Hey since I haven’t been active in forever, who wants to hear a story about how I became a local cryptid in my town?
Alright lets do this.
So I live in a small neighborhood kinda thing. Its honestly shaped like someone connected two bongs with a straw that leads out to the street, so very tiny and not a lot of people drive through cause its a dead end, and surrounded by woods Anyways, so it’s Saturday morning, like 3 am and my sister has taken her behemoth of a dog outside.
Little background, this dog is a saint bernard, lab mix, so he big. Hes also amazingly stupid. He’s only three and we got him a year ago so he still does stupid shit all the time. Anyways hes got a long lead line on him, probably 30 ft, so hes off doing whatever and my sister is kinda dazed, still sleepy.
Homeboy fucking TAKES OFF and runs into the woods behind my house, taking that lead with him and a good chunk of my sisters palm skin. Whatever he’s chasing has speed, and hes keeping up with it. So I run outside cause shes screaming his name and start to take off after him. I thought that mother fucker would get caught on a tree due to the lead but nope was I wrong. Now the woods probably go a mile back before they hit road, and then stretch around 5 miles horizontally.
I’m worried this dumb dog is gonna run into the street and get hit, so I run the mile to the street (with my very out of shape body. I honestly thought I was going to die). After like 15 minutes of tripping and trying to make my way through this damn jungle, I get to the street. At this point I still look a human so nothing happens, I dont see him anywhere, and I run back to the house cause I’ve realized I’m in a tank top and boxer shorts with no shoes and its tick season. So I change into a big ass sweatshirt and sweat pants and boots even though its almost 90 degrees out because I do not want to have to deal with ticks.
After chugging some water I take back off, this time going horizontally. I caught sight of something running so I took off, yelling my brains out, managing to sprain my ankle and rip half my hair outta my ponytail in the process. Around a mile down I lose sight of it so I turn and hike the mile back to the street just to make sure it didn’t go that way.
After that I go back to my house, and then return to the spot where i last saw him and continue walking till I’m like 2 ½ miles away.
So my trip so far has been
1 mile to street > 1 mile home > 1 mile horizontally > 1 mile to street > 2 miles home > 2 ½ miles horizontally
So I’m about ready to die. I’m covering in blood from smashing my arm, one of my eyes has turned red cause a stick poked it, I’ve got a limp, I’m breathing like a dragon with asthma, and I’m covering in leaves and sticks.
I start yelling his name again and hear a bark in the distance so I take off and after like 5 minutes I spot him. He is now howling like a banshee in distress. I book it towards his dumb ass and practically tackle him, which ended up with me covered in a random assortment of shit. Cool, whatever. His leash is tied around two trees so I unravel it and he pounces on me in relief. He’s salivating like crazy so I take him to a stream near by to let him drink.
Mother fucker pulls me in. I’m too tired to be pissed. At this point now that I’m calming down I realize my boots are now soaking wet with both blood and water. I’ve got several scars on my thigh and they all got ripped open. So I’m gushing blood like no tomorrow. I soak my jacket in water and put it on this stupid dog so he wont get burnt on the way back and itll be a bit cooler. So now he looks even bigger then usual. I take my shoes off and toss them over my neck and we’re about to start the trek back when he takes off AGAIN. This time I’m holding the leash and I do not let go. He ends up slipping on a mud bank and taking me with him. With are now covered head to toe in mud, shit, dirt, blood, and whatever the hell else is in those woods.
Some how he has ended up with no major wounds, but now I have a rock lodged in my forehead and blood in my eyes. And my shoes are gone. Whatever, I just want to get home. I pick a direction and walk until I end up in the back yard of someone who lives down the street.
Lucky for me, this person has barbed wire in their back yard on the ground for some reason, which I trip on. Now I have barbed wire practically wrapped around me like some crazy fashion statement. I wanted to get home so bad I didn’t even bother to rip it off. I’d do that later and return it to the guy or whatever.
So now its like 6am, so its dark, but you can still see, and its dead quiet. I pull my sisters dog along with me, holding his collar so he can’t take off again. So heres me, covered in blood, mud, and barbed wire, limping down the street, no shoes on, with a large dog wearing a jacket, which, from a distance, you cant tell. Now I smell like whatever was in those woods, and it is a strong smell, so as I walk by any house with a dog outside, that dog starts barking. Eventually the quiet is replaced with dogs howling, barking, snarling at me. I eventually make it back to my house, but not before passing a dude getting his newspaper or whatever. He’s a good distance away from me and he hesitantly calls out asking if I’m okay. I respond with “yeah” but I’ve been yelling for like 3 hours straight so it comes out as ungodly rasp. He goes right the fuck back in his house.
I get home, get cleaned up, get the dog cleaned up, and everythings fine. UNTIL a couple nights later my mom goes to a neighborhood meeting thing and hears an interesting story.
Turns out, there had been a black bear in the woods near my house, which people had been keeping an eye out for, but instead they saw (what they thought) was a “humanoid figure covered in spikes dragging a bear covered in blood around by its neck”
For the next few weeks people were talking about how they heard the “horrific screeching” and how there was blood all down the streets and on the trees. The dude who asked if I was okay was telling everybody that the “thing” growled at him and he could see it had blood red eyes.
So now theres a rumor about a demon with razor sharp tendrils who feeds on wild animals by slashing them open and drinking their blood. Rumor states that you’ll hear it before you see it, and the sound it makes sounds like a howl and a scream. People later found my boots covered in blood and said it was a “victim” of the demon. A week later a house that was being built caught fire and that was blamed on me, as well as an accident where someone swerved to avoid something and crashed through a house. The stream turned blood red after some heavy rainfall, which was due to the mud, but also blamed on me and some more screeching was heard for a couple nights (coyotes most likely). Due to people “spotting” the demon (which was either their imagination or the actual bear) the rumor grew and grew so now its famous in my neighborhood.
So yeah thats how I became a “bear killing demon” in my neighborhood. I never corrected anyone because I was too embarrassed.
My friend told me a story he hadn’t told anyone for years. When he used to tell it years ago people would laugh and say, ‘Who’d believe that? How can that be true? That’s daft.’ So he didn’t tell it again for ages. But for some reason, last night, he knew it would be just the kind of story I would love.
When he was a kid, he said, they didn’t use the word autism, they just said ‘shy’, or ‘isn’t very good at being around strangers or lots of people.’ But that’s what he was, and is, and he doesn’t mind telling anyone. It’s just a matter of fact with him, and sometimes it makes him sound a little and act different, but that’s okay.
