Halloween

I reckon you’re all expecting a dank and dreary foxtrot down the abysmal tunnel that is the horror genre. Well, I’ll provide you not my nipple to suckle. Besides the fact that I am significantly less imaginative than most of you give me credit for, I’m also quite easily frightened, proof positive by my refusal to watch anything containing any derivation of the specter that is Barbara Walters.Instead I offer you an eye opener (no Shelley, not an 11:00 a.m. red-eye), but rather a short story from that point of view which is exclusively ignored by every manner of Hallowed-Eve poet ever to don a writer’s halberd, the monsters.

I was in the Red Lion on Saturday night. I saw him across the room; we both slowly evaluated each other while we were careful not to make eye contact. He wore a long black cloak his head was covered entirely. We both sat and drank, at our own tables, until the space between us seemed to shrink on its own accord. Eventually it was only the two of us and he hastened me over with a single long index finger.

I sat, quite, awaiting his reason for my beckoning. He inquired, “Do you know who I am”. I responded, “no, and you’re scary”. He sighed an impetuous sigh as he reared his head to reveal his narrow face. “That’s the problem with your brand of creature,” he stated, “too scared”. I ordered us a round, and without provocation, he began his Halloween story…

*****
I awake in my bed, or rather, my box. I tell my lovely wife, “tonight is the night I will smash the barrier that has been created over the passed thousand years between my race and the humans. The years of planning will come together in a glorious moment of understanding and acceptance, resulting in a cooperative and understanding world for us all to inhabit”.

My wife helps me put on my best cloak. I peer into the mirror and adjust my slick black hair in a manor that suggests I can actually see my own reflection. A tear trickles down my cheek as I lament how I wish to fit in. My wife assures me, as only a wife can, that I am a loving and caring individual that will be accepted. I leave my cave, anxious to implement the actions that which will provide the new era of understanding and the foundation for peace and love.

As I float across the country side I notice a damsel in distress. I think to myself, this is the perfect opportunity to start spreading my love. A country woman has been trapped beneath the burden of her wagon; that which has experienced the failure of a wooden wheel. Having the strength of twenty mortals I race over to the wagon and displace its entirety; providing the woman with free passage from her inanimate captor. To my surprise, the woman recoils in fear. Rather than rebutting with a fair woman’s favor she flees with the fright that only I command. I race forward, spinning her around in my arms to assure her there is no danger, and in that instant I hug her. After a minute of the long embrace the country damsel gives in and her body rests in my arms. That’s when I notice the blood running down her neck; I knew I should have trimmed my incisors. Shit.

I move on, eager to prove my worth to the world. I stumble upon a lonely lamb. The lamb is being attacked by a pack of wolves and the end seems near. Dead sheep lay everywhere, it seems the wolves thirst cannot be quenched. I see no sign of the shepherd and am eager to act as the original thirst quencher. I change into a wolf as I have done so many times before and a battle ensues. Typical mortal wolves remain no match for this seasoned creature and soon they retire into the woods. I change back into my man form and walk over to the lamb to ensure its health.

Just then, the shepherd and a mob of townsmen stream out of the woods. They survey the scene and immediately presume the worst. One townsman leaps forward, pitchfork in hand, and exclaims, “there’s the demon that slay my wife!” I was hoping nobody saw that. To make matters worse they’ve stumbled up in the middle of a sheep massacre. Shit.

I duck into the forest and easily lose the angry mob. Eager to regroup and recap the evening’s events I slip into the small town at the edge of the forest for a pint. I duck into the local tavern and assume a table in the corner. After three or four drinks and some serious reconsideration I conclude that tonight simply isn’t my night and I will retire to the comfort that is my coffin. As I exit the venue I here shouting behind me and look back in time to see the bartender waving his arms incessantly as he wails “stop that man, he never paid his tab!” Shit.

Believe me when I say, I am a good creature and I want to co-exist in peace, but you have to understand, this is all very annoying. As I exit the tavern I am met in the town square by the angry mob from the forest and the barkeep with his surly associates. I pause, considering what is good, just and fair. My faith has been tested throughout this Halloween and I consider what my wife would say. I bow down on one knee; I put my hands together and lower my head. I whisper, Lord, bless these men for they know not what they do. I know you hold a place in heaven for these men Lord, or at least I hope so, because they’ll all be heading up there in about 15 seconds.

