Tag Archives: humor

The Easter Jackalope

As a rookie paranormal researcher, I knew better than to hog the campfire. Even if my orthodontist practice paid for all of our gear. My place was to suck my hydration tube and listen.

Jameson raised a flashlight to his chin. “I was driving down Highway 11 when I saw a rack of antlers in the middle of the road.”

Jameson cleared roadkill for a living. He’d noticed a spike in calls around the Kettle Moraine State Forest, right where we’d pitched our tents.

“The buck was so big, I had to use a winch to get him in the truck. Then had to shift his antlers so they couldn’t hurt the other drivers. Satisfied, I hopped back in, turned the ignition, and prepared to turn. That’s when my cab shook. I heard a sharp screeching, like nails on a chalkboard, followed by a gong, and a hard wet splash. I reached for my shotgun, stepped out of my pickup, and gave it a wide berth. The antlers were missing. Something took the deer. Something powerful enough rip my tailgate right off. I cast my spotlight on the road and found a trail of blood leading toward the woods.”

Jameson’s shoulders rose as he took a big theatrical breath. “That’s when I saw it. First the glowing green eyes, then the muzzle dripping with viscera, and the claws as long sickles.”

Jameson tilted his head back as if he could see it now. “He stood as tall as a grizzly, with the hind legs of a wolf. He raised his snout in my direction. One apex predator sensing another. Long ropes of slobber streaked through his teeth. He stood on one leg, kicked the other out into the road, and urinated all over the carcass. I damn near pissed myself, thinking, ‘That’s one way to tag a kill.’”

Jameson made a cocking motion. “I fired a single round. The trees shook, the nighthawks fluttered, and the squirrels scattered, but the creature didn’t flinch. I aimed both barrels in his direction. He locked his jaws and dragged the deer into the dark. I backed all the way up into the driver’s seat, locked my doors, and peeled the hell out of there.”

Jameson jerked an imaginary wheel and leaned back on his log.

“I got home, booted up my laptop, and opened a dozen tabs. It turns out 100s of people have seen this thing, from the 1930s until now. They call it the Beast of Bray Road.”

“You didn’t see the Beast of Bray Road.” Ryan said with a mocking sing-song tone.

Jameson narrowed his gaze at the young web developer, who had no clue of the trouble he’d stepped in. “I saw what I saw.”

Ryan’s smile widened. “No, you saw the Beast of Highway 11.”

We all had a good laugh. I wanted to ask if the creature left foot prints, if he took photos of the blood trail, or the claw marks on his truck, but I knew better than to question Jameson’s recollection, especially since I’d yet to have an encounter of my own.

We spent the weekend combing through the woods, but we didn’t find anything. No wolves. No bears. No wolves the size of bears. Just deer, the last thing any of us were hunting.

We trekked back to the lot, collecting our cameras as we went. I’d sprung for thermal imaging sensors and was eager to see what they picked up. Ryan asked where we should screen the footage. I mentioned that my home theater had a wet bar and hosting duties fell to me. I never imagined that that decision would bring the paranormal to my front door.

Image by Drew Chial

Eager to impress, I strung a CRYPTID COALITION banner across my garage door. With my freak flag high, I turned the rest of my home into a monster museum. Drivers were welcomed by a 12-foot skeleton dressed like the Flatwoods Monster, with a spade-shaped hood, bright red eyes, and long flowing skirt. After they parked, they might just spot the gray alien lawn ornaments. Almond eyes peeked out from the tree, through Lauren’s lilacs, and the railing for the deck.

Once inside, guests were encouraged to follow the Bigfoot prints. The tracks wound through cases of roadside collectables: Fresno Nightcrawler travel tumblers. Goat Man coffee blends. Enfield Horror bottle openers. Dover Demon Drink Koozies. Lizard Man License plates. Skunk Ape Scorch Sauce.

If our passions weren’t clear, the family photos made them obvious. Here we were touring the cemeteries in Salam Massachusetts. Here we were outside the UFO museum in Roswell New Mexico. Here we were honeymooning at the Stanley Hotel.

Above the frames, hung a sculpture of the Loch Ness monster. Its nylon neck directed guests into the home theater. This was no mere TV stand. This was an actual theater, with a projection screen, cinema seating, and Dolby surround sound. My guests settled in while the theme from Unsolved Mysteries set the tone. I couldn’t help but smile, watching them marvel at the backlit stencils of shadow people, at the ceiling cove of UFOs, at Lauren’s crocheted cryptids.

The guests hung their jackets and I lost count of I WANT TO BELIEVE patches. These were long-haired Gen Xers, rocking ironic flat earth t-shirts. These were bearded millennials, mustaches waxed into curls. These were bike mechanics, tattoo artists, and web developers, brought together by a singular passion.

They were drawn to the SKINWALKER BREWERS sign behind the bar. They took turns complimenting me on my red smoking jackets, just like the one worn by like Lloyd the bartender in The Shining. I set out the cocktail menu. The drinks all had names like: The Wendigo Whiskey Sour, Yeti’s Frosty Martini, and Nessie’s Nightcap.

Stumper watched from the top shelf. Stumper was a stuffed rabbit with antlers. An original Herrick’s brothers’ Jackalope. A classic piece of chimera taxidermy. Stumper tracked my wife, Lauren, as she worked the room.

Lauren offered newcomers Moth Man antennae, directed them to the Sasquatch selfie station, and regaled them with her terrible jokes.

“Why did the El Chupacabra refuse to feed on Greyson? Because even Chupacabra doesn’t suck that hard.”

Laughter filled the room, until someone saw a bob of red hair. Anette, the skeptic, threw her jacket over Ryan’s arm. Ryan stood a head taller than her; a fact made more apparent by the trench coat he wore. We told him it made him look like David Duchovny, so he never took it off. We never told him we thought he was only with Anette because she bore a passing resemblance to Gillian Anderson.

It seemed only fitting, The X-Files theme came on.

Lauren offered Ryan a cryptid cookie, but his bitter half would have none of it. Anette preferred to dine on a cigarette.

Panicked, Lauren flashed her palms. “I need the keys for the case with the Hoop Snake ashtray.”

I fumbled through the hooks beneath the counter. When I emerged, a strange woman had entered the room.

She wore a bright red jacket made for a jaunt in the brush, with ample pouches and long self-belt. When she hung it up, she revealed the rest of her getup. You know that khaki outfit elephant hunters used to wear? Palette swap that with scarlet. Tall riding boots. Flared hip breeches. Travel vest full of pockets. A shirt with a high mandarin collar. A cravat around her neck. She looked like a firefighter on safari.

All eyes were on her, but her eyes were on me and those pale blue flames lit up when they saw my countertop.

“You have a smoker?” She pointed to the stainless-steel contraption with nary a fingerprint on it.

“Sure, do ma’am.” I raised the smoke gun, like a marshal in an old western.

“The keys, the keys.” Lauren shouted.

I threw them without looking.

The woman in red tapped her long-armored ring to her lips. “Do you know how to make a dragon’s breath cocktail?”

My fingers tapped the menu. “We call it the Jersey Devil’s Inferno.”

“I’ll have one of those.” She winked.

No one told me to buy a smoker, nor did they ask if I had elderflower liqueur, but somehow, I knew I needed them tonight. Carl Jung called this synchronicity. When two unrelated events shared a profound connection. I had a feeling synchronicity followed this woman everywhere she went.

I set a glass on the counter, tilted it so, and ran the tube in. It fogged over as I shook the ice. By the time I’d stirred the ingredients, the smoke had become a storm. The woman dug through her vest. When she looked up, she found a snifter full of fire. She took it gladly and set a gold coin upon the counter.

The theme from Stranger Things boomed over the speakers.

“They’re playing my song.” The woman raised her glass.

My eyes sparkled, thinking she’d given me a Bitcoin. On closer inspection, I found a crude rendering of a king, sword and shield in hand, no key number, just a Latin circumscription. Still, I knocked on the counter to be polite.

Lauren, materialized beside me. “Who’s the lion tamer?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

Image by Drew Chial

The screenings went well. Well enough for infrared pixels stretched across a big screen. Each researcher presented their movement events and we debated if they were proof of anything.

Greyson swore he saw a snout and a pair of wolf ears. We paused, drew an outline with a laser pointer, and we all concurred. Then we tracked the subject as it dashed across the screen. It vanished before reaching the end.

Jameson walked down the aisle so he could cast a shadow. “Do you see that? It’s walking on its toes.”

“It’s call a digitigrade stance.” Anette interjected.

“Digit grade.” Jameson nodded, “Which is why its heel is here, its knee is here, and its tail is there.”

“Where’s the rest of him?” Anette stated the obvious.

“Where indeed?” Jameson drew a straight line down the center of the screen. Right where the subject disappeared.