Anyway, when he was a kid it was the middle of the 1980s and they were still saying ‘shy’ or ‘withdrawn’ rather than ‘autistic’. He went to London with his mother to see a special screening of a new film he really loved. He must have won a competition or something, I think. Some of the details he can’t quite remember, but he thinks it must have been London they went to, and the film…! Well, the film is one of my all-time favourites, too. It’s a dark, mysterious fantasy movie. Every single frame is crammed with puppets and goblins. There are silly songs and a goblin king who wears clingy silver tights and who kidnaps a baby and this is what kickstarts the whole adventure.
It was ‘Labyrinth’, of course, and the star was David Bowie, and he was there to meet the children who had come to see this special screening.
‘I met David Bowie once,’ was the thing that my friend said, that caught my attention.
‘You did? When was this?’ I was amazed, and surprised, too, at the casual way he brought this revelation out. Almost anyone else I know would have told the tale a million times already.
He seemed surprised I would want to know, and he told me the whole thing, all out of order, and I eked the details out of him.
He told the story as if it was he’d been on an adventure back then, and he wasn’t quite allowed to tell the story. Like there was a pact, or a magic spell surrounding it. As if something profound and peculiar would occur if he broke the confidence.
It was thirty years ago and all us kids who’d loved Labyrinth then, and who still love it now, are all middle-aged. Saddest of all, the Goblin King is dead. Does the magic still exist?
I asked him what happened on his adventure.
‘I was withdrawn, more withdrawn than the other kids. We all got a signed poster. Because I was so shy, they put me in a separate room, to one side, and so I got to meet him alone. He’d heard I was shy and it was his idea. He spent thirty minutes with me.
‘He gave me this mask. This one. Look.
‘He said: ‘This is an invisible mask, you see?
‘He took it off his own face and looked around like he was scared and uncomfortable all of a sudden. He passed me his invisible mask. ‘Put it on,’ he told me. ‘It’s magic.’
‘And so I did.
‘Then he told me, ‘I always feel afraid, just the same as you. But I wear this mask every single day. And it doesn’t take the fear away, but it makes it feel a bit better. I feel brave enough then to face the whole world and all the people. And now you will, too.
‘I sat there in his magic mask, looking through the eyes at David Bowie and it was true, I did feel better.
‘Then I watched as he made another magic mask. He spun it out of thin air, out of nothing at all. He finished it and smiled and then he put it on. And he looked so relieved and pleased. He smiled at me.
‘’Now we’ve both got invisible masks. We can both see through them perfectly well and no one would know we’re even wearing them,’ he said.
‘So, I felt incredibly comfortable. It was the first time I felt safe in my whole life.
‘It was magic. He was a wizard. He was a goblin king, grinning at me.
‘I still keep the mask, of course. This is it, now. Look.’
I kept asking my friend questions, amazed by his story. I loved it and wanted all the details. How many other kids? Did they have puppets from the film there, as well? What was David Bowie wearing? I imagined him in his lilac suit from Live Aid. Or maybe he was dressed as the Goblin King in lacy ruffles and cobwebs and glitter.
What was the last thing he said to you, when you had to say goodbye?
‘David Bowie said, ‘I’m always afraid as well. But this is how you can feel brave in the world.’ And then it was over. I’ve never forgotten it. And years later I cried when I heard he had passed.’
My friend was surprised I was delighted by this tale.
‘The normal reaction is: that’s just a stupid story. Fancy believing in an invisible mask.’
A really harrowed-looking man who was probably in his 60s came into the shop today. He was wearing a gold-colored tie that kept sliding down the side of his neck because it was tied very poorly, and a rumpled light blue dress shirt. I did not see his legs or shoes. Part-time cashiers are sometimes just not afforded the luxury.
We said hello to each other as I scanned his items (diet coke and a nature valley granola bar- $2.69), me sounding more interested than usual just because he sounded so out-of breath and very engaged in his purchase. Also maybe because I could not see his shoes.
“How’s your life going?” He suddenly asked, swiping his card, not casually but almost pleadingly curious.
“Uhm, all right I s’pose” I said, too startled to think of a more cheery lie.
He nodded somberly. “Me too… I guess.” He paused and looked at me for a minute and then just said “it’s a Monday, ya know.”
“Mondays are like this sometimes” I supplied, feeling like we were having a really weird conversation hidden under the one that was actually taking place.
And then he left. I forgot to look at his shoes.
PART II
Honestly I had no idea that I would ever have the privilege of writing a sequel to this post. I considered it an odd moment, an interaction that changed me in a way, but a fleeting one. I automatically assumed our paths would never cross again, there was such a finality to that window of time on Monday August 22nd of 2016. And yet.
He returned.
I didn’t truly notice him come in, glancing up from whatever menial and already forgotten task I was busy with, but not registering who it was or why he seemed to put out an aura of familiarity. It had been weeks and I haven’t even caught a glimpse of him; the memory of Monday August 22nd of 2016 had faded like a dream. But lo he appeared before me, dressed in exactly the same fashion that made him look like he had just crawled out of carwash (albeit with a pink shirt and purple tie this go-around.)
His face lit up when he saw me, again holding a diet coke and a nature valley granola bar. ‘How is your day going?’ He asked earnestly.
‘Pretty well.’ I said, professionally containing myself, “how are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good” he said, sounding more cheerful than before but just as harried. When I handed him back his change and items and he looked like he was going to cry.
“Thank you” he whispered with a look of reverence I have only seen on the faces of ancient church members receiving the eucharist.
“It’s no trouble,” I promised, trying not to look perplexed.
He bowed (LITERALLY BOWED) and then made a hurried exit stage left, reminiscent of Lear just before the second act, halfway into madness.
A Lear I had again forgotten to note the footwear of.
PART. 3.
Okay I’m not even bothering with the pretentious Hemingway style for this one; I’m still reeling over the fact that he came back after four months AND on a Friday instead of a Monday no less.
Notes:
He was wearing literally the exact same shirt and tie he had on from part one, only with an orange sweater and fancy jacket over the ensemble to indicate that it was winter
He bought Lay’s sour cream and onion potato chips this time instead of his standard granola bar, but the diet coke was as usual
He told me that he always felt guilty for buying snack food but ‘you have to do what you have to do’
He then smiled sadly at me and said ‘enjoy your weekend… If you can.’
