted in and out of its mouth as it spoke, getting little driblets of spit everywhere. Pepe cringed as one of them landed in his eye. “It’s time to make the good doctor Guevarra pay for a little insult he paid to my brothers and I.” The other two chupacabras gnashed their teeth.
“Wait, I don’t get it!” Cinderella interrupted. “I thought you said I was in this book!” She cried, putting her pillow down beside her.
“Oh, shut up, Cindy!” cried Belle, throwing her pillow at the blonde princess. “You think just because you’re a princess, everyone loves you!”
“Well, it’s not my fault I’m famous!” Cinderella shouted. She threw her pillow back in retaliation, only to be struck on the back by a blow from Snow White. Rajah started with a low growl, but when she was struck with a pillow, she exploded with a roar and jumped to her feet. Jasmine threw her arms around the fuzzy beast’s neck and tried to soothe her, but to little avail.
“Boy, the thtuff they put on TV thethe daythe. Yeesh!” Daffy changed the channel from his armchair and flipped through various commercials and advertisements. He paused on Gossip Girls, but then continued on through the nothingness of primetime television. “There’s nothing on!” he said, tossing the remote into the fishbowl behind him. He got up and headed for the bathroom, but when he put his hand on the knob, the white door exploded in a fiery explosion of fiery and explodiness. And fire. It blew way up! In the singed door frame, red hair blazing, glasses shimmering, clad in those poofy white pants we all love to death, Benjamin Carl Schwartz stood valiantly, a dramatic breeze blowing from behind him.
“What ithe thith, thome kind o’ reality show?” asked Daffy, from behind the flaming chair.
“Not even close!” Shouted Ben. “This is Brain Spewings!” The front door burst open and Chuck Norris filled the gaping hole where the now splintered door had rested. He opened his mouth to say something, but was beaten down by a large black shoe and Antonio Bandares stepped in, holding a guitar in his hand.
“Sorry, Chuck,” he said, moving his hair out of the way. “But it’s my turn, now” He turned to face the camera and held his guitar tightly in his hands. “Get ready for the storm” he said. And he played an E minor chord.

Brennan Lee Mulligan and the Printer Cartridge of the Gods

Once upon a time in Mexico, Brennan Lee Mulligan was sitting at his computer in a dark, little bungalow. The only light came from his screen, where he furiously, and blurry-eyedily typed. He wiped the sleep out of his left eye, and drove his fingers into the keyboard until he had finished. He gave his writing a quick scan, checking for mistakes and nonsense, getting rid of some of the nonsense, but leaving most, and saved the document. Then, with a deep sigh of triumph and a stretch of victory, he pressed Apple + P to print.
He closed his eyes and smiled to himself as his printer sprang to life, ready to vomit out a piece of ink splattered paper. Its wheels began to turn, but the little machine choked. Brennan’s heart stopped. He waited for a second, not blinking, waiting for the hiccup to pass. He turned to the printer to see that the little green light had turned red. The printer icon at the bottom of his screen bounced up and down and he became very concerned. He clicked it and discovered that to his dismay, his trusty little printer had run out of ink. Brennan’s fists turned into tight little rocks of destruction and he slammed them down on his desk. The ground quaked and his chair squeaked. He raised the angry fists in the air and shouted to the Gods.
“NOOOOOO!” he cried. There was a flash of lightning and a little boy, holding a guitar sprang up through the wooden floorboards. He played an Em chord and shot back into the ground, leaving behind a hole in the floor. A cloud surged through the front door and into Brennan’s study, through the double bolted door and a booming laughter began to circulate the room. Paper from his previous documents shot around, whizzing past his ears. The cloud took the shape of a large man, standing ten feet tall, hunched over a bit though, because the ceilings were not that high. A bushy gray beard formed, along with a pair of bushy gray eyebrows. A large, surprisingly muscular body took form next, followed by piercingly, icy, blue eyes, and a white toga. The man was clad in a pair of classically Greek sandals.
The God, Zeus, Master of Olympus, stood before Brennan, who sat in his chair, with an eyebrow raised, his hand reaching for a plastic bat, covered in aluminum foil.
“Wait!” Zeus cried, sounding alarmed. “I don’t want any trouble. I just came to help.” Brennan took up the bat and stood up. Zeus held up his hands, pleadingly, as a buffer. His eyes were much more fearful than in the illustrations of him in the old myths.
“You mean like the last time you tried to help me?” He asked, holding it up, ready for a swing. He glared into Zeus’ eyes.