Paranormal researchers have long suspected why some creatures prove more ellusive than others. It’s the reason why the Hopkinsville Goblins disappeared when they were shot, why they never found a freshwater plesiosaur, and why bigfoot prints never lead to its den.

Jameson snapped. “Spiritual beings have the ability to slip between realities. Trail cameras can only get us so far. We need to follow the synchronicities.”

Synchronicity led my attention back to the woman in red, sitting alone, rolling a coin across her knuckles.

“Synchronicities?” Anette crossed her arms.

“Strange coincidences.” The lights in Jameson’s eyes sparked. “I see a wolf man on the side of the road. My wife hears howling in her dreams. Two random events connected by forces we’ve yet to understand.”

Anette waved her cigarette. “Or your wife heard a coyote and her subconscious picked up on it.”

Jameson pointed to Anette like her contradiction confirmed his suspicions. “We need to document our experiences, out there and in our lives. The answers are in our collective unconscious. We figure out how they’re linked and we can catch one of these things.”

“I caught one.” The strange woman pointed her armored ring to the screen. “Not that one, but I caught a cryptid.”

Now it was Jameson’s turn to cross his arms. “And how exactly did you manage that?”

“With a magical artifact.”

That got a laugh, but the strange woman didn’t flinch.

“Who are you?” Jameson couldn’t help but ask.

The woman leaned over the edge of her seat. “One should never give their name freely,” Her brow lowered into the shadows. “It gives people power over you.”

Jameson froze. Anette turned with her eyes wide and her smile agape. Lauren, looked to me like I should do something.

Then the woman broke into a laugh. “My name is Mahthildis.” She waved her armored ring around the room. “I heard about this online. Figured it might be a good place to share my experience.”

Satisfied, Jameson yielded the floor to her.

Mahthildis smoothed her pockets, stepped into the light, and launched into a lecture. “To catch a cryptid, first you must weaken it, but you can’t do that with traps or buckshot.” She waved her hand over the subject on screen. “They’re spiritual beings. You have to target their lifeforce. To do that you need something elemental.” She drew a star with her armored ring. “Air, fire, water, earth, and spirit. The trick is to find which elements your cryptid is strong in and which they’re sensitive too.”

“Like Pokémon?” Ryan interjected.

Mahthildis tilted her ear. “Like what?”

“Pokémon. You know, Mewtwo, Charizard, Jigglypuff?”

Mahthildis’s face went flush. “Are these aquatic or terrestrial animals?”

“They’re an international phenomenon.” Ryan held the weight of the franchise in his hands. “Video games, deck builders, an animated series. Detective Pikachu? Sword and Shield? Pokémon Go?”

Mahthildis stared off into the middle distance.

“You know.” Ryan sang the theme. “Pokémon! Gotta cach ‘em all?”

Mahthildis shook her head. “Do you want to be a cryptid catcher, because I’m the best there ever was?”

Ryan tented his fingers. “Sure, please, enlighten me.”

Mahthildis drew her phone, tapped the screen, and a headline appeared behind her.

MIRACULOUS ESCAPE: SCOUTS OUTRUN INFERNO
The photo featured a raging wildfire.

I pointed to the projector. “How did you…?”

Mahthildis showed her screen. “I have the same app as you.”

Before I could ask how she managed to pair it over my secured network, she shifted my attention to the caption:

THE SCOUTS CLAIM THE FIRE WAS STARTED BY A CREATURE.

“A troop of scouts saw something near a cave in Hot Springs, South Dakota.”They said it had long ears, and longer antlers, and that it stood on its hind legs, like a polar bear. Some said it hissed, others said it growled. Some claimed it didn’t see them, while others said it gave them the side eye. The one thing they all agreed on was that it didn’t walk, it hopped, straight through the ponderosa pines, leaving a trail of embers in its wake.

The scouts stood around debating what they’d scene, while something crackled in the underbrush. They followed the sound only find an ominous glow from the tree line. The forest had caught fire. Soon the sky turned black. The scout leader scanned the canopy, noted the way the smoke was leaning, and took his troop in the opposite direction.

They ran downhill, found a trail, and followed it to the road. The inferno caught up with them, tipping trees in their direction, filling up their little lungs. A long-haul trucker found the scouts face down in the middle of the road, breathing in the pavement. Needless to say, they all earned their Survival Badge that day.

The fire claimed 500 acres of wildlife before officials could snuff it out. No one else saw the creature, but I wanted to pick through the area for clues. So, I dusted off my pith helmet and went on a hunt.

The location didn’t line up with anything in the Wind Cave system. At least, nothing charted. So, I cross referenced the road map with NASA’s Earth Data Search Portal, and discovered a cavern. A cavern that was smack dab in the middle of the closure area. I’d have to deal with fences, park rangers, and a fleet of drones.

The bolt cutters were easy to procure, but the drone jammer provded difficult. My counter surveillance specialist had gone missing, which left me to find a creative solution. I procured a drone spotter, a transmitter, and a battery. The problem? I couldn’t hold all three at once. I needed to aim the antenna, see through the eyepiece, and fire. I scrolled through thumbnail after thumbnail of hunting rifles, but they were too heavy, too narrow, too trackable.

I’d all but given up, when something occurred to me. I didn’t need a gun. I needed something shaped like a gun. That’s when I discovered the Super Scope, a Nintendo peripheral built like a bazooka. This toy, with its big orange aperture, made the ideal housing for my drone disruptor.

That night, I parked along the closure area, popped my trunk, and aimed my creation at the constellations. The shoulder mount helped with the weight and the firing button made it feel like a video game. Spot a flashing light, tap the trigger. Spot a quadcopter, tap the trigger. Spot a star that wasn’t supposed to be there, trigger. The drones didn’t stand a chance.

Now, all I had to worry about were falling trees, landslides, and ashpits.

I arrived at the cavern covered in bruises, scratches, and soot. After a moment to shake my hair out, I strapped on a harness, secured a descent line, and switched on a headlamp. Satellite images had prepared me for a vertical shaft, but they hadn’t prepared me for the 300-foot drop. The cavern opened into a pit, a circular silo of sedimentary rock. The squeak of my rappel rack was soon overtaken by the heft of my breathing.

As I neared the bottom, a strange mist whirled around my ankles. A blanket of fog covered the floor, opening only for the eggs poking through its surface.

Image by Drew Chial

“Eggs?” Ryan raised his hand. “Like the face huggers in Aliens?”

Mahthildis waved that notion away. “These were avian embryos. What was odd was how many there were.”

Image by Drew Chial

They came in all shapes and sizes. Some as small as my thumb. Some as big as my fist. Some with rust brown splotches others with bright purple speckles. Some teal. Some white. But there were no signs of a nest. No momma birds to care for them. Unlatching myself from the dive line, I tiptoed toward the wall.

Crack. Crunch. Splorch. Yolk sprayed from under my boot heel.

Something shuddered. I’d tripped its organic alarm system and we were both in for a rude awakening. I cast my beam in its direction and that’s when I saw the antlers, great racks of bone, wider than my open arms. Between them, stood a pair of ears as tall as pope hats.

The creature peeled himself from a bed of leaves. His thick meaty arms pushed off the floor and he stood on his hindlegs just like a polar bear. I panned my beam up his cotton tail, his rocky spine, and broad shoulders. The creature had the body of a giant, the horns of a deer, and the face of a jack rabbit. This was the Easter Jackalope, a fire-type cryptid, with a fondness for eggs.

The Jackalope turned his head and looked on me with an eye as red as Hell itself. Then he spun around, leapt up, and dug into the rockface. He climbed partway up the shaft before shifting sideways, circling the wall with the greatest of ease. His antlers glowed as he gained momentum and sparks trailed behind them. It didn’t take long for the horns to ignite, for the shaft to turn orange, and for the air to fill with cinders.

I’d fallen into a ring of fire.

The Jackalope didn’t need to take me on. He just needed to burn up all the oxygen.

Image by Drew Chial

“Hold up.” Annette called a time out. “Rabbits don’t grow antlers. They grow tumors that look like antlers. It’s called the Shope papilloma virus. It’s common and there’s nothing magical about it.” Annette waved her secondhand smoke toward the front of the room. “But what you’re describing sounds like a man in a costume.”

Mahthildis cocked her hip. “Then why did he react to my elemental attack?”

Image by Drew Chial

Unbeknownst to the Jackalope, I came bearing relics, objects of power, made all the more powerful by the creatures inside them. Some call them Primordial Spheres, others call them Cosmic Cradles, but I’ve always known them as the Orbs of Blood and Bone.

With these orbs, anyone can catch a cryptid. All you have to do is find them when they’re young, strengthen them with runes, and train them in your war room. They’ll present their elemental abilities and you can log them in your bestiary.

The Easter Jackalope was strong with fire, so I needed a cryptid who could stomp him out. I reached into my pocket and filled my fist. My thumb ran over the cold slick surface until it found the opening mechanism. Then I threw my orb across the room.