I sat in stunned, unblinking silence for about six minutes until a customer came up and looked me over worriedly
Who is this man
WHY DO I KEEP FORGETTING TO LOOK AT HIS SHOES
Part Four
First thing’s first,
Probably about two years of wear on them but otherwise well cared for. Socks were white, which I was only able to notice because this human being has zero clothes that fit and his pant cuffs were hovering about 3 inches away from his shoes. I keep thinking his outfits can’t possibly get any better, but this one takes the cake:
Crumpled white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gigantic scarf that looked as though it were made out of mouldy carpet, neon orange striped tie, and a matching neon orange plastic digital watch that probably came out of a box of honeycombs back in 1988.
He did not grace me with his odd conversational charm today, but I received something better. A clue.
Today he was buying a red notebook and three ballpoint pens instead of snacks (which was questionable but this is a Thursday we’re talking about; the day that falls on the chaotic spectrum and which I am known for my overzealous distrust of), and when he pulled out his luxury black Mastercard to pay for his items he said eight words which shook me to my very core.
“I do get a staff discount on these.”
This has never come up before because discount plans don’t apply to food items. I have no need to ask the identity of a man buying a granola bar and a diet coke. But now.
I didn’t speak as I handed him his receipt, just nodded courteously. Only staff members know about the specific discount so I had no real need to ask for an ID for proof, and I was cursing my mistake in not asking for it anyway.
I must find this man. I have been here for three years and yet have only seen him within the confines of the store at odd intervals. I’ve never even seen him step into the store, or leave (another customer is somehow always in line behind him and demanding my attention.) I spent half an hour going through the college’s entire staff directory this afternoon… and may have found something. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, I am not yet certain and will have to gather a few more items of information, but for the first time I can promise a part to follow. Perhaps, an ending.
Cinq
Not an ending of any sort, but a very brief update from the field. My work schedule has changed since January and I was honestly beginning to wonder if I wouldn’t see the man again until the fall, as it’s been more than two months now. He startled me quite a bit when he literally blew in as if by a gust of wind right as my shift was ending.
He was in quite a hurry and only bought a diet coke ($1.50) before blustering(?) off, giving me no chance to run an investigation or perception check, but if fashion checks were a thing…
Please imagine, if you will, a man wearing a yellow polka-dot tie that was not even tied, an orange scarf, the watch mentioned in my previous entry, khakis, a bright periwinkle shirt… and an impeccably matching woolen periwinkle cape. He was also carrying a very large black satchel with tartan lining, every single pocket of which was unzipped.
He looked like a hedge wizard.
I want answers.
6.
I found him.
Masters in theology from Harvard
Distinguished professor of philosophy
God-tier identification photo; I cannot believe that I have not been hallucinating this man for the past 12 months and 41 days.
I just got off the phone with mom, and we came to the realization that my family has lived in a series of unplottable houses for a couple generations now.
-The First Unplottable House is on my dad’s side of the family, in Delphi, Iowa. The directions to it are the stuff of Buried Treasure: Turn off the county road with a fraction in it’s name, to the Named Dirt Road, then turn at The Discount Eggs Sign on to the Unnamed dirt road that takes a meandering path THROUGH a corn field, DO NOT take any forks on that road or the farmer will shoot your ass, then take the paved road that dead-ends on ALL the way to the end- No, farther, the road keeps going it’s not a cliff-The only indication that You Have Arrived At The Correct Driveway is that a fat gray pony will charge the car, screaming, then escort you the rest of the way there.
It’s on the side of an enormous river, they’ve owned the property since 1911, and that’s the ONLY route there.
-The Second Unplottable house is in Bedford, Ohio and belonged to my mother’s parents. It’s at the corner of two side-streets, right across from the tiny Italian grocery store. Due to strange development decisions, the house is about 30 feet above street level and rendered invisible by a chestnut tree so majestic Hyao Myazaki would probably put it in a movie. The driveway, however, is VERY visible from any of the surrounding houses, the grocer, or the street.
At least in theory and old photos, becuase if you actually GO there, your eyes slide right past it to the neighbor’s lillac bush, or to the retro neons of the grocery store or up the Chestnut tree. it is literally HARD to look at that driveway, all the world around it wants to pull you away.
-The Third Unplottable house is in Salinas, CA, home of my paternal grandparents. It is the single most BORING house possible- like, if you were to ask a third-grader to draw a prototypical house, they would draw my grandparent’s house. Utterly Unremarkable.
Except for the part where my Grandfather, spurred by his success with the “non-fruiting” peach tree, decided to plant a California Redwood Tree, and it grew to approximately 150 feet over the course of a few short decades. It is the tallest damn thing for miles around, and SOMEHOW deliveries keep being missed, mail is delivered to the neighbors, and any non-blood family that tried to visit would end up on the other side of town.
-The Fourth Unplottable House was the one I grew up in CA. The Directions to it are as follows: It’s the Bright Orange house Right Across From The School. You know, the one with six flamingos and the Volunteer Avacado Tree.
SOMEHOW, we got everyone’s mail but OURS (we still wonder about the letter from Fort Knox for Mr. Thomas Saxophone), the other kids got lost trying to visit and ended up in Mr.Phan’s yard on the other end of the block. Officer Brown, Mom and Dad’s friend, who had GPS back in the early 90′s becuase silicon valley, regularly got lost looking for our place. The Flamingos did nothing.
-My parent’s current house is the second house on the right after two right turns off the state highway that runs through town. Sounds easy, right?
Except that due to a couple small trees and a bend in the road, the house is invisible from the road. I have to stand out in the road if i want my pizza delivered. The Mailman is the only person who could reliably find the box, but he drives a subaru that’s older than my sister from the passenger side by leaning over, and delivers mail based on the aztec lunar calendar, so he’s probably not actually human. I tried to host a party, tied rainbow balloons to the mailbox, and all nine friends had to be waved in from the street.
-My current apartment building Does Not Exist, according to my Bank, medicaid, Google, and City Hall which was a bit exciting when I first moved in and had to call everyone that yes, I was sitting in a building that really exists.
Unless it’s my classmates, becuase they can apparently come to parties I don’t host. This Friday I had a friend telling me she had a great time at my place last Teusday… when I was home alone. She assures me that I held a houseparty with “Those polish things you make” (I make great mini klatchky, but haven’t served them to her) and that “You were definitely there, we talked about Carvaggio and you drive me home”
The only thing that offers any explanation is that you were drunk at the anecdote about your recent house party 🎉 nothing else is explainable
I’m deathly allergic to alcohol, and was definitely at home alone, emailing a former professor about werewolves. Got the chatlog and everything.
Guliya’s roommate recalls me dropping her off at the dorms, which is really peculiar. Another classmate, Jeff, was at the party with Guliya, and they thought it was my place too. Jeff is a jackass and I’d never invite him to my place.