“But I got Demeter to help you grow it back!” Zeus said, flinching a little. Brennan ripped off his shoe, revealing a wooden foot, complete with little branches for toes. The largest toe had a small leave sprouting from it, which wiggled a bit. He replaced the shoe and stomped his foot down. He stabbed the bat at Zeus and ordered that he leave.
“Wait!” Zeus said. “I can really help you, this time!” He raised one of his knees and covered his face, shielding himself from the bat. He squealed like a little girl until Brennan rolled his eyes and lowered the bat.
“You’ve got ten seconds before I send you shooting through the universal stratosphere.” He said, gripping the bat tightly. Zeus lowered his knee and uncovered his face. With a small sniffle, Zeus began his tale.
“Well, I noticed you ran out of ink for your printer-“
“It’s toner…” Brennan interrupted.
“Right, toner. So, I wanted to help you get some more.”
“It’s just a quick drive to Wall-Mart,” Brennan replied fiercely.
“Not if you take this,” said Zeus holding out a picture of what looked like an ordinary printer cartridge. Brennan peered at it, rolled his eyes, and raised the bat.
“Wait!” Zeus wailed, like a baby. “This is no ordinary ink cartridge! It’s my personal ink cartridge! It will never run out and it prints in more colors than you can ever imagine!” He got down on his knees. “Just put away the bat, and I’ll tell you how to get it.” Brennan didn’t move.
“If it’s your printer cartridge, just hand it over?.”
Zeus’ head dropped. “It’s been stolen from me,” he said, mournfully. Brennan rolled his eyes.
“Zeus, you really need to keep track of your stuff, man. This is ridiculous!” A tear welled up in the Olympian’s eye. “Oh, don’t start crying again!”
“I’m sorry!” Zeus sobbed. He waved his hand a cloud appeared in his hand and took the form of a handkerchief, into which he blew his nose like a foghorn.
“Well, stop your crying and let’s get that cartridge back!” Brennan started toward the door. “Come on!” Zeus ducked his head and followed him out into the empty driveway. Brennan turned, the foil wrapped bat still clenched in his hand. ‘Well…do your thing.” He said, impatiently. Zeus held out his hand and a lightning bolt formed in its palm. He wrapped his fingers around the bolt and hurled it into the ground, creating a wall of white light, which Brennan felt as if he’d run into at full speed.
They now stood in the mostly empty, midnight parking lot of a Wal Mart Supercenter. The fluorescent lights flickered tantalizingly in the dusty air. Sketchy characters and unfavorably dressed hooligans walked in the doors as more of the same walked out with some sort of appliance or gizmo. They walked through the doors, Zeus receiving the same look as everyone else. After a long trek through the absurdly large toy section, they came to a door in the corner of the store. The flickering lights and bad smell told Brennan that the Chupacabra had chosen this musty place as his lair. The large neon sign with an arrow pointing at the door also helped a bit. A satyr, with a pair of sharpened horns opened the door and crossed his arms. They didn’t stop.
“You’re here for the ink cartridge, I assume,” he said in a venomous voice. Brennan clenched his fist around the silver bat and quickened his pace until he broke into a full charge. The satyr lowered his head and charged, roaring. A little boy stood watching, his eyes aglow with excitement. Zeus saw the boy and acted accordingly.
“Look! It’s a giant piece of broccoli!” He shouted. The light in the boys eyes was snuffed out. He shrieked in horror and ran down the aisle, knocking over a display of Transformers. Brennan and the satyr came within two paces of one another. The bat cut through the air in a flash of white light and there was an explosion that knocked over the nearby shelves. The satyr shot through the ceiling, pursued by a trail of silver stars. As dust and sheetrock fell from the ceiling, an evil cackle emanated from dark room behind the sketchy doorway. Brennan charged through the door, his chrome club flailing. At least a dozen foul creatures shot of out of the room, each chased by a tail of shimmering light. There was a snarl and a roar. Then, in a cloud of smoke, silver stars trailing behind, the roaring beast was jettisoned through the ceiling and into another dimension. Brennan stumbled out of the room with the bat in one hand, still gleaming in the flickering light, and in the other, the glowing ink cartridge. Zeus jumped up and down, clapping, like a cheerleader, upon seeing the ink cartridge. When Brennan walked toward him, he hurled another thunderbolt at the ground and the pair was back in Brennan’s driveway. Brennan walked through the door, sat down at his desk and put the cartridge into his printer. Immediately, paper started spewing from the tray like a fountain. It was awesome.