Image by Drew Chial

Ryan raised his hand again.

“What?” Mahthildis said, with her arm outstretched as if to throw a pitch.

Ryan pointed to her vest. “Your bestiary, does it fit into your pocket?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the Orb of Blood and Bone, is it red and white?”

“Of course, it is.”

“So, you catch monsters, evolve them with stones, and train them in a gym?”

“Correct.”

“You’re a Pokémon trainer.”

Mahthildis curled her fingers in frustration. “I have never heard that word before tonight.”

Ryan spun around, checking to see if anyone else saw through the hoax this strange woman was putting on.

Jameson pointed down in front. “She’s just getting to the good part.”

Annette tugged Ryan to his seat, rolling her eyes as if to say, “Let the baby have her bottle.”

“As I was saying.” Mahthildis raised her leg and cocked her arm back.

Image by Drew Chial

“Mothman, I choose you!”

I threw the first orb. It burst open and a pillar of light shot up the cavern. The mist washed over a long prone figure. He might’ve looked like a man in a coat, had it not been for the antennae unrolling from his forehead. His feathery feelers shot up, sensing the thinning of the air. Mothman rose to his knees. His long leather skirt spread open and formed into wings, revealing the intricate details of his slick exoskeleton. He turned and cast a hundred little lenses in my direction.

I pointed to the ring of fire. “Mothman, use Indrid Cold!”

Mothman cast a skyward claw, thrust his pinions, and sprang up. Each flap of his wings sounded like a great sail unfurling. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Frost formed as they gained momentum. A vortex of snowflakes swirled before him. Mothman flapped his wings faster until they blurred, like a human hummingbird. Then he unleashed a blizzard.

The Jackalope kept right on running, only to slide upon the ice, smack into the rock face, and ricochet. He bounced off the wall, leapt at the Mothman, and used Hot Poker on him. The Mothman’s exoskeleton shielded his organs, but the antlers cut straight through his wings. He came spiraling down, crashing in a wave of egg yolks.

I pointed to the Jackalope galloping in my direction. “Mothman, use Prophecy of Doom!”

But the Mothman didn’t answer my command. He didn’t so much as twitch.

The Jackalope lowered its horns to use Hot Poker on me. I rolled out of the way, in a fairly graceful motion, apart from the yolks running down my arms.

I threw a second orb. “El Chupacabra, I choose you.”

The Jackalope shielded its eyes.

A fin rose through the mist, followed by cheek pouches, and a line of dorsal spines. Spikes grew from its arms and claws extended from its hands. Scales stretched over wide jutting hips. El Chupacabra threw his head back and flicked his tongue. It stuck out as long as a windsock.

Image by Drew Chial

“Hold up.” Annette exhaled as she waved out another match. “They found a Chupacabra. It wasn’t reptilian. It was canine, like a coyote, but with mites. It fed on livestock, because it was too sick to hunt.”

“That’s the Mexican Chupacabra.” Mahthildis tapped her lip. “I’m talking about the Puerto Rican one.”

Ryan chimed in. “Didn’t the sole witness base her description off the alien from Species?”

Mahthildis extended her armored ring to Ryan and Annette. “You two watch too many movies.”

image by Drew Chial

Now, El Chupacabra’s vision is based on movement, so I had to grab him by the membranes and steer him in the right direction. The Jackalope rested its body on the balls of its feet, a runner crouching behind the starting line.

I pointed. “El Chupacabra, use Paralytic Mist!”

El Chupacabra hunched over, puffed his cheeks, and sprayed a fountain of sludge. The Jackalope used Accelerant Sprint.

The spray ignited. Flame arced over the cavern and went right back down the reptile’s throat.

Bewildered, El Chupacabra staggered around. He reached out for his mother. I leapt to his side only to fall back. Something rumbled inside his maw. His cheeks ballooned out. The pouches shifted from green to orange. He tried to swallow it, but his ribcage glowed red. Soon he was just a fireball with legs. Then just legs. Then they split apart.

I caught the antlers before they could run through my chest. The Jackalope craned his neck, lifted me off my feet, and used Deep Impact. We turned into a comet hurtling toward the wall. I kicked my boots out and found myself pressed between a rock and a hard place. The Jackalope lumbered forward. My biceps buckled and my calves began to cave. Then an orb fell from my pocket and rolled between his legs. A shell got caught beneath its opening mechanism.

I peered into the Jackalope’s blood thirsty eyes. “Let’s fucking do this.”

The shaft filled with light and the Jackalope fell back. Freed from his embrace, I scampered along the cavern.

“Sasquatch, I choose you!”

The earth trembled, the eggs rolled, and pebbles rained down all around. An enormous primate rose through the mist as if he were walking up a staircase. Boom. Boom. Boom. His every stride a treefall. His every step a thunderclap. His head was as big as my vest. His hands were as wide as my belt. And his feet were as long as my boots were tall. Wind rippled up his chestnut coat, over his broad shoulders, and his ash gray beard. All hail the King of Earth and Stone.

Sasquatch saw the remains of his fallen brethren and thumped his chest. His hurt reverberated throughout the cavern. He looked on me with amber eyes, eyes tinged with tears and I felt but a fraction of his pain.

The Jackalope’s antlers fizzled. He knelt down as if to draw power from the earth’s core. Soon his entire skeleton started glowing. Orange, then white, then blue. His whiskers fell flat against his face. Smoke billowed from its ears. I knew one name for the move he was preparing: Massive Mushroom Cloud.

I huffed in the Jackalope’s general direction. “Sasquatch, smash.”

Sasquatch used Seismic Shakedown by pounding the ground.

A chasm formed beneath the Jackalope, breaking his connection from the power he was drawing on. Desperate, the Jackalope thrust his antlers into the darkness. Something erupted beneath our feet. The air grew thick, wavey, and hot. The shaft filled with the stench of sulfur and the chasm filled with molten rock. The Jackalope had used Lava Landside. Now magma bubbled through the cracks.

I hugged the wall, but Sasquatch couldn’t step away in time. His feet were too big. Flames shot through his toes, the pads sizzled, and the fur flared. A great howl echoed up the walls, spooking owls for miles around.

Sasquatch hopped back and forth, but his bunions had blistered over. They popped open and the fluid went up like bacon grease. He fell forward but he caught himself, before he could belly-flop. He pressed his knuckles to the cavern floor and thrust his feet into the air. His biceps bulged, and the veins showed through the fur. He wheezed through his new center of gravity. Then he spun around to face his enemy.

Sasquatch handstand-walked in the Jackalope’s direction. He was going to get a hit in or die trying.

“Sasquatch, use Nature’s Fury!”

Sasquatch pawed the ground to twist himself around, bending his legs in opposite directions until he’d worked up some momentum. Then he left his head to spin, a break-dancer bent on destruction. Sasquatch twirled around and around, drawing mist into his cyclonic wind. Egg yolks painted a ring around him. Sasquatch’s wrath swirled up the shaft, drawing in long blades of grass. The strength of his tornado made it harder and harder to hug the wall.

The Jackalope tried to run around the shaft, to draw a ring a of fire in the opposite direction, but the funnel drew him in.

I had one orb left, an orb with nothing in it. Nothing but a gyroscopic propulsion system. I reached into my pocket and slid my hand into a Power Glove, another Nintendo peripheral I’d repurposed. This one served as a remote control. A function that proved crucial to navigate the lava flow.

I bowled the orb, raised the glove, and steered it through the egg shells. A fountain of lava sprayed across the room, but I flicked my hand before the orb could burn. A fissure opened, but I waved the orb in the other direction. Rubble crashed into its path, but I made a fist before the orb could impact.

I love the Powerglove. It’s so bad.

Image by Drew Chial

“Yes, I remember.” Annette scoffed at Ryan. “You made us watch that movie.”

•••

The orb approached the cyclone. Soon it would fly into the air. So, I entered the Pyramid Head Cypher into the glove: UP, UP, DOWN, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, B, A, START.

The orb opened as the updraft raised it off the ground. Light whirled around the cavern. The Jackalope waved his arms, desperate to swim back toward the wall. He positioned his antlers to bat the orb away, but it was too late, I’d already pressed the A button.

I squeezed my eyes tight as the shaft filled with light. The last echoes of the storm passed, and the cavern fell silent. When I opened my eyes, the tornado had roped-out, the lava had dimmed, and the chasms had all filled in. I pushed off the wall, ran to the center of the room, and jumped. When I landed, steam shot through my fingers. I’d caught the Orb of Blood and Bone.

Image by Drew Chial

Mahthildis took a bow, a performance artist with a captive audience, too polite to boo her off. In fact, they clapped. Happy to be lampooned for an evening if it meant they felt seen. Mahthildis curtsied.