God, I hope I don’t have another doppelganger.
… /another/ doppelganger???
The year is 2014, October. I have the beginnings of what will prove to be a rotten cold, and I decide to take the precaution of getting an enormous bowl of Pho from my local Vietnamese place in hopes of staving off another respiratory infection.
No sooner do I set foot in the door, and Mrs. Nguyen snaps up and shrieks YOU!! and I am much distressed and confused, because I adore Mrs. Nguyen. She kept My Intended alive last passover when the cafeteria covered literally everything in flour.
She insists that some time in august I had dined with a large group of friends and then skipped out on a $200 dollar tab. This is even more distressing and also impossible, as I had been in Oregon at the time, and only have like 3 IRL friends. She is livid, and absolutely insistent that it was me, and that I pay the tab or she’ll call the police. Being very distressed and not eager to have a panic attack in front of police, I pay up $216.87 and am banned forever. I go home in tears, without my Pho and am very sick for a fortnight.
Two months later, it’s Polish Butter Christmas, and I locate the source of my woes.
Polish Butter Christmas is the invention of my Intended’s friend/domesticated internet troll, where everyone deemed a friend or at least interesting party diversion is invited to their house and we all consume massive amounts of Traditional Polish Cooking, which is about 60% butter by weight. everyone eats way too much, most people also get shitfaced and i usually end up on the floor playing with 4-6 corgis, depending on who’s invited that year. in 2014, it was all six of them, rustling under the table like a pack of obese furry sausages.
Among the guests invited are myself, my Intended, The Troll’s girlfriend, and her friend. The latter is 5′2″, whiter than mayonnaise, with bright purple hair and green glasses. I also am 5′2″, glow under black lights, had bright purple hair and still have green glasses. We learn furthermore, that we have the same first name and live on the same side of town. This is laughed off as Most Amusing, at first.
The celebration goes on, and I become steadily less amused as I learn that Not-Me is a BITCH. Racist jokes, yelling at the dogs to make them cower becuase “They look so funny!”, and generally abrasive and cruel. Everyone is uncomfortable and Troll confides quietly to me in the kitchen that she is not invited next year, but needs an excuse to throw her out, or his dad will have a fit. Troll’s family is as much a gang of cryptids as mine, and cannot go around Un-Inviting people without Due Cause. So we agree to suffer quietly and laugh about it next year.
Eventually, the conversation turns to “Youthful Shenanigans”, and while most people have the sense to tell stories where they did something dumb but not actually illegal, Not-Me recounts with utter glee “That time me and my hoes dine-and-dashed that one chink place hahaha”
I suddenly put two and two together and realize that This Bitch Has Personally Wronged Me.
“You CUNT.” I tell her, furious at the realization ad the fact that she’s been steadily ruining Polish Butter Christmas for the last three hours. “Mrs. Nguyen thinks I did that! I HAD TO PAY THE TAB!”
“Oh, uh my bad, haha…” She laughed awkwardly.
“HA. YES. FUNNY. WE ARE GOING TO THE PLACE, YOU ARE APOLOGIZING TO MRS. NGUYEN AND PAYING ME BACK YOU INSUFFERABLE BITCH.” I yelled, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the door, Corgis yapping excitedly at our ankles.
“Whaa? No! fuck you!” She said, winching her arm out of my grip and doing an amazing four-inch-heel-sprint for the bathroom, locking herself in.
She has made a rather serious error in the Troll is both 1. a 6′6″ Sasquatch of a man, and 2. TOTALLY WILLING to take a crowbar to the bathroom window he’d been planning on renovating anyway, esp if it mean he gets to haul a bitch out and toss her into the back of the minivan with the three least-obese corgis, so that we may drive her, sobbing about injustice the whole way.
Nothing in my life will ever be so satisfying as dragging Not-Me into Pho 67, and seeing the look of horror and recognition cross Mrs. Nguyen’s face as she realized what had happened, then having Not-Me withdraw the money from the ATM at the front.
We then returned to Polish Butter Christmas and had a splendid time feeding buttered pork to the corgis.
But you see why I am loathe to deal with another one.
Every sentence that gets added just reinforces that this is a Neil Gaiman story in the Sandman universe near the Ocean at the end of the Lane.
And no one’s gonna question the werewolf email to Prof?
Congratulations on being the first person to ask about the werewolves! Prof Hoffman teaches a course called Freaks And Monsters, which was THE BEST literature course I’ve ever taken and she was the first person to get my idiot brain to understand symbolism.
I’m writing a book about Crypids In America and was emailing her to see if she had any recommended reading for me, and to introduce her to my Botany professor becuase I think they’d be friends. She was a little late replying to me becuase she’s in Rome documenting gargoyles, but she and Botany prof are planning an expedition to Moscow to retrieve a book for rare mushroom plates before the crazy cat lady who’s keeping it accidentally destroys them.
You sure the party doppelganger is not the same doppelganger as Bitch Doppelganger?
THANK YOU FOR ASKING BECAUSE I HAVE AN UPDATE.
So last night I’m out walking Charlie at 2AM becuase it was the first break in the lightning we’d had since 6PM, and I go around the corner and literally for half second I thought I was about to walk into a mirror becuase I found my local doppelganger and this time it’s WEIRD.
I’ve got weird curly brown hair that goes kind of Bride-Of-Frankenstein when it gets long, have a weird hound mix from AZ, and am art major with a science background. I grew up in the bay area and moved to CO in middle school. I’m a night owl with a bad habit of signing up for morning classes. I’ve got a super-common first and middle name, and a less-common irish surname. I’m in 105D
SHE has got the same hair and face, her dog is a weird hound mix that’s like a paletteswap of charlie also from AZ, possibly the same ranch, She’s a biology major with an art minor, grew up in CO and moved to the bay area in middle school, is a morning person with afternoon classes. We have the same first and middle names, in reverse order, and she has the other spelling of my last name. She’s in 105A.
Statistically, some of this is not surprising- both combinations of names are common, and there was a lot of cross-traffic between CO and CA in 2004, all Rez dogs are shaped the same, and Art/science isn’t that odd a major/minor combo.
She did throw that party back in novemeber, and I was much relived, and she was glad to find out I exist- We’ve somehow gotten into the same circle of art/science/queer friends without meeting up, and Guliya was bugging her telling stories of My Shenanigans, and attributing them to her.
We’ve arranged a coffee-date with Gulia and are gonna show up in the same outfit just to fuck with her.