Ben Schwartz and the Pantaloons of Destiny

Once upon a time in Mexico, Ben Schwartz was walking down the road when he came upon an old man. He was a wretched old man, with a scraggly beard and a lot of missing teeth, along with tattered clothing and a gnarled walking stick. He looked like something taken out of a fairy tale……Anyway! Ben stopped for a second and spoke with the elderly man who was singing to himself a song that had no lyrics.
“Hello there, oh old guy!” Ben said, with his hands on his hips as he often did.
“Why, hello there, young man” replied the man. “Fine day for a hum, isn’t it?”
“I guess, so,” Ben answered. “But why are you out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“The same reason as you,” the man responded. “Just out for a walk.”
‘But you’re not walking,’ said Ben, slowly losing his grasp on the man’s sanity. “Did something happen to you?”
“Why, yes!” said the man jollily. “I stopped!”
“I can see that!”
“See what?” asked the old man looking around, curiously.
“…that…you’ve stopped…” Ben replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes, of course!” cried the old man. “Sorry, my eyes aren’t quite what they used to be.” Ben nodded, awkwardly trying to think of a way to continue the conversation, or better yet, a way to get out of it!
“I understand” he said. “So, where were you going?” Ben asked, looking back up the road. Like all the local roads, it was straight and vanished under a mountain chain in the west as the sun was slowly going down.
“I was on a quest!” said the old man, excitedly. Ben’s ears perked up.
“A quest you say?” he said.
“That’s what I said!” the man said.
“What kind of quest?” asked Ben, his interest growing with every second.
“A quest for pants!” cried the old man. He hitched up his long, torn, shirt to reveal a pair of scarlet boxer shorts covered with little white hearts. He bent over and took up a sword from beneath the dusty ground. Ben’s hand twitched. In less than a second, it flew to his belt and drew a long curved blade from its scabbard. The man began to laugh and his half cloudy eyes cleared, making way for what looked like tiny fires burning in his pupils. His sword reminisced that of a medieval crusader.
“That’s a fine pair o’ trousers ya got there, sonny” he said. “Hand ‘em over.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” replied Ben, glaring over his glasses at the man. A dozen small boys shot up from the desert’s underbelly. They collectively played an Em chord and shot beneath the ground. Where each boy had appeared and disappeared, a fountain of fire sprang high into the sky. Drums filled the air and the sun quickly jumped from his current position in the sky to a safe hiding place behind the mountains in the West. Ben and the man walked around one another in the circle of fire. The drums thundered along as the stars watched suspensefully. Ben looked into the old man’s eyes and they flared with large flames. The drums stopped and a loud gong sounded, followed by a phantom Em chord. The old man bent his knees and flung himself at Ben, raising his sword high above his head. Ben lunged forward, raising his sword as well. The blades clashed and sparks exploded from them. Ben held his blade firm as the man pushed down on him. Ben bent his own knees and pushed himself out of the way, knocking the man off balance. He toppled to the ground and his sword cut into the sand. Ben leapt away to the other side of their flaming ring of combat. He turned his head to the ground, then whipped it back to look at the man. An Em chord sounded. The man spat a rock out and whipped his head to look at Ben. Another Em chord sounded. They both raised their blades and sprang at one another. Their blades clashed and an alarmingly loud Em chord sounded, shaking the ground for miles.
A little truck drove by, and the driver beeped his horn, which sounded like “La Cucaracha.” Inside the circle, Ben’s sword and the man’s sword whipped around, reflecting the light from the circle of fire in every direction. Ben blocked and struck only to have the man block and strike in return. The battle raged on for hours. The hours turned into days. The days turned into weeks until finally, their huge circle of fire had burned out. They sat in the center of the blackened circle, breathing heavily. A large oil tanker drove up and the driver leapt out. He dragged his large hose over to a cactus and cut off the top with a large bowie knife. He then thrust the hose deep into the cactus and began pouring fuel into the plant. After a few minutes, he stopped, and replaced the hose on his truck. He climbed in and turned on the engine.
“You’re all set, fellas!” he shouted, and he drove off.
“Thanks a lot!” the old man called back, with a smile. There was a flash of lightning and the flames were reignited. The battle continued. The tides changed constantly. Ben received a cut on his face, only to repay the man with a slash on his bony leg. The man’s beard had been completely shaven, thanks to a number of close calls. The tide finally turned when the old man made a mistake. While engaging in a bout of trash talk, the elder, assuming his age would leave him invulnerable to scrutiny made a very inappropriate comment about Ben’s mom. Ben unleashed such fury on the old man as he had never seen before. The old man raised his sword to block the blow, but it shattered into a million silver pieces, and fell into the dust. The center of their battlefield gave way and the sand fell into what appeared to be an endless pit. Ben and the old man backed away, Ben with his sword to the man’s throat.