I rise and unleash a fury that which the region hasn’t seen in a thousand years. My rage is sustained and is not filled until the last man falls. When all are dead I pause, surrounded by the bodies of a hundred fallen settlers. I wonder aloud, “Shit”.

I retire to my cave and my wife is there with arms wide open to greet me. “How did it go honey”, she inquires. I pause and consider my response carefully, “Shitty, maybe I’ll make friends with them next Halloween”.

*****
I sit, jaw agape, knowing not what is appropriate to say. I don’t believe in all of the Halloween stories; however, I know when I’m afraid. The tall, dark, slender creature rose from our table in the small Red Lion bar. He looked me square in the eyes as he glided passed me to leave, he betrothed me “have a shitty Halloween, I know I did.” Just as he was heading out the door of the bar my head whipped around to hear the barkeep shouting, “that bastard didn’t pay his tab!” I grab my pitchfork and race out of the building…

Hope Springs Eternal

Joe is a cock, a small black thin cock. He lives in a very modest area with a very modest man in the dirtiest part of a very modest house. His hygiene is good; however, because of his nature and surroundings, he has an heir of impurity about him. He is a good cock, an honest cock, and a hard working cock. He’s simply had some tough breaks. At the best of times cocks like Joe don’t have a lot of opportunity at their tips. Joe goes about his life, caring for others without the suspicion of rebuttal or expectation of retribution. The things he does in the name of goodness and faith almost always goes unnoticed, which is fine with Joe since it represents the most admirable state of goodness a cock can achieve. Joe the cock can hardly pass a single person without standing up to wave and say hello.

The man Joe the Cock lives with has very little money, subsequently; Joe the Cock has very little money. Most of the time it doesn’t bother him; however, he thinks it would be nice to be presented with opportunity. Most of Joes’ Cock friends and family come from a very dirty and poor background and it would indeed be an honorable thing to provide some of the niceties of life to those he cares about. To this point Joe the Cock operated on a “hope springs eternal” premise; however, he’s starting to realize, so do hemorrhoids.

Joe the Cock went out to by a lottery ticket. He selected his numbers with care and precaution. Choosing the digits from dates and sequences that meant something to him. He poured his heart and sole into that lottery ticket. Even the convenience store clerk stopped to admire Joe the Cock. When he left the store, Joe had the feeling that he might be coming into something good, although he’d have to wait and see.

The next morning Joe the Cock was standing up long before the man he lived with woke up. He was very excited to get out to the convenience store and check his lottery ticket numbers. At the same time, Joe the cock was very careful not to let any of this go to his head.

Joe came home from the convenience store with a new lease on life. Less jaded and entirely more aware of the things he could now do in his life. He planned all the dreams he would make come true for his self and his loved ones. As Joe the Cock walked under the front door of his crumby apartment and ventured over to the dank little shoebox that he lived in with his other Cock friends something happened. Just as he was making his way across the living room floor the man he lived with walked into the room. Joe the Cock was terrified. For no other reason that inspiration and hope and the thought of true happiness for once in his life Joe the Cock had gotten complacent. The man Joe the Cock lived with raced across the room and immediately stomped his foot down on top of Joe the Cock. It was simply one less Cockroach the man would have to deal with. Joe the Cock was dead. Dreams unfilled, family left without him, and the world a worse place for losing a caring individual like him His shoebox lay empty, with all of his miserable little possessions still stashed way in there, never to be used again. In a mere three weeks nobody will remember Joe the Cock, or what he represented.

It doesn’t matter how much money you have or how important you are. Nor does it matter how caring, compassionate or sensitive you are. You can try your very, very best to do what you know in your heart is good and proper and kind. Sometimes it does not matter. There will always, always be someone with a big enough foot that will almost always, without fail, be at the ready to step on your cock, regardless of how good a person you are.

The Night Knights

I know, three in three days. I like to think that a minimum of 2% of you enjoy these updates, so since I’m in the mood, I thought I’d keep writing. Also, there’s no denying what happened these last few days, and I’ve just got to tell the story. I’ve recently had some shitty dreams, and I think I’ve figured out why.