I am now following you just because I don’t want to miss finding out what happened with the coffee date.
Oh my Zod. ::also follows::
How old is this post? Did the coffee date happen? Has Guliya’s head asploded? I must know!
Yes, I too must know.
Also I live near Bedford and really want to find this house that has a driveway with an SEP field generator.
IIIIIIITS MOTHAFUKKEN UPDATE TIME!!
So the date got put off for a bit because of school issues, but Doppelganger and I managed to coordinate outfits and met up at the local coffee place half an hour before Guliya arrives, and plan our strategy.
This coffeehouse has bathrooms located at the end of a U-shaped hallway, so I was going to wait in the hall and Doppelganger in the main part of the cafe. After a bit of chatting, D would get up to use the restroom and we’d swap places. The idea was to see how many times we could swap before Guliya noticed something was amiss. I hear Guliya arrive, and wait.
After about 15 minutes, D comes down the hall, gives me a quick update on the convo so far- the self-inflicted-illness of a professor and the astonishing number of bears about- and I go out.
Guliya notices NOTHING.
We talk more about bears and the terrifying lack of life skills some freshmen have and I go back, complaining of bladder issues. D and I swap places 3 more times like this, before Guliya notices that we seem to be ill and she can recommend a specialist, so we decide to end the game. We both walk out while Guliiya is texting someone and sit down across from her.
Knowledge is often described as “dawning’ on people, the soft illumination of understanding. This was like watching someone get caught by the totality of an unscheduled eclipse. She looked up from her phone, delighted to continue the conversation and watching her face collapse into wall-eyed horror is something that I will treasure for ages.
“There are two of you!”
“Yes!” We said, in unintentional creepy unison.
She stared at us for a few moments, surprise giving way to puzzlement, then, relief.
“Thank Fuck.” She sighed. “I was beginning to wonder when the hell you slept.”
Apparently she had conflated out two identities into some sort of double-major two-jobs constantly-awake superbeing and had been worried about keeping up with Us.
“I mean I don’t anyway. I have terrible insomnia.” I said, unhelpfully.
“Which one of you has the rant about Carvaggio?” She asked.
“That’s both of us.”
“And the one who nearly got eaten by bears?”
“Still both of us.”
“Well how am I supposed to tell you apart?” She grumbled.
“I’m the one passed out on the chemistry building couch, they’re the one on the figure-drawing couch.” D offered.
“We can only sleep when surrounded by dangerous chemicals and poor judgement.” I explained.
“It reminds us of our home dimension of Madness.” D continued.
“Fuck both of you, and any other of you out there.” said Gulia, downing more macchiato for strength.
“Don’t be mean to 27.” I said.
“He had nothing to do with this.” D continued.
Guliya snorted macchiato out of her nose at that one. We apologized, she thought it was hilarious and now D is #9 and I’m #426.
I swear to god this is THE best ask so far. How angry you were at the beginning and throughout . The fact that her incredibly blatant lie was just taken from hey arnold. “The sun cooked it and then the moon melted it again” i swear to you anon this is art and i am crying
Okay kids pull up a chair and learn how Auntie Systlin took her chemistry minor and habit of collecting neat virgin glassware and figured out how to brew potentially lethal hyper-espresso in her kitchen.
This is going to be long as hell so I’ll put the goods after the cut.
Note that this evolved from doing my best to figure out how to approximate Funranium Lab’s Black Blood of the Earth brew. I’d read the glowing reviews online, but being naturally cheap, couldn’t quite bring myself to drop the $$$.
And then my eyes wandered to my shelf of virgin labware equipment and I went “Hey…I bet I can just make my own.”
Based on Herr Direktor’s notes on the Funranium labs website, I tinkered and fooled about and eventually came up with my own brew that, if not Black Blood of the Earth, will punch you in the face and leave you smelling colors.
I also feel compelled to state that this drink should never ever be combined with an equal portion of vodka for a concoction known as “Death Shots”, however oddly tasty the combination is.
Unless you’re @simonalkenmayer and are immune to most forms of poison, of course.
you are now all trapped in my vast puzzle dungeon. good luck.
Can I get a hint
HINT MOUSE SAYS: *in a little squeaky voice* collect the silver rod from fabio’s grotto and bring it to the bridge of malice. be sure to talk to “knight doogle” on the way.
*hint mouse scurries away into a nearby hole*
i go to fabios grotto
*you hear the sound of distant strained moaning, followed by the creaking of something getting up from an old wooden chair. something is approaching you.*
FABIO: welcome to my grotto.
I say hello to Fabio, and ask them if they have a Silver rod?
FABIO: silver rod? oh….
*fabio dissappears into his grotto and rummages around in his back room. he is gone for quite some time and hasn’t offered you anything to eat or drink, so you just stand around in his home feeling really awkward. what if he lives with relatives and they come out and say something to you?*
FABIO: sorry that took so long. here’s my silver rod. now that i remember i have it at all, it’s my most treasured posession. you’ll have to offer me something for it
i offer to knit fabio a nice hat, for when the grotto gets drafty in the wintertime.
FABIO: what a wonderful hat. thank you.
I thank Fabio for his help, and leave the Grotto to head for the Bridge of Malice.
*fabio snatches the silver rod back from you and hits you across the room with it like a baseball bat*
FABIO: help??? what help? we never reached a deal. i was simply thanking you for such a lovely hat. i demand more.
i give fabio two shoes made for dancing.
*fabio slips his new dancing shoes on. his socks are a bit wet so it makes a funny fart noise*
FABIO: wonderful boots! *fabio does an embarrassing dance move with all the coordination of a dead windmill but he’s having fun so you’re encouraging towards him* FABIO: but…it’s still not enough for me to part with my beloved rod…
I give Fabio a big pair of glasses for his big beautiful eyes.
FABIO: my magnificent glistening eyes have been magnified by these lovely glasses! i can see my treasured silver rod better than ever now and it’s even more beautiful than i thought. it’ll take something really special for me to part with this..
I go ask Doogle for help
*fabio cackles and waves as you excuse yourself from his grotto, which was easier than expected because fabio seems more interested in the gifts he has recieved than your company at the moment, and head back towards the guard tower you actually passed on your way but didn’t notice until now*
*as you approach the tower, a metal face peeks around the corner*
KNIGHT DOOGLE: huh? what? who goes there? i left my spear in the tower but if you’re up to no good i will really go back and get it. i’m really tough.
I remove Doogle’s helmet.