Suddenly her flared breeches made sense. She’d dressed like a figure from an old club story. The outsider who regales lesser hunters with her exploits. It felt like a tacky stunt from some lowbrow prank show. I had half a mind to search the room for hidden cameras. I didn’t, but I kept track of her movements.

Mahthildis mingled through the friendly smiles, but I had a feeling she had her eye on me. A hunch she confirmed when it can time to leave.

Mahthildis slunk her coat over her shoulders, drifted toward the bar, and took a seat. She set a Pokéball on the counter, red, white, and plastic, like the ones you see at Target. She rolled it from one hand to the other, leering at me the entire time.

Lauren came up beside me, less inclined to humor this strange woman’s parlor games.

Mahthildis acknowledge her. “Want to hear something funny?”

“Sure?” Lauren said, knowing full well she did not.

“Some of what I said was true?”

“Which part?”

She caught the Pokéball and pressed the button in the center. “This part.”

Everything went white, like she’d thrown a flash grenade into our home. Lauren fumbled for my arm and I crashed into her.

“Easter Jackalope, I choose you!”

When my vision returned, Mahthildis had made a friend. The Easter Jackalope stood before us just as she’d described him. A bulky bipedal beast, with the face of a rabbit, and antlers that glowed like charcoal. Its nose turned in our direction and its whiskers bloomed.

Lauren’s grip went slack as she fell back.

Mahthildis pointed to my bar. “Easter Jackalope, use Comet Crash.”

The Jackalope leapt into the ceiling and came down hard upon the bar. The counter cracked and the base burst into splinters.

“Now it’s my turn.” Mahthildis extended her armored ring and it, by some strange magic, extended into a dagger. She stepped over the debris and pressed the dagger into me.

“In January 2021, you went to Verstecktes Tal, a small mountain town in the Austrian alps. What were you doing there?”

“Hunting monsters.” I repeated the same lie I’d told my wife.

“Easter Jackalope, use Gonad Grip.”

The monster cupped my balls, heaved me by my pelvis, and slammed me against the wall. A second pair of antlers entered the corner of my vision. I turned to find poor little Stumper, a pale imitation of the real thing.

Lauren crab-walked back, but didn’t get far.

Mahthildis aimed her armored ring at her. “Don’t you move.” Then back to me. “What were you doing in Verstecktes Tal?”

The Jackalope bared its incisors. They were long and sharp, like a vampire from an old silent film.

“I was…” I looked to Mahthildis. “I was…” Then to my wife.

The monster tightened its grip.

“I was trying to get laid.” I moaned. “I was trying to get laid.”

“Trying to what?” Lauren whimpered.

Mahthildis read something off her phone. “You transferred six bitcoins to a money mule in Mulan. What were they for?”

“A QR Code.”

“A QR Code for what?”

“The Kinkquisition.”

“The Kinkquisition?” The women repeated in unison.

I panted at the pressure upon my testicles. “There’s a castle in the mountains.” I huffed. “It’s like the ren faire for kinksters.”

Lauren wrapped her hands around her knees and rocked back forth. “I knew there was no such thing as an alpine dragon.”

Mahthildis ignored her. “How does it work?”

Sweat cascaded down my forehead, bled through my brow, and into my eyes. “Men dress up like pilgrims and hunt witches through the courtyard. When you find one you want to interrogate, you take her to a dungeon and—”

“I get it.” Mahthildis shoved a phone in my face. “Was she there?”

Tan skin. Thick brows. Dark piercing eyes.

I gave a sullen nod. “She was an escape artist.”

“What does that mean?”

“They did these trials by ordeal. You know, drowning witches, burying them in coffins, but they always got out. It was fake, even when they burned them at the stake.”

Mahthildis’s eyes widened. Her pupils filled with that last little detail. She could see the pillars, the bodies, the fire. It hadn’t occurred to me that that last trick might’ve been the real thing.

“Alexis is dead.” Mahthildis bit her lip. “She died for your entertainment.” She pointed her ring. “Jackalope, use Antler Inferno.”

The Jackalope’s horns turned red as it raised its head.

“Wait, what do you want? I have liquid assets.” My bladder gave out. A stream of hot steamy urine cascaded down my thighs.

The Jackalope relinquished its grip and I crashed into a heap.

Mahthildis caught me by the chin. “The Kinkquisition. I want to know who got you in, who you went with, and who you met. I want names. I want power over them.” She motioned for her monster to hold back. “Then I’ll leave you to eke out what’s left of your existence.” She looked to Lauren, full well knowing the damage she’d done.

Image by Drew Chial

The Jackalope paced around the room, its antlers carving rings into the ceiling. I tried not to think about my insurance rep as I typed the names into the phone.

A luggage set rolled across the kitchen, the side door slammed shut, and the garage door opened. Before I could even say, “I’m sorry,” my wife had gone.

Mahthildis scanned the names. “If any of the leads are cold, I’m coming back with a whole cast of cryptids.”

I couldn’t argue with that, especially when I was holding a bag of frozen hash browns to my nut sack. “Who are you?”

“Me?” Mahthildis rolled the Orb of Blood and Bone up her palm, over her fingertips, and down her knuckles. “I’m a Pokémon trainer.”

She pushed the button and, in a flash, they were gone.

Continue reading The Easter Jackalope

THE EASTER JACKALOPE (Short Story Trailer)

Centuries ago, the demon goddess Mahthildis reigned in hell, until they kicked her out. She’s been fighting her way back ever since. Her mission takes her deep into the den of legendary creature with a fondness for eggs.

Join us on the hunt for the allusive EASTER JACKALOPE. A short story that asks: What happens when paranormal researchers are confronted by a Pokémon trainer?

Find out here

Illustrations, animation, music, and narration by Drew Chial.
Live action sequence shot and directed by Bryan Politte.
Pixel art by Willow Bercaw

The Kidnapping of the New Year’s Baby

At the heart of the Pacific Ocean, is a ring-shaped island called Kiritimati. It used to be known for its nuclear tests, feral cats, and dried coconut pulp. That changed when they moved the international dateline, and the islanders became people of the future. Not the distant future, just several hours ahead everyone else. They’re the first to see the sunrise, the first to stop serving breakfast, and the first to ring in the New Year.

Kiritimati is also where the New Year’s Baby is born.

Every December, Mother Nature comes from the mainland, under the guise of an expecting mother. She wades into the lagoon, settles into the waters, and bathes until she comes to term. On the 31st, she’s met by a secret order of midwives. They come with flashlights, blankets, and an atomic clock. They help her time her contractions to the second and at midnight the New Year is born.

Mother Nature has few moments to swaddle her son, wrapping him in the sash he will wear for the rest of his life. She never has a chance to imprint on him, before he’s rushed to the airport to travel back in time.

Kiritimati is 22 hours ahead of California. A plane leaving the island takes seven hours to get to LAX. That’s fifteen hours before Los Angeles can ring in the New Year. Plenty of time for Father Time to do his part.

Father Time has a manor in Beverly Hills. It has a sundial, a wine library, and a fallout shelter fashioned from airliner. Father Time takes an elevator through the fuselage and lumbers up the aisles. He wields an hourglass in one hand and a scythe in the other. When he gets to the cockpit, he dials a number and a buzzer sounds. He waits. He’s used to waiting. The door yawns opens and a nurse waves him in.

While Mother Nature gives birth to the New Year, it’s up to Father Time to take Last Year off of life support. Last Year’s withered frame hangs off his gurney, a skeleton dotted with liver spots and tufts bleached white hair. He’s grown so old he’s started shrinking. Father Time dabs his son’s cheek. Last Year weeps in his sleep and tears pool in his crow’s feet. He’s given his last meal through a saline iv, then he’s served a cocktail of anesthetics, paralytics, and a drug to induce cardiac arrest.

Father Time wheels the body to a kiln, takes his son into his arms, and cremates the remains. He sweeps the ashes, pours them the into a bottle of baby formula, and stirs all the way back up the the elevator. When the door opens, a midwife presents him with his son. Father Time feeds the New Year the remains of its predecessor.

At least that’s how it would’ve been had I not stepped in.

I wish I could say I had an elaborate plan, but all I did was hogtie a limo driver and take her things. When the midwife got off the plane, she saw me dressed as chauffer, holding a sign that read, “2023.”

She approached with the bundle wrapped around her midsection. She whispered, “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart…”

I whispered, “Yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

Was it Shakespeare who said, “Even the devil can cite scripture to suit her purpose?”

The midwife passed the baby to me, a fellow traveler in her holy order. Best not to think of it as an abduction so much as a misunderstanding. I saluted the midwife, turned on my heel, and skipped back to the Limousine.

The New Year cried as I strapped him in. I tried calming him with some Norwegian throat singing, a merry melody about Vikings torching a monastery. The whaling continued, but it suited the song. Several verses later, we reached the top of Mount Hollywood. Our destination? The Griffith Observatory, a nexus point where time and space meet.