I have stepped up my workout routine. The last few nights I have been walking one city block and running one block in sequence. This process renders me delirious and in a state of utter psychosis. During one of my hallucinogenic episodes in the middle of my run I met an ancient oriental medicine man. While he and I sipped Sake I mentioned to him that I was having vicious nightmares on a routine basis. The medicine man told me a tale of a magical society of people; people of substance and virtue who live and die to serve a single purpose. These people were called Night-Knights. The medicine man assured me that the Night-Knights would comfort me during my evening terrors that had been haunting me. Since this was, in reality, purely a vision, I decided to play along. The medicine man taught me the chant that would summon the Night-Knights. I did not know when I would need to use this chant or summon these Night-Knights; however, I had faith in this medicine man. I finished my run, had a shower, and took a much needed nap. Tonight was the night I would confront my terrible nightmares.

I lay awake that night scouring my bedroom for the source of my shitty dreams. It was well passed 2:00 a.m. when I spotted them. I wasn’t sure that I saw what I thought I saw. Across my room was pile of underwear. Boxers to be precise and they were dirty. The pile was about two feet high and shaped like a pyramid. Its structure resembled the piles of old tires you would see at the junk yard. Dirty boxers stack high in the corner of my room. From under these boxers crawled, what I surmised as, the source of my nightmares.

Little men with spears were crawling from beneath the underwear pile. One by one they filed out. They were exactly 8 inches tall (I know precisely what 8 inches is). Even though they had spears they did not appear tribal at all. Each had slick black hair and wore a black jump suit. They had red belts and small beady eyes. Each of them looked exactly the same save one. The last one to come from under the pile had a towering Mohawk haircut and his jump suit was torn so that his entire arms were bare. He was obviously the leader of this troop and most definitely appeared terrifying. I watched in amazement as they advanced from the underwear pile, along the side wall of my room and under my bed. There must have been twenty of them.

Then it began. I felt there little spears jabbing upward from under my bed. The sensation was familiar yet uncomfortable. I found myself getting drowsy and anxious all at the same time. In that instant, I remembered my foggy discussion with the ancient oriental medicine man, and I began my chant. I chanted and chanted and soon it began. The little black men suddenly fled from under my bed and raced back to the safety of the dirty underwear pile. Hot on their heels I could see another brand of little men, the Night-Knights.

They were slightly smaller than the Underwear-Men, six inches at most (I’m guessing at how much six inches is). They all wore white and had long white dreadlocked hair. Their weapon was a long two handed sword and their belts were yellow. Instead of jumpsuits they wore white robes. They looked like they meant business. The leader of the Night-Knights had a white beard to accompany his locks; he was older and emanated wisdom. Our eyes met, and I knew he was here for the good of mankind. I watched in awe, my eyes only peering from above the covers. The Underwear-Men and the Night-Knights squared off in two separate factions. The Underwear-Men formed two lines of ranks just in front of the underwear pile while the Night-Knights did the same from just under the bed. There was a stale calm in the air. The calm before the storm.

At just the point you thought you had waited too long it happened, the Night-Knights charged hence forth into the ranks of the Underwear-Men. It was a bloody battle straight from the middle ages. Tiny body parts were strewn everywhere. It was like a Barbie convention for psychotic little boys. It couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of minutes; however, it seemed like hours. When the dust cleared all were dead. I surveyed the floor of my room for survivors, there were none? One single soldier marginally raised his arm with great effort; it was the leader of the Night-Knights. He beckoned me over.

I warily crept over to the white leader; careful not to step on any of the evidence. This would obviously need to be preserved as the great discovery it was. I leaned over the old man and he hastened me down to him. I began to feel utterly sad. This great man had come from under my bed to defend my dreams. His race had been around for centuries defending all that was good in the world. His honor, wisdom and valor served as a beacon of hope for people everywhere. People with shitty nightmares. I lifted his tiny body in my trembling hands. I held him close to my teat. He directed my ear down near his lips while he uttered his final words. In his infinite wisdom he whispered “Son, wash your underwear”.

When I woke I wasn’t sure what had happened if anything. I surveyed the room carefully. The only evidence of the previous night’s events was the impeding stack of dirty underwear. Since it was there before the great battle, it could hardly be called evidence.

That day I did laundry, and I haven’t had a shitty dream since.