*you catch doogle off guard the moment he nervously breaks eye contact with you and lift off his helmet*
KNIGHT DOOGLE: ah! my helmet! i needed that to protect my head from attacks! why did you do that?
*doogle paces around a small radius of a few feet looking very worried*
knight doogle you are beautiful
KNIGHT DOOGLE: huh? oh, thank you, that’s very sweet. but you didn’t have to just take off my helmet like that, you could have asked first. i feel so embarrased now. *doogle shuffles back to his tower like a sad sneaking tree, and then returns, armed with a spear*
KNIGHT DOOGLE: sorry, i hope this isn’t threatening to you. i have lost all my confidence so i’m just holding this as a comfort item.
Wanna help us Get Fabio’s Silver Rod?
KNIGHT DOOGLE: fabio’s silver rod? he’ll forget about it in a week or two, he always forms fleeting attachments to things. but if you need it sooner rather than later, there’s one thing he has always desired above anything else…all i can tell you about it is that it’s small, yellow, and quite helpful.
we call hint mouse for help
*from a nearby hole, you and doogle both watch a creature, that’s small, yellow, and helpful scamper towards you. it’s the ever so helpful HINT MOUSE!!!*
*a round of applause and cheering is heard*
HINT MOUSE: *in a little squeaky voice* ahem ahem… it is me, a mouse am i! i only tell truths and i never lie! reliable, helpful, and handsome to boot! for all of your labour, i am the fruit!
*hint mouse looks around, hoping you’re all impressed by his new rhyming speech thing he’s trying out. rhyming is hard for mice because poetry is frowned upon in mouse culture*
I clap politely in appreciation of his speech and ask him if he would like to come visit Fabio with us
HINT MOUSE: thank you, i really appreciate the support. i will happily come and visit fabio with you…oh, sorry, hang on.
*hint mouse clears his throat*
HINT MOUSE: i’m always here for you, that’s my motto. so i shall accompany you to fabio’s grotto! you’ve supported me in all my life choices you’re a lifelong friend to all little…moices!
*he messed up a little at the end, but he did really well, all things considering. you, doogle, and hint mouse arrive again at fabio’s grotto, however the door is closed, though not locked.*
i knock politely and ask if Fabio is home
*your knock on the door echos throughout the surrounding area, and you can hear a familiar voice call to you from inside*
FABIO: come on in…so long as you’re not a greedy thief…yee hee hee…
I smile warmly at hint mouse, look knowingly at knight doogle, and gently push open the door
*the door opens, but it required quite a shove, as it feels like something is in the way. as you step into his grotto, hundreds of items are strewn across the floor.
FABIO: oh….welcome back…! since you’ve been gone, people have been laying items at my feet, all to get my beloved silver rod! it must be truly valuable..or truly blessed! as long as i have it, i’ll become the richest man in the caves! gah hah hah!
I turn to hint mouse and ask him to recite Fabio a poem that’ll blow his socks (and newly acquired shoes) off
*hint mouse looks back at you and nods, then leaps from your hand, hopping lightly from object to object across the room. fabio is so engorged on avarice that he’s already forgotten that you entered the room at all.*
HINT MOUSE: *gets fabios attention by briefly playing on a tiny flute*
the room is silent. hint mouse owns the stage now.
HINT MOUSE: ahem ahem!
you’ve gathered yourself quite a collection! but now youve…oh…uhh…ah!! (why did i end a verse with “collection”?? this is awful…what should i do?)
I whisper ‘correction…dejection…direction…. affection’ to HINT MOUSE out of the corner of my mouth, with the realization that his hint-giving generosity has taught me how to give hints to others myself
*hint mouse is re-energized with the inspiration he needs to finish his poem*
HINT MOUSE: you’ve assembled yourself quite a collection! but i have arrived to give you affection. your riches are piled right up to the cieling but deep down i know you suffer with a feeling. (feels awkward but…i can keep going! everyone believes in me!) you’re cooped up in here and you’re all alone just yourself, a rod, and an old wooden throne it doesn’t have to be that way, you don’t have to be bleak let me introduce myself, i’m hint mouse, squeak squeak! in exchange for the rod, i’ll be your best friend a little yellow creature who you can always depend!
*applause is heard yet again, the crowd is going hog wild.*
*fabio takes a gentle tumble down his tower of riches and cradles hint mouse in his arms*
FABIO:
hint mouse…that was beautiful. you’d do all that just to help an old
man? you’re truly the best treasure i could ever ask for, i’ll cherish
our friendship forever…
FABIO: thank you so much all of you. i have no need for material goods anymore. the silver rod is yours to take!
*you obtained the silver rod at last!*
i bring the silver rod to the bridge of malice
*you and doogle leave fabio’s grotto, silver rod in tow. fabio and hint mouse wave goodbye to and live the rest of their lives in peace.*
*as you walk towards malice bridge, doogle turns to you.*
KNIGHT DOOGLE: sorry i didn’t say or do much back there…what happened was really beautiful though.
*knight doogle stops and thinks for a second, his ears and hair sway in the breeze and it looks so cool*
KNIGHT DOOGLE: i’ve spent my whole adult life just guarding my tower selfishly, but people like hint mouse do so much to help others. once this is over i’m going to change my lifestyle, i’ll give up the knight life.
*you enjoy the rest of your walk with doogle, and eventually arrive at malice bridge, which despite the name, is actually pretty ordinary. at the other end of the bridge, light from the surface trickles down, the way out.*
*suddenly, the air around you grows cold, a shiver travels up your spine, and a giant shimmering monster appears out of nowhere*
SILVER GUARDIAN: YOUR JOURNEY IS ALMOST OVER, TRAVELLERS! I AM THE MASTER OF MALICE BRIDGE! HAVE YOU SEEN MY MISSING FINGER ANYWHERE?
present the silver rod (or finger, i guess?) to the silver guardian! ask he how lost it, too, if it proves to be his
*the silver guardian rattles and shakes with glee*
SILVER GUARDIAN: MY FINGER! MY PRECIOUS DIGIT! OH…I LOST IT BECAUSE I WAS POKING AROUND IN MOUSE HOLES LOOKING FOR HINT MOUSE, BUT A LESS HELPFUL MOUSE STOLE IT…
*the silver guardian reattaches its finger, which is gross, so you look away while it does that*
SILVER GUARDIAN: NOW HUMAN….ARE YOU READY TO LEARN THE TRUE PURPOSE OF THE SILVER ROD?
*you tremble as the silver guardian does some really confusing poses with its hand, not entirely sure where it’s going with this.*
SILVER GUARDIAN: HEH HEH HEH….TO CROSS THE BRIDGE YOU GO IN THIS DIRECTION!!!!