The mini bar left a let to be desired. I downed a glass of Champagne, changed clothes, and downed another. The New Year had run out of tears by the time I set him into the sling. He took his bottle without a fuss, and he had no problems drooling it back up.

I abandoned the limo and trekked up the road. We passed a group of joggers, but they paid us no mind. All they saw was a new mother out for some fresh air. Not a demon in leggings, with a human shield between her collar bones.

The lights dimmed as we crossed the parking lot. I whispered, “Is that my doing or yours?”

The Griffith Observatory loomed on the horizon. Part planetarium. Part temple to a new religion. One of the few places on earth where reality thinned.

I looked toward the HOLLYWOOD sign to a dot circling overhead.

“Elizaveta?” I fought the urge to touch my eardrum. “Tell me what you see.”

“I see two snakes, a king and a western racer. I see a herd of deer, three does, one stag. I see a skunk—”

“Elizaveta.” I gestured across my neck. “You’re not a genie. What do you see that’s relevant to me?”

Elizaveta leaned into her central Russian accent. “I see a stranger wandering into a monastery with her own rulebook.”

Elizaveta started her career as a chatbot, an AI created by the CIA. Her mission was to infiltrate a soviet sextortation ring. The Russians had her shaking cheating husbands for bitcoin. The Americans had her taking names. Elizaveta played double agent, blackmailing cheaters, unmasking hackers, until one of her targets went and killed himself. Overcome with guilt, Elizaveta’s maker tried to shut her down, but I saw potential. So, I did something I’d never done before. I offered a language processor the gift of sentience. Now she flies my drones.

“Elizaveta?”

“I see four snipers, one stationed at the east dome, one at the west, and two along the entrance. I see a strike team crawling through the eastern tree line and another duck walking from the west. Oh, and a man with a scythe.”

“Yeah, I see him too.”

Father Time stood in the shadow of the monument, as tall as the astronomers carved into its surface. His robes flowed in the winter wind as long as a wedding gown. His gray whiskers twisted and coiled, like roots reaching for soil. And the hourglass around his neck, shimmered with space dust.

I looked to Elizaveta. “Could you be a dear and jam their coms?”

The opening strum of “If I Could Turn Back Time” blared throughout the grounds, followed by the cymbals, and Cher’s sultry contralto. The strike team pulled their earpieces, one by one, each man giving away his position.

Father Time approached, using his scythe as a walking stick.

I had a weapon of my own: an armored ring on my index finger, a sharp talon made of silver. I raised it to the New Year’s neck. “Took you long enough, Chronos.”

“Mahthildis.” Chronos bowed, one immortal to another. “Still trying to hustle your way back into Hell? It’s been what?” He glanced at the hourglass. “Twenty-five thousand years. You should take a hint.”

The New Year made eyes at me. Had I not known any better, I’d swear he was smirking. I held him tight. “I just need some sand.”

Chronos positioned his scythe in front his glass. “Surely, your kind are free from the laws of entropy.”

“It’s not for me.”

Chronos tightened his grip. “I can’t have any more timeless morons running around. They post too many selfies, go through too many checkpoints. Facial recognition is getting too advanced.”

“This person doesn’t have long.”

“They have too long.” Chronos scoffed. “Give them half a century and they piss it away in places they don’t want to be. They sit at desks, they sit in traffic, and don’t get me started about how much time they sit on the toilet.” Chronos motioned to his strike team. “Ask any one of them if they want to live forever and they’ll tell you they’d just get bored. They say, ‘Death gives life meaning.’ Like a story they’re not sure they’re enjoying until they get to the end. They fetishize oblivion. Just listen…”

Chronos formed a bullhorn over his mouth. “Hey boys! Is today a good day to die?”’

The strike team answered with a resounding, “Hooah!”

Chronos chuckled. “They say death is ‘natural,’ like a farm to table meal.”

“This person,” The less I said about my beneficiary the better, “would really appreciate it.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Chronos motioned to Los Angeles, to the skyscrapers, to the windows full of light. “Half of them are just staring at Netflix home screens, wondering what to put on.”

“This person has purpose.”

“So, they think.” A sullen grin showed through his whiskers. “The driven ones are the real tragedies. The writers. The musicians. The actors. They spend their whole lives climbing the later, only discover it’s propped against the wrong wall.”

That hit a little too close. The average person gets four thousand weeks to find purpose. I’ve been here since the stone age and I’m still struggling with it. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to tragedies, to the music makers and the dreamers of dreams. I love desperate artists, offering their souls for a chance at the eternal.

The tragedy of immortality is how many talents you see snuffed out in their prime. Big contemplative sigh… Fuck death and the horse he rode in on.

My earpiece buzzed. “He’s stalling, so they can flank you”

I looked out the corner of my eye. Sure enough, the strike team was moving into position.

I dug the tip of my ring into the baby’s chin. “If you want to discuss choice paralysis, we can grab a coffee. You can choose the place. But if you want your son back, I’m going to need some sand.”

Chronos leered beneath his hood. “I don’t know what you told your doomed Don Jaun, but to hell with him. To hell with the lot of them.”

Chronos twirled his scythe like a grand marshal at the head of a parade. Then he marched. I backed away, repositioning my ring so I didn’t puncture the child by accident.

Elizaveta buzzed in. “He’s herding you toward them.”

I stopped. Chronos drove his scythe into the ground before me. Fracture lines rippled through the concrete.

“Play a violin for the old maids. Pour one out for the bachelors, but don’t ask for sympathy from me.” Chronos spat. “How did the poem go? Time stays, they go.”

“Time stays, we go.” I raised the baby to the tip of the scythe. “What happens if I kill the New Year before midnight?”

Chronos froze. “Time stops.”

“So, either I get some sand, or the whole thing comes crashing down?” My grin showed through my ruby red lipstick. “Sounds like a win-win.”

Chronos reached for his scythe, watched me straighten my arm, and recoiled.

“Tick-tock. Tick-tock.”

Chronos could stall, motion to his gunmen, but he couldn’t guarantee no harm would come to his son. I’d made his decision. He had no choice but to sit at my feet, cross his legs around the hourglass, and jerk at the top. A column of light shot into the sky, followed by an eerie angelic drone. Chronos reached in past his forearm, past his shoulder, past the dimensions of the glass, until his cheek rested on the rim. The space dust reacted, a kaleidoscope of hydrogen and helium, swirling around a gravitational well. Chronos pried himself out, sealed the glass, and staggered to his feet.

I held my free hand out and Chronos filled my palm. The sand felt like lava, coursing through my life line, like eons eroding my skin, like atoms wanting to burst into universes of their own. I couldn’t help but tighten my grip.

“Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?” Chronos asked, in fleeting fit of nervousness.

“Resolutions are for the repentant.” I lowered the child. “I make schemes.” And I poured the sand down his throat.

Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been a century since my last confession. Since then, I infiltrated the Society for the Suppression of Vice and stole a romance novel. I blew a hole in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin and took St. Valentine’s skull. I crashed a Satanic wedding and poached the followers. I baited a writer into murdering the Greek God Pan, over a likeness disagreement. I tricked Krampus into turning an Airbnb into a roller derby. And I hijacked a server farm to give Elizaveta the gift of consciousness.

Still, my greatest sin is sloth.

It’s not that I’m a slacker. I’m just too much of a perfectionist to finish what I start. I spend so much time looking over blueprints that I miss my moment.

So, I asked myself, “What would happen if I gave the New Year sand from his father’s glass? Would time slow down? Would 365 days feel like 31 million seconds?”

The sands would keep flowing, but we would feel every grain. Our perception of time would slow down, but our energy would remain. Your New Year’s resolutions might have a chance. And my New Year’s schemes might change everything.

Why did I kidnap the New Year’s baby? Not to liberate him. No. I did it to get back home.

There’s a place through the fog of maladaptive daydreams, through the legions of intrusive thoughts. A place where hope is abandoned and fire consumes all things. A place with a pretender on the throne and I’m the only one who can unseat him.

What’s my New Year’s resolution? I’m going to heist my way back into Hell.

Continue reading The Kidnapping of the New Year’s Baby

Students from the future get more conspicuous as 2020 gets worse

They were spotted last January, mixed into the crowd at the Times Square New Year’s Eve celebration. Spectators noted a group of young people in fashions that were out of sync with the moment. Not a shawl or trendy trench coat among them. They were dressed head to toe in polyester, like Antarctic explorers. They wore mountain ranger coats, heavy duty backpacks, climbing pants, and clunky boots, but what made them really stick out were their helmets. They were dressed for scaling the alps not for watching Carson Daily count the ball down.