“Listen,” said the old man, trying to bargain. “Let’s see if we can work something out. You can have the pants during the week and I’ll take them on the weekends and every other holiday. Except Christmas you can have-“
“SILENCE!” Ben roared. The man faltered, but kept his balance. “You cannot and will not ever have these pants,” Ben said, furiously. “You need to get yourself a job, go to a GAP or something and buy your own pants.”
“Buy my own pants?” The man looked insulted. “That’s madness!” Ben’s eyebrow shot halfway up his forehead.
“Madness?” He looked the man right in the eye. “I’m not going to make that joke.” He said. He sheathed the sword and walked away. The man stood there, on the edge of the hole, waiting for what was supposed to come. When it didn’t he panicked.
“Wait! You can’t just leave me here! That’s not how it’s supposed to be!” With no other option, the man turned and leapt into the whole, screaming all the way down. It was awesome.

The Tale of Jack and the Chupacabra

Once upon a time in Mexico, Jack Covell was taking a walk through his goat farm, when he tripped and fell. When he looked up, he saw his favorite little goat, Paco, in a heap, with two holes in his neck, both with little driblets of blood leaking out onto the ground.
“Paco!” cried Jack. He fell to his knees. “What happened?”
“It was…the Chupacabra,” Paco said, weakly. The ground shook for a moment and a little boy with a guitar shot out of a gopher hole. He smiled and played an Em chord before shooting back down into the dirt.
“What should I do?” asked Jack.
“Tocame una canción,” replied the little goat.
“What?” asked Jack. He furrowed his brow. “You know I don’t speak Spanish,”
“Play me a song!” shouted the goat, impatiently.
“Oh!” cried Jack. “Of course!” He ran off to get his guitar from the house.
“Wait!” Jack stopped and turned around to see what the goat needed.
“It can’t just be any song! You have to play it on the magical guitar of Carlos Santana” Jack’s eyebrows shot up in his surprise, almost leaving his face.
“Oh dear!” cried Jack. He looked up the dusty road. A jeep was coming, very quickly, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it. “Then I must go to the house of Carlos Santana and get his magical guitar.” The jeep stopped just beside the couple and Antonio Banderas leapt out of the passenger seat. Selma Hayek blew Jack a kiss from the driver’s seat and peeled out, kicking rocks and dust out from under the tires.
“It seems you are in a bit of trouble,” said El Mariachi, whipping out his guitar. He played an Em chord and threw the guitar back in its case.
“Can you help me?’ asked Jack.
“Of course I can help you! And I plan to!” Antonio replied. “Follow me!” He started down the road. Jack and Antonio walked down the road for quite some time. As they walked, the sun grew tired and slowly fell from the sky. The stars came out and twinkled a bit. The full moon crept up over the hilltops.
“Have you seen my sun?” she asked.
“He went that way,” said Antonio. The moon rolled her eyes and began her trek across the night sky. Not too far off down the road, a pair of eyes glinted in the soft white light. A Chupacabra leapt out from behind a cactus, blood dripping from its fangs, its eyes burning with tiny fires.
“Who dares pass my road?” it hissed. A nearby cactus turned brown and shriveled.
“My name’s Jack!” cried Jack. Antonio rolled his eyes and smacked the author on the back of the head!
“Don’t be redundant!” he shouted, rolling his eyes and smacking the author on the back of the head.
“Stop that!” hissed the Chupacabra. “You cannot pass!” It licked its bloody teeth and crouched low, ready to pounce when a pair of headlights came on in the distance, accompanied by the dull, but growing roar of an engine. A red Ferrari came to a sliding stop, kicking up another dust cloud. From the front seat, his guitar already strapped around his neck, the amplifier hooked up to the speakers in his car, leapt the mighty Carlos Santana. He raised his hand high in the air and threw it down hard on the strings, which sent beautiful music rocketing out of the car’s large speakers. The Chupacabra hissed at the music and backed away into the shadow, glaring at everyone with its blood colored eyes.
“Hey, man.” Said Carlos. “That’s not cool!” Drums filled the air, and Carlos played more and more and the Chupacabra could not stand it. The beast roared and scampered off into the darkness. Carlos did not see it go and continued to play, stuck in one of his long solos. Jack slowly walked over to him and put his hand on Carlos’ shoulder. The man looked up in surprise.