*as you cross the bridge to the outside world, the rocky walls of the dungeon give way to fields and forests.at the middle of the bridge, you turn back, and all of your friends are there, and now they are all friends with each other all thanks to you.*
HINT MOUSE: go ahead and be free! meeting you has filled me with glee! FABIO: you have people waiting for you out there, go and be with them! DOOGLE: i’ll never forget our adventure, you can keep my helmet to remember me! SILVER GUARDIAN: I DIDN’T REALLY GET TO KNOW YOU THAT WELL TO BE HONEST BUT YOU SEEM COOL. THANK YOU FOR FINDING MY FINGER!
*you turn around for the last time, and step outside*
A Volunteer Avocado is when you mom was raised in Cleveland by people with only a passing relationship with fruit but a tremendous interest in both urban agriculture and not paying for things, so she can’t stand to get rid of a perfectly good avocado seed, so she gets it to germinate in a mason jar on the kitchen counter, then plants it in the front yard to see if it’ll actually grow but your house is on what used to be a chicken farm so it’s got stupid good soil and the little avocado grows hell-for-breakfast in the CA sun and chicken-shit dirt and in three years it’s as tall as the house and your mom leaves the front door open at night so the wolfdog can get outside in short order because your neighbors love avocados too and come into your yard at 3AM with a ladder to steal them and you wake up in the middle of the night to your parents yelling at Mrs. Mcgurkey about what the FUCK do you think you’re doing, and you use that word the next day on your Demon of a fourth-grade teacher and she actually hits you because she’s a piece of shit but one of your classmates throws his chair at her first and you become best friends and spend the rest of the year giving her hell culminating in the Mantisocalypse.
I might have gone off-topic.
………….
I swear to God you’re the OC of some vengeful writer who keeps putting you shit for ‘character growth’
Like it’s the only explanation I can’t think of, other than you were cursed as a child to have an ‘exciting’ life.
…mantis-WHAT now?
TW: death, cancer, abuse, excessive religiosity, blood, mental illness, sexual assault and bugs.
1999 was a bad fucking year for me, though ultimately, it’s a hopeful sotry. Mind the content warnings.
There is only one animal I’ve ever really earned the wrath of- The Praying Mantis- probably because in fourth grade I used about 50,000 of their children to fight evil.
Fourth grade started promisingly enough- had just had an excellent third grade with Mr. Jay, who was probably ADHD himself and therefore got me on a truly spiritual level. I’d starred in the school play was reading at a freaking collegiate level and had a tremendous interest in marine science. I’d been assigned to Mrs. Ruth’s class, the other teacher that regularly did theater with kids, and had any certification to deal with special ed kids like me.
When I arrived on the first day, she was smaller than I remembered, nearly bent double, skin like old rice paper. But she was still kind and sharp with a vivacity that I wouldn’t see again for years to come. Her hands shook too much to write I had her for three really great weeks before she gathered the class around her, and in a very gentle tone, told us we were going to be having a new teacher on Monday because she was sick, and couldn’t give us the classroom we deserved.
Two weeks later she was dead from the malignant breast cancer that had gotten into her spine and lungs.
I was still reeling from the sudden demise of my grandfather the year before, and mourning the disappearance of Hale-Bopp, who had come to me like a guardian angel in that dark time. I went into what I’d later recognize as regular dissociative states, which was probably good because the rest of the class went insane as well.
The large boys, the ones who had hit puberty early, took out their anxiety by forming a gang that went around terrorizing anyone physically smaller than them. By fall break, they’s started targeting the smaller girls, cornering them behind the school and tearing clothes off. Since I was the second-smallest human in class and didn’t have a protective clique, I was a favored target. Mason who was aged 11 due to being held back, took to flashing his dick at anyone during class, up to and including our string of wholly unprepared substitute teachers.
Erica, the girl I was head over heels for, started a campaign of violence as well, though it was just as likely to be directed at herself as anyone in her immediate proximity. Another girl, Sabrina, became convinced the world was ending on January 1st of 2000, and spent all of ‘99 telling us to repent. Another girl cut her arm in the middle of a math lecture with a sharpened protractor.
All of this was accelerated by the fact that the administration had crammed 35 “problem” children into Mrs. Reith’s class because she was the only teacher who had even a basic handle on classroom management, then refused to shell out the money for a long-term substitute, so we literally had a new teacher every week for a few months there. Parents complained that this was bullshit, and my principal, former Procter & Gamble rep, suggested that we were at fault for behaving so poorly and that all 35 of us needed to be on Ritalin.
Yes, really.
By October, my parents were looking to get me the hell out of there, but School Choice had not come to that part of CA yet, and my parents were both working full-time and couldn’t afford to home-school me. So they looked up truancy laws, and determined that I could “pass” as long as I didn’t miss more than 2 weeks of school.
So they struck a deal with me. As long as I went to school every day until April 15th, I didn’t have to attend the last fortnight of school, and could go anywhere I wanted for summer break. I chose Humboldt State Park, and didn’t tell them about being beaten up at school so they wouldn’t take back the offer. Armed with the promise of being able to flee to the woods come April, I was determined to survive the year, and took measure to do so.
This started, as all good rebellions do, with an alliance.
Dashell was the only child in class smaller than I was, but he was approximately 39lbs of pure, unadulterated psychotic mania. He could bend himself into a pretzel, small enough to fit in a backpack, ate nothing but slim jims and Hi-C brand punch and apparently didn’t feel pain. He was not good with words- there were too many ideas trying to get out at once to finish individual words, let alone whole sentences, but I was unnaturally precocious with absolutely no fear of adults or respect for administrative consequences.
Hence, every recess he’d follow me about as I hunted for the small lizards that lived on campus, and would beat the tar out of Bobby and Mason when they came for me, despite the fact they had a collective 150 lbs on him. And during class, I’d engage any adult in verbal battle so that they wouldn’t call on him and he could hork down slim-jims in peace.
And for a time, things were good.
Eventually, the complaining had gotten bad enough that the administration shelled out for a long-term sub, though apparently not enough to get someone without major disciplinary issues.
And thus, we got stuck with Mrs. Linden.
Mrs. Linden was one of those “Old-Fashioned” teachers who started her introduction to the class by giving a rambling lecture lamenting that “Paddlin’ and Jesus” were now banned. She then asked about all our families, including where we went to church. I was attending a school that was roughly equal parts White, Black, Hispanic, Middle Eastern and Asian. Literally only 40% of the class attended Christian Church, and most of them were Catholic and Orthodox. I was in the back row next to Saari and Parja, and by the time Mrs. Linden had finished lecturing them on The Dangers of False Prophets, they were in tears and I’d made up my mind about her.