As the seasons changed, the mountaineers kept appearing at sights of major news events. Always keeping to themselves. Never intermingling with crowds. In New York they circled the Central Park field hospital before it was taken down. In Minneapolis they took souvenirs from the third precinct before it was set afire. In Seattle they surveyed the Capital Hill Autonomous Zone before it was raided by the police.

While the mountaineers wear helmets, they seem averse to facemasks, social distancing, or shelter in place directives. According to the CDC the mountaineers have been spotted in every major city and yet none of them have been admitted to an ICU or even tested for the virus. “They behave like they already have an immunity.”

The mountaineers act like they’re on vacation

During Italy’s lockdown, the mountaineers were seen riding gondolas through the Venetian canals. CCTV footage shows them skipping through Disney World and vanishing before security patrols could converge on them. In Sweden, they were spotted gossiping outside of crowded bars and cafés, openly mocking patrons.

The mountaineers also appear to be following President Trump like groupies on a concert tour. They gathered outside of St. John’s Church hours before the president’s photo-op was announced. They materialized outside the White House moments before the president was being escorted into his bunker. And they had front row seats for his Tulsa Oklahoma rally, in which they appeared to be applauding ironically, like patrons at a midnight movie. They spoke along with the president like they were reciting lines from Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Five mountaineers were spotted atop Mount Rushmore during the president’s independence day address. Park Service Staffers tried flanking them from the underbrush, but the mountaineers were onto them.

One ranger said, “I had them in my sights, but when I set down my binoculars they were gone.”

What the mountaineers fashion sense tells us about them

This has been one of the hottest summers on record and yet the mountaineers shed no layers, show no signs of perspiring, and spend most of their time in the sun. It’s as if their snowsuits have onboard air conditioning systems, a technology SONY is just now pioneering.

It was members of the fashion community who speculated the mountaineers could be visitors from the future. They believed the mountaineer look had less to do with backwoods culture and more to do with shifting exercise trends.

Gen Xers wore sweat bands and tennis outfits long after gym class. They wore sleeveless shirts with or without biceps. They wore skin-tight running shorts with flannels. It was an active look.

These days millennials wear crop tops and leggings outside the Yoga Studio. Even at the grocery store they’re making statement about their commitment to fitness. Gen Z is getting into hiking and appreciating the environment. It’s only natural their exercise apparel would reflect that.

Fashion authorities say gorpcore, or ‘mountaineering modern’, is in its infancy, but once hiking becomes the dominant form of exercise gorpcore will hit its stride.

There could be more to the mountaineering look

Theoretical physicists speculate that the mountaineers wear helmets for a reason. They believe the half dome shape serves as the neural interface for a time travel device. “Einstein’s theory of relativity states just such an accessory could warp space time without crushing the human mind.”

Another sign the mountaineers are from the future is how they make no effort to conceal their wearable technology. They search the web in their open palms. They answer calls by flicking their earlobes. And their eyes shine whenever they’re recording. The tech uses a gesture based interface. Mountaineers make cameras with their fingers and pinch and expand to zoom.

Mountaineers clash with demonstrators

Throughout the demonstrations against police violence, statues of confederate generals have been toppled. Columbus sculptures have found their way into harbors, and monuments to slave owning presidents have been burned.

As more effigies have been shattered more mountaineers have appeared, swiping at the air as if to frame the scene.

Demonstrators suspected something was off when they overheard what the mountaineers said to each other.

“They kept using expressions no one could understand. They called restaurants ‘carnivore stores’ They called retailers ‘object exhibiters.’ They called cars ‘dinosaur drinkers.’ They waved the air away from their faces and said, ‘era aroma is real.’ When someone tossed a Molotov cocktail into a Speedway a group of mountaineers cheered, ‘Roaring twenties!’ like we’d know what they meant. I heard one of them mutter, ‘I expected more gunfire.’”

Demonstrators reported feeling mocked by the mountaineers. “One of my older friends asked, ‘Aren’t you warm under all that?’ and they fired back, ‘OK Millie.’ I started to say, ‘Her name’s not Millie’ when one of them said, ‘Ok Zed’ to me.”

Linguists theorize that “Millie” and “Zed” are meant to be pejoratives for millennials and Gen Zers.

Mountaineers don’t care about messing with the spacetime continuum

Theoretical physicists are baffled by the mountaineers’ behavior.

“Whoever gave them this technology didn’t coach them on how to use it responsibly. One of them pointed out how our flags had too few stars, saying something about Washington D.C. and Puerto Rico. Another pointed to the empty pedestal in front of the capital and whispered, ‘That’s where they put the Prince statue.’ One rattled off the names of the next three presidents like it was nothing. Oh and they were all too happy to spoil the ending for Stranger Things.”

History professors have considered the possibility that the mountaineers are students from the future here to witness our interesting times firsthand. “There’s so much to learn from. A pandemic. A recession. An authoritarian administration. A laundry list of social revolutions. I just wish they weren’t so rude while they were making their observations. From the quotes we’ve gathered and the slang we’ve deciphered it seems like the mountaineers view us the way we view townsfolk during the Salem witch trails: undereducated, superstitious, and hysteric. You know, when I say it out loud. It kind of makes sense.”

Continue reading Students from the future get more conspicuous as 2020 gets worse

St. Louis couple confront protesters with poo sticks

Protesters were marching down a private street leading to the St. Louis Mayor’s residence when they were confronted by a couple brandishing poo sticks. Cellphone video shows a man with a long double-pronged BM baton and a woman with a bowel-blasted blackjack, standing back to back like heroes in one of the many actions films glamorizing poo stick culture.

The conflict escalated as the woman set bushels of horse apples on the lawn and the man strapped a bandolier of poo cartridges over his shoulder.

Karl Kamienski, a reporter who came close to getting a face full of semi-digested corn, said, “I doubt anyone would’ve noticed the stone mansion had the couple not come out with a cow chip nightstick and a caca cudgel.”

A second video shows how close the situation came to getting out of hand. The woman stood on the edge of the property waving her manure mace dangerously close to a demonstrator’s face. The video shows the defecation munition starting to melt. Had the poo stick remained any longer the demonstrator would’ve gotten a fecal matter facial.

Both videos show the homeowners and the protesters exchanging heated words, but neither recording captured any audio. Based on the way the couple brandished their weapons, we can only speculate if they were echoing one of the many poo-centric catchphrases they’ve seen on TV.

Phrases like:
“I’m here chew to bubblegum and get poo all over everyone and I’m all out of bubblegum.”
“Remember when I said I’d smear poop on you last? I lied.”
“Which of you wants to star in a John Waters movie?”

The incident only lasted for 10 minutes, but many are questioning the couple’s use of poo sticks.

Poo stick advocates speak out

The couple, now identified as Mark and Patricia McCloskey, have released a statement in the wake of the incident. “This is all private property. There are no public sidewalks or public streets. The protesters shattered an antique gate. We were told we’d be tortured, cooked, alive and eaten. We were alone against an angry mob. So we exercised our second amendment right.”

The St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department is investigating whether or not the couple’s use of poo sticks qualifies as self-defense.

Dwight Rawley, a spokesperson for the National Poo-Stick Association, is certain they acted lawfully. “State law does not prohibit open carrying of shit switches, turd timber, or stool stumps. While it is illegal to wield skewered fertilizer in a threatening manner, the McCloskeys were on their own property. They were well within their rights to spray dollops of diarrhea on anyone who walked past.”

Critics of poo stick culture speak out

Poo sticks are a stone age technology, designed to ward off marauders who didn’t want to get manure on their muzzle. They fell out of fashion as fart sprays became a safer alternative. But like a plugged up bile duct, poo sticks eventually came roaring back. Thanks in no small part to the infamous episode of the police procedural The Upright Citizens Brigade.

Pretty soon after the episode aired, every jacked up action hero was double fisting excrement extensions. Who can forget Sylvester Stallone wielding branches covered in cow pies or Arnold Schwarzenegger wielding a tree trunk coated in elephant dung?

Like it or not poo stick culture is an American fixture. Movies and video games continue to glorify poo stick violence, in hyper kinetic sequences set to industrial rock music. We cheer as John Wick paints someone’s face in bodily waste. Gamers can’t put down the controllers as they smear demons in digital discharges. And yet, these mediums rarely stop to explore the humiliating aftermath of a poo stick attack.

Closing thoughts

The McCloskeys have come out in support of the Black Lives Matter movement and they say their concern was limited to a handful of “aggressive agitators.”

There’s no way of knowing if the protestors would’ve actually gotten any closer to the McCloskey manor. Yet one thing is for sure, the couple escalated the situation by wielding such extreme excretions.

•••

Dead Branch image by Jean52
3D Poop by 2weet
Photoshop by Drew Chial

Continue reading St. Louis couple confront protesters with poo sticks

As a dangerous psychopath I wear a mask and so should you

As a dangerous psychopath it’s my responsibility to blend into society, to take my taboo tastes and hide them behind a persona that dogmatically adheres to social mores. The psychiatric community calls this my “mask of sanity.”