“Oh, is he gone?” he asked, looking around for the first time in a long time.
“Yeah,” said Jack.
“Oh, good!” said Carlos happily. “Do you guys need anything? Drinks? A bite to eat? A dying goat in need?” Jack’s ears perked up and he immediately remembered Paco, loosing blood in the field, a few miles back down the road.
“Actually we do have a dying goat!” Jack replied.
“Oh, that’s sad,” said Carlos. “Well, hop in and I’ll give you a lift!” Jack and Antonio jumped into the red Ferrari and it sped off. They came to a screeching halt and Jack jumped out, followed by Antonio’s guitar, then Antonio. Carlos jumped over his car, sliding on the hood and hooked up his guitar. Jack got down on his knees.
“We made it Paco!” he said happily.
“Well, that’s good,” said the goat weakly. “I didn’t…”
“What do you mean?” asked Jack, panicking.
“I’m dead,” said the goat, going limp, its tongue hanging out of his mouth.
“NOOOOOO!” Jack pounded his fist on the dusty ground. Carlos was hooking his guitar up to his car again. He started to play the same song Jack heard in his heart. Paco opened one eye. He lifted his head up off the ground for a moment, then climbed to his feet. Jack’s eyes were shut tight, wringing tears out like a washcloth. He flung his arms around the goat and pulled him close. “OH, PACO! WHY’D YOU HAVE TO BE DEAD?”
“Felt like…the right…thing…to do…at the time” said Paco, gasping for air. Jack’s sobs ceased. He opened one eye…then pulled his head away from the goat’s body. The goat looked at him, with a small smirk on his face.
“You’re alive!”
“I’m alive!”
“Let’s dance!” Santana started to play. The drums came back from their unknown source. Antonio and Carlos sang, while Jack and his goat danced under the moon. It was awesome.
The End.

The Barq's Bandit

“They say he’s a ghost. A myth. A legend. I know better though. I was there when it happened. I’d say that guy got what he deserved…but he didn’t really deserve that. The kid came in and sat at a table in the back. It was really shadowy, like you’d expect from his type. It was almost like a movie the way he moved. Even the jukebox seemed to know he was here. It started playin’ a song I ain’t never heard before. Didn’t even know I had that song. He sat in the back table and ordered a drink. Root beer, it was. Barqs’. Ya know how the commercials say “It’s got bite”? Well, he bit that drink right back. That’s when it all started. He let out a burp that made the lamp shake. The jukebox skipped. One of the waitresses fainted, and dropped a plate full of Southwestern Frijole, Bean, Cheese and Queso Burriots right in Spartacus Webster’s lap. Now he got up and he was real mad. He was redder than the salsa runnin’ down his face. He stood up and he walked over to that boy and he said. “Hey, boy” everything went quiet. “Ya dropped somethin’” he said. “Actually, that was your order” the boy said. Then, it all started. The boy took out a guitar. And he started to play. We couldn’t tell what it was at first, but after a little while it got real clear. Super Mario Brothers. Spartacus stood there, his veins poppin’ out of his head, one hand in his pocket, around a knife, the other in his nose, tryin’ to get a bug that flew up in it. Once he got that bug, he flung it, snot ‘n everything right at that boys high e string. The string snapped with an evil “twang!” and that boy stood up. He put the guitar down on that table, like his girl after she’d been shot. Well we was on that old Spartacus faster than Japanese tourists on a good pi’ture. He flung him into a chair and yanked the laces right out of his boots. Tied him up so quick his eyes started whirly giggin’ around! In the total opposite direction, they spun and spun and spun…and that’s when it got nasty. Ole Spartacus said “You get me outta this chair, ‘fore I tell ye a joke!” But the kid didn’t let him out. He just walked over to his table and opened up his guitar case. We couldn’t tell right away what it was he took out, but we knew it couldn’t a’ been good. “Why’d the chicken cross the road?” Spartacus was just settin’ himself up fer a hurtin’. That kid turned around and I’ll be damned if he didn’t have the biggest, softest looking feather I ever seen! He kicked Spartacus, chair ‘n all up ‘gainst a wall, so there wasn’t no room for him to move. Then he sat right down in his lap, one leg on each side and he took that feather and tickled that poor man till he wet himself. Then he stood up, packed his things, paid for his drink and left. The jukebox seemed to know he was goin’ too, ‘cause it started playin’ another song I ain’t never heard come out of it before. And that was the last time I saw him.”