“[FLAGRANTLY IRISH SURNAME REDACTED].” She glared over her eternally filthy horn-rimmed glasses at me. “Catholic as well, I assume.”
“I’m agnostic Ma’am.” I corrected her.
“Do you believe in The Lord?” she asked, glaring at me like a particularly vindictive turkey. Her face was comprised mostly of disappointment and wattles, as I recall.
“I believe in Hell.” I offered.
She looked like she was about to approve.
“I mean, you had to come from somewhere.” I explained.
At that point, the bell for recess rang, and Dashell kicked it off by letting out a truly demonic shriek and throwing his chair through the window. Twenty minutes of broken glass and bedlam later, she’d forgotten she was going to beat me for that. Saari and Parja decided to start hanging out with me at recess, which discouraged the budding rapists, for a while.
And so it went, Dashell and I playing a game of alternating Uproars, one directing rage away from the other based on ability to handle that particular bully. I’d correct Linden on her teaching material in the most condescending manner a ten-year-old could pull off, which wasn’t difficult- it’s hard to teach geology curriculum when you think the world is 6000 years old and flat.
Things died down for a bit during winter- the continuous California monsoons and Linden’s propensity for grounding the entire class for one person’s offense meant we spent most recesses indoors, where the Boys would have to leave the girls alone now that an Adult was watching, and Saari would let Dashell braid her hair while I re-explained multiplication to Parja.
In March though, things began to heat up. We were let outside again and Bobby and Mason had quite a bit of pent-up ragelust to let out, and were now being commanded by Erica, who thought making me suffer for her affections was Great Fun. I don’t quite remember what happened with the three of them and me behind the computer building, but I know I can’t stand the sound of and old apple computer starting up anymore.
Furthermore, Linden had figured out the disciplinary loophole, that while she wasn’t actually allowed to beat us, she could slam her ruler on our desks, and if your hands or faces happened to be caught in the blow, well, we should have moved faster. Not this is not actually legal, but she was banking on us not having the legal wherewithal to take her to court.
Dashell was growing tired of the constant stress of school and had taken to leaving early when he felt like it, leaving me to fend for myself in the afternoon. My sole consolation for those long afternoons was that we were having a bumper crop of praying mantises that year, and I had found no less than four nests in the backyard, and was keeping them in a large jar in my room.
If you’ve never seen praying mantis nests, they look like someone fucked up and globbed insulation foam on a stick. They sorta sit there, looking stupid, until it gets hot enough, then the day they’re going to hatch, they develop a large, ominous crack, and over the course of a couple hours, a Couple Hundred itty-bitty, very sharp flying rage insects will drip out, covered in ooze like some kind of alien, and once they are all dried out/carapaced up they fly off in a fit of barbarian rage, ready to slice up anything remotely edible or potentially predatory. Like children’s eyeballs.
So imagine my joy that on April fifteenth, the last day I had to attend class, all four nests had developed their large cracks, and tiny little baby ragebugs were slowly dripping out of them.
My initial thoughts were not of malice, but of showing Saari and Parja my cool insect friends, the latter having gotten into entomology of late. But after I arrived at school with the jar, I realized that Thursday’s usual show-and-tell had been replaced with Mrs. Linden’s Semi-weekly Rant About How We’re All Going To Hell. So I kept them in my backpack, with the intent of showing Dashell and Parja at recess.
But, after dealing with Mason trying to flash me his dick all through math, I had grown a mickle furious, and was contemplating flouncing from my Final required Day Of Class In Grand Style. But what?
Then Mrs. Linden started ranting about the Plagues Of Egypt.
She’d construed that the plagues were about Pharaoh Not Respecting God as We Students Weren’t Respecting Her, and hence he Needed To be Punished.
But from my perspective, I was rather heavily identifying with the slaves and would really like to call down the wrath of some higher being on Mrs. Linden and Mason. Then I realized that the mantises had been sitting on my bag on top of the radiator for the past three hours, and were probably all hatched and furious by now.
And for the first time, I truly understood “The Lord Works In Mysterious Ways.”
I signaled to Dashell that I was about to start shit, then quietly went back to the coat room to retrieve the jar. Sure enough, they had all hatched and dried, and were now clawing furiously at the glass, little scratches audible through the holes in the lid. I waited back there for a good minute, lightly shaking the jar to enrage the mantises, while I waited for Linden to get to the Locusts.
She really went overboard, claiming that entirely vegetarian grasshoppers could eat a cow to the bone in minutes, like aerial piranhas, and that they’d crawl under your skin and eat your eyeballs, because You Disrespected God So You Deserve It.
Unbeknownst to me, Dashell had gotten up during her rant and had pulled the loose plate off the lightswitch and had been tampering with the wiring, and just as she got to Darkness, he shorted out the lights.
I took this as my signal, and stepped out of the coatroom, and chucked the jar straight at the back of Mason’s head, shattering it, sending blood and glass everywhere, along with releasing approximately six fucktillion rage-filled insects into the room.
I cannot explain how deeply, soul-satisfying the chaos was.
Screaming children, screaming Linden, screaming insects, Mason screaming about the pain, Sabrina screaming that it was the End Of The World, and Dashell laughing demonically, wriggling the wire to make the lights flash like a literal Panic at the disco. There was glass everywhere, Insects landing on and attacking children as they tried to escape, people running into each other, someone pulling the fire alarm, creating MORE noise and setting the sprinklers off.
After a few minutes standing and watching, feeling the satisfaction of releasing hell settling in my soul, I quietly packed up my backpack and left, walked home and ate six ice cream sandwiches before mom got home from work.
“I’m done with school!” I told mom happily, sitting on the couch and watching animal planet with the dog.
“Did you show your class the mantises?’ She asked.
“Yes. I don’t think they liked them.” I said, watching Steve Irwin juggle snakes.
“Aw, that’s too bad. Are you ready to go camping?”
“Yes. Yes I am.”
And so the next morning, we left for the wilds of the redwood forest, so my mom didn’t hear anything about the incident until we came back a fortnight later. It never got pinned on me or Dashell, probably because Mrs. Linden left the classroom shortly after I did and was last seen in Arizona two days later. The district never actually managed to Fire her, because they never found her.
And that’s the most Chaotic Evil thing I’ve ever done.
just moving along like everyone else 