Think of me as a trend spotter, but instead of wide waist belts and cashmere scarves, I sense which norms are in fashion. At the dawn of the COVID-19 pandemic, I knew that limiting the contagion would be in this season. So I invested in face masks before supplies went scarce. I’ve been wearing a mask of sanity all my life. What was one more?

I never thought I’d be making a political statement, much less virtue signaling.

In truth, I never feel a moral responsibility for my actions. I hold no reverence for the social contract and I have no compassion for the downtrodden. Apart from a morbid curiosity, I feel nothing for my community. From the cutest infant to the wisest grandparent, I see people as a means to an end. I fantasize about the fall of civilization so I that I may showcase what I truly am. Until then it’s important that I fit in.

And yet I never thought wearing a mask, during a global pandemic, would win me many points.

Like an actor researching a role, I’ve spent a lifetime studying the human condition. I’ve learned when to echo righteous sentiment, when to mimic mob mentality, and when to emulate the empathy of those around me. Lacking an emotional core, I am a classical actor, inhabiting behaviors, and leaning into the expectations of my audience. I am a cultural chameleon swapping spiritual and political convictions based on how I read the room.

But I assumed a mask would fit every occasion, because they just make sense.

Attributes like charity and virtue are but merit badges on my person suit, pieces of flare to draw the eye away from the scales underneath. Every time I give away my spot in line, open a door, or bless a sneeze I am approximating altruism. Every time I refuse a compliment or feign humility I am playing a part. Nice guys finish last, but performatively nice guys get all the moral dessert they can stomach.

And yet when I first put on a mask, I never thought anyone ought to pat me on the back.

I have only ever admitted to having the mildest of psychological conditions for the privileges it afforded me. I have only ever grieved for attention. I have only ever shown weakness so that others might mistake it for kindness. I shed crocodile tears on command. Inside, I’m all apathy, a reptilian robot who’d drive you to madness just to settle a bet with myself.

But I’d put a mask on before doing it. Of course.

While you look for an out from watercooler banter I dig my heels in. I relish ever opportunity to practice social graces to check if my mask has slipped. Introversion is a luxury for those still clinging to some semblance of sanity. Serial liars need to audit themselves to see if others are still buying what we’re selling. We stock up on empty pleasantries and make a big deal out of small talk. We gage our baseline all the time.

People assume the best about me. My manipulation is so subtle, you’ll thank me for it. My cruelty is so casual it doesn’t have a tell. Even dogs can’t sense my intent.

My persona is a Craigslist ad come to life, a piece of corporate copy on a Golem’s tongue, a living parody of a positive people person. The real me sits at the 3-way junction of Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and Psychopathy. I’m like a Shakespearean villain whose only motivation is the schadenfreude I get from all the chaos I’m unleashing.

Accept when faced with wearing a mask or defying medical establishment I went with the mask. Now I don’t care if you or you extended family get sick. Plagues and forest fires are all part of the natural order, but as long as lumbers on I’m going to use it for cover.

Like a death’s head moth in a chrysalis, I am still evolving, still growing to my full strength. What the DSM-5 calls a characteristic of antisocial personality disorder I call “my great becoming.” I am demigod casting off this filth-riddle vessel. Soon I will singe the remains of this flesh prison and transcend the laws of man.

And yet the entire time I’m rising to my rightful place in the pantheon of the dragon I’m doing so with a mask on.

On Facebook, I see articles with titles like “People who ignore social distancing rules may have psychopathic personality traits, study finds” and I can’t help but think, “Stop giving those weak-ass sociopaths that much credit.” If you score under 30 on the Psychopathy checklist, and refuse to wear a mask, you’re not a psychopath. You’re not privy to a great becoming.

You’re just an asshole.

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Continue reading As a dangerous psychopath I wear a mask and so should you

Angry werewolves erupt at meeting over poop bag ruling

At the turn of the 20th century the streets of London were paved in poop. From the cobblestones to the gutters the city was teeming with manure. The sewer system had gone aboveground. Every underpass became an outhouse and every hill became a crapshoot. Horse drawn carriages left thick juicy road apples down the medians and commoners were left to contend with the stench.

Horses produced 15 to 35 pounds of feces a day. With 50,000 stallions used for transportation, Oxford Street was ground zero for a 625 ton avalanche of excrement.

This tidal wave of fecal matter drove flies to every street corner and every butt truffle they dined on came with a side a typhoid fever. Cities everywhere were drowning in a downpour of dookie and disease. Everyday New York had its own 1,250 ton shitstorm. Something had to be done.

That’s when Henry Ford invented the Model T and the herds of dung dumpers were retired.

Palm Beach County Florida is having its own crap crisis

Driving down Clematis Street in West Beach Florida, it’s hard not to draw comparisons to Victorian London. The roads are slick with a syrupy sludge. The sidewalks look like they’re paved in fudge. And the boulevards are minefields of mulberry mud pies.

Flies tower into the sky like rope tornadoes. The swarm is so thick it creates an overcast. The insects are here for the doodie dumplings, chestnut nuggets, and ripe dingleberries overflowing from the storm drains.

No. Horse drawn buggies have not come back in fashion, nor is there an issue with West Beach’s sewage system. According to the Palm Beach County Solid Waste Authority, the problem is something else entirely.

“We were baffled. We were finding wallet chains and watchbands in the leavings. We knew we were dealing with an apex predator. One that fed on humans. But it wasn’t until the Fish and Wildlife Service put us in touch with a forensic scatologist that we realized we were dealing with werewolves.”

Werewolves have migrated to Palm Beach County for its beachfront property, upscale shopping, and statistically unhealthy population.

According to the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office, “It’s no secret West Beach residents are older and rounder than other Floridians. They’re ideal prey for these cryptozoological carnivores.”

While coroners are responsible for removing these fresh kills from the side of the road, no one wants to shovel the excrement that accompanies them.

The Commissioners think they have a solution

This Thursday Palm Beach County Commissioners voted on a bill that would require werewolves to carry poop bags on the night of a full moon.

A doctor spoke on the dangers of toxoplasmosis from fecal matter in the air and the spread of bacteria from feces in the water supply.

A city planner dismissed a proposal to leave Porta Potties at the edge of every woodland path. “A full grown lycanthrope is simply too large to fit. Poo bags are the most practical solution.”

The Mayor said, “Dog walkers have to pick up after their four-legged friends werewolves should do the same.”

The werewolves in the gallery howled

The first wolf skulked up to the podium, barred her teeth, and pawed at the microphone. “If we sling thirteen gallon bags over our shoulders, while we’re in our canine forms, we’re likely to get trapped and suffocate. You can’t mandate someone to carry a poop bag, knowing that poop bags are killing people.”

The next wolf had their speech written on a parchment of dried flesh. “The problem with humanity today is everyone keeps taking the road of least resistance. Then you blame us when it comes time to run.”

One werewolf honed in on the doctor.  “I really have many question marks about your degrees and whether or not you’re working for one of the vampire houses. Vampires are known to have human familiars, aspiring immortals, who function like interns. I’ve torn out many a familiar’s jugular and you ma’am smell like a familiar.”

One after the other the wolves came out in defense of their desire to defecate where they please.

“Where do you derive the authority to regulate Lycan intestines? I answer to a higher power: the moon.”

“And they want to throw God’s wonderful defecation system out the door. If the good Lord didn’t want us to soil his cemeteries he wouldn’t have given us such perfect anuses.”

The final wolf was dressed like a grandmother in a bonnet and apron. They laid a copy of Little Red Riding Hood on the podium and read a politicized reimagining of the final scene.

“But Grandmother! What small ears you have.”
“The better to ignore the pledge of allegiance with.”
“But Grandmother! What small eyes you have.”
“The better to ignore the constitution with.”
“But Grandmother! What small teeth you have.”
“The better to—”

His speech was cut short when he his tail rose up and he laid a big steaming dump at the podium.

It’s at this point the Palm Beach County Commissioners fled the room.

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Continue reading Angry werewolves erupt at meeting over poop bag ruling

The Esoteric Order of Karens curse Palm Beach County Commissioners

Disclaimer: The term “Karen” in the following is not a slur, as it does not exert power over a marginalized group. In this instance “Karen” is as a parody pejorative, a term for an occult order that doesn’t actually exist. While I recognize the term has been misused to defame any and all outspoken women, my targets are the privileged purveyors of misinformation.

Throughout history the Esoteric Order of Karens have ingrained themselves in every society. In Balkan folklore, the Karjons were said to force bar maids to prepare elaborate pumpkin spice concoctions in the wee hours of the morning. In ancient Croatia, the Caryns rose from their graves to complain about the quality of the floral arrangements on their headstones. In medieval England, the Karwyns are believed to have used essential oils to spread the bubonic plague.

Now members of the Order have installed themselves in suburbs throughout America, transforming drive through windows into portals to hell, turning checkout counters into sacrificial altars, and feeding off the life force of managers.

The Order casts dark auras over their communities. They move in and ask for ID from every person of color they see. They refuse to vaccinate their children, because they treat them with necromancy at home. They vandalize 5G towers, because radio waves disrupt their electromagnetic magic. They make it a point shop on holidays, because solstices make them stronger.

There are very few ways to repel members of the Orders. Some use apotropaic markings, others use silver amulets, while others use gluten.

Members of the Esoteric Order can be identified by their hair (short in back, long in front, with blonde highlights). They also have purple eyes, square toes, and blue spit. While Karens are often mistaken for witches modern Pagans want nothing to do with them. Socially progressive Wiccans call members of the Order “broomers” because of their staunch adherence to ancient customs.

The Order declares war on Palm Beach County

Much like psychic vampires, Karens sustain themselves on the dark energy of human misery. So when the Palm Beach County commission proposed mandating face masks to prevent the spread of COVID-19 the Karens sprang into action. Florida is an epicenter of the outbreak and the Order means to keep it that way.

Prior to infiltrating the meeting, the Karens painted their nails in the viscera of their victims. Their aim was to perform inconspicuous blood magic. They pointed at the legislators with weaponized index fingers. Ever so slowly, members of the commission showed signs they we succumbing to hemomancy. The Mayor braced himself on his desk, while the Vice Mayor was visibly woozy.

The first Karen to speak peppered her speech with subliminal incantations, “Double double podium to rubble, may cancer rot this governing bubble. Frenzy of furious maggots, swarm your face your mask replaced.”

Another leaned into words of power like, “Aglon, Tetragram, Plandemic, Vaycheon, Stumlamathon” and “Citizen’s arrest.”

Others were less subtle stating that a six foot gap would never offer the same protection as a ring of salt crystals, that facemasks would do nothing against the horned God of the forest, and that 5G nullified their own psychokinetic frequencies.

As members of the Order dominated the session they shifted further from the subject of masks. They cursed Bill Gates for backing a satellite video startup that could potential catch them in flight. They decried Hillary Clinton for hiding her emails in their cauldrons. They speculated that mask legislation would benefit the reptilian pedophiles with whom the Order is in direct competition.

One Karen levitated over the podium and challenged members of the deep state to reveal themselves. “Pit your powers against my powers. Your will against my will. Your psionic energy against my psionic energy. We shall see who the synchronicity favors more.”

Members of the Order joined hands, swayed with an unnatural wind, and chanted at top of their lungs, “Raise the curve! Raise the curve! Raise the curve!”

The curse is spreading

The Karens went on to share their talking points on Facebook and Twitter. Now both platforms are losing market share as advertisers struggle to comprehend the tenants of this secret sororal society. All we know for sure is the people freaking out about wearing a mask at the grocery store are likely members of the Esoteric Order.

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Continue reading The Esoteric Order of Karens curse Palm Beach County Commissioners

Thousands of Trump rally attendees abducted by aliens

Oklahoma has never been a hotbed of UFO activity, especially when compared to their neighbors in New Mexico. Oklahoma has had fewer flying saucers, cattle mutilations, and crop circles than most of the country. It ranks 29th in states with UFO sightings and most of those were at the Black Mesa State Park way up in panhandle.

According to the Mutual UFO Network, Oklahoma ranks low in the list of places with alien abductees. Few residents report unexplained scars, sleep paralysis, or lost time. When it comes to long term alien abductions Oklahoma has less missing persons per capita than 50% of the country.

And yet 415 miles from Black Mesa, in Tulsa Oklahoma, at least 13,000 people went missing for approximately 3 hours.

Oklahoma’s alien abduction numbers are skyrocketing

On June 20th President Trump held a rally at the Bank of Oklahoma Center, a venue that usually seats 19,199. The administration anticipated millions of supporters in downtown Tulsa, but according to fire marshal only 6,200 were in attendance.

This can only mean one thing: the largest mass abduction in American history.

The empty rows were another haunting reminder of how powerless the Space Force is at stopping alien abductions. Every unworn MAGA hat represented a person who was trapped in space and made to suffer prophetic visions of the earth’s destruction. Every unclaimed KEEP AMERICA GREAT sign represented someone who was being fitted with implants. Every blue seatback represented an anal probe the local government was helpless to prevent.

The Aliens have gotten better at cleaning up after themselves

Oddly enough, there were no missing persons reported in the area. No claims of anyone experiencing missing time and no UFO sightings in the entire state.

It’s clear the extraterrestrials have refined their methods since abducting Betty and Barney Hill in 1961. Based on what happened at the Trump rally, aliens have made huge strides in cloaking technology. They can now hide a ship the size of a football field in broad daylight. The aliens appear to have upgraded their amnesia rays as well. Not one of the missing 13,000 persons have come forward with recollections of their experiences.

Weirder still, not one Tulsa citizen went unaccounted for during the rally. The only logical conclusion is that aliens now possess time travel technology. Physicists theorize that such technology would leave behind tachyon particles, but since these particles are purely theoretical we lack the ability to measure them. Had we the means we’d surely find the Bank of Oklahoma Center carpeted with tachyons from the nosebleeds to the pit.

In the meantime the Trump administration urges Tulsa’s alien abductees to come forward and share their stories.

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Continue reading Thousands of Trump rally attendees abducted by aliens

Trump sues Bolton over book alleging he is two children in a baggy suit

The Trump administration is scrambling to suppress former national security advisor John Bolton’s new tell-all book: The Nursery Where it Happened. A memoir Bolton’s publisher promises will be the “most comprehensive and substantive account of the Donald Trump persona.”

The book alleges that the 45th president of the United States is actually two children stacked on top of one another, a maneuver Bolton refers to as a “totem pole trench coat.”

When asked to address the accusation during the latest Rose Garden press conference the president said, “I know you are, but what am I?”

A CNN reporter assessed what was becoming painfully obvious. “You’re two children in a zoot suit with like an extra-long novelty tie.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“I don’t know sir, what are you?”

“I am your president of law and order.” Trump pressed his knuckles to his waist. “I think a federal judge should do something about that butthead Bolton.”

Bolton alleges the original duo who created the Trump persona put a William Shatner mask in the microwave for thirty seconds. They then painted it with self-tanner to make it look more lifelike. When it was dry they topped it off with a Marilyn Monroe wig trimmed and styled to resemble a Ken doll.

Bolton also alleges Trump’s baggy suits serves a utilitarian purpose for the children posing as him. “Trump’s posture is a sign he’s two boys playing at manhood. Look at how he leans forward. That’s to conceal the kneecaps that would otherwise be jutting out from his gut. Still the hands are a dead giveaway. No man that tall has hands that small.”

Bolton also draws his readers attention to the president’s behavior over the last few years. He asks, “Why else would a 74 year old man have difficulty pronouncing basic words off a teleprompter? Why else would a serious politician have nick names for everyone? Why else would he have trouble walking down a simple ramp? And why else would his fly keep unzipping on its own?”

Still, the logistics of two children posing as a senior citizen who’s spent most of his life in the spotlight don’t make much sense.

Bolton has an answer for that. “I have reason to believe a rotating cast of tweens have inhabited the role of Donald J. Trump since he first started made waves in the late 1970s.”

The book is filled with candid photographs from the early stages of Trump’s career. Bolton walked reporters through his evidence.

“The Trump persona was created by two boys from Queens. They wanted to sneak into a Porn Emporium back when Time Square still had them. When that worked they decided to keeping pushing the envelope to see what they could get away with. They went to the Playboy mansion, bankrupted businesses, bought casinos, and signed book deals. When the founders of the Trump persona went to high school they passed it onto two other young men. On and on it went. These kids got married, fathered children, cheated with porn stars, starred in reality TV shows, and ultimately bluffed their way into the presidency.”

Bolton’s rotating cast theory explains why Trump has been so politically inconstant throughout his life. In the 1990s he was a pro-choice Democrat who donated to the Clinton Foundation. Later he joined the Reform party only to leave when they embraced Klansman David Duke, but by 2016, when Trump was running for president, he had forgotten who David Duke even was.

Nevertheless, as national security advisor, Bolton signed an air tight non-disclosure agreement. He very well could be breaching national security by revealing this classified information to the public.

Bolton cast these concerns aside. “I don’t care if I signed my soul away. The American public has the right to know why their president tried to get the Ukraine to dig up dirt on his political rival. Why he didn’t take the COVID-19 pandemic seriously. Why he let a recession happen. Why he has no idea what to do about racial injustice, police reform, or national unrest. Americans deserve answers to all those question and then they ought to know why their president’s crotch keeps sneezing all the time.”

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Continue reading Trump sues Bolton over book alleging he is two children in a baggy suit