Funeral for a Caterpillar...

Scraping the paint off my daughter's house in the blistering heat is an unfortunate ring of Hell that I've been consigned to. But I accept my penance for my sins and make the best of it. I guess.

A couple weeks ago, we're toiling on the back-side of the house and my daughter starts freaking out.

"Dad! Dad, c'mere! You gotta see this!"

Sweating my arse off ten feet off the ground, I really didn't think it merited a dangerous trip down the ladder.

But she was insistent. "Seriously, c'mere!"

"What is it?"

"It's the biggest caterpillar I've ever seen!" I could see it from the ladder; neon green, beautiful, and huge indeed.

"Wow," I said.

"Hang on, I'm gonna get my phone and take a picture!" She runs in the house, comes back out, and her bratty beagle rolled over on the caterpillar. "Nooooo," shouted my daughter. Yep. "Fuzzy Lumpkins (as he became known)" had joined me in the afterlife.

My daughter was distraught. "Stupid, beer-stealing, murderous dog," she groused. "These dogs have no concept of space or their surroundings, just destroy everything. Poor caterpillar."

"Should we bury it?" I asked, not really wanting to.

"We have to do something with it. We can't leave Fuzzy to be eaten by my dumb dogs."

Baron, the murderous beagle, licked his chops in anticipation.

So, during the inglorious funeral (Fuzzy was buried in a plastic bag and put in the trash in which I had to take care of because my daughter played this card: "You do it. You're the guy." Every other time, of course, she believes women to be superior to men.), I shared my own childhood caterpillar trauma.

"You know, when I was a kid, I saw a caterpillar in my family's living room. Squicked out--but not wanting to harm it--I got a napkin and tried to pick him up to put him outside. But I accidentally squished him. I had a good cry over the unfairness of it all."

Which reminded me of what a Methodist preacher said in my parents church one time. He made fun of Richard Gere for putting a bug outside and mocked his Buddhist beliefs. Furthermore, he went on to preach, "Everyone knows bugs don't have souls."

Well. No, everyone doesn't know that bugs don't have souls. I'm not saying bugs do or don't have souls...just no one truly knows. Now, I hear the devout among you saying, "But, Stuart, that's what faith is all about." And that's fine. I think believing in something is good for people. Yet, the definition of "faith" is "a strong belief in God based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof." So, there it is. No...one...knows...if...bugs...have...souls.

So, take that, Mr. High and Mighty Methodist Preacher man who looked like Boris Karloff and scared the crap outta me with all his hell and brimstone talk. Kinda the reason I fell out of love with organized religion. That and the hypocrisy of one religion talking smack about another one. C'mon, do you think Jesus would approve of hating on Buddhists? Or any religion for that matter?

So, yes, we'd like to think Fuzzy Lumpkins is now in a better place, with his little soul freed from the shackles of my daughter's hideously hot back yard. Keep this in mind this the next time you stomp out a bug (flies are exempt, though, because when my time comes up, I could be in trouble for being a fly serial killer).

Speaking of strange and creepy bugs, there's more than a few of them lurking with the pages of my horror collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, available just one lil click away! You've been warned. 

 

Throwdown at the Honker Inn Part #2 (or Return to Hellbillyville)

So, last week I detailed the first part of my epic confrontation with a crazed, psychotic woman and her giant cowboy protector in an Oklahoman hotel. (Here's a handy link in case you forgot...go on, I'll wait. Ready?) 

Now the truth can finally be told! 

I had barely escaped Long Tall Tex and rode the elevator down to the lobby...

The doors swoosh open and Daisy is happily helping a customer.

I said, "I hope you saw or heard what just happened!"

"Yeah," said Daisy (and the customer agreed), "That guy was holding the elevator open so I couldn't get up there!"

Okay. It's one flight. 19 year old Daisy could have taken the stairs. I'd been doing it all day.

Looking like a man tossed into a pit of feral cats, I waited until Daisy finished with the other late-night customer. He smiled at me. I attempted a smile back. My heart wasn't in it.

"Daisy, you need to call the cops, " I said once she'd finally finished her Customer Service.

She tried to pacify me with Millenial logic.  "I took care of the problem earlier. That couple next door to you went out and left their boys behind."

"For tacos," I clarified.

"When they came back, I think she was drunk and--"

"I know she's drunk!"

Ignoring me, Daisy continued. "I think they had a lover's spat. She's upset. I hate to call the police over one little mistake."

"One little mistake? She attacked me! The crazy beeyotch tried to kill me!"

"What? She attacked you?" Daisy posed a very concerned face, one I'd get used to, which ultimately meant nothing.

"You had to have heard it!"

"Oh... I'm gonna have to make an incident report. I really don't want to call the police. But I have to with an incident report. I've never had to do an incident report before."

I'm thinking, Yeah, in your long three week tour of duty.

"I guess I'll have to call the cops."

Finally! By this time, I'm sick of it all. "Daisy, just change our room. I want to get some sleep. Safely."

Daisy grimaces. "I can't give you a new room. We're booked to capacity."

Well, I know that's not the truth. Every hotel always keeps a few rooms open. Just in case. I think this situation merited a big, honkin' huge "Just In Case."

"Daisy, you didn't do your job. Otherwise I wouldn't have been attacked! There's a psycho killer next to us. Look again!"

Daisy looked. She said, "Oh. Wait a minute. Yeah, I found something, I can put you in room 107."

"Fine," I said. "But it's gonna take me a while to rouse my wife and pack."

I went back upstairs. America's Sweetheart has her door open, clearly eavesdropping. For the first time all night, her room is deathly silent. Quietly, I shook my poor wife awake and kept my voice low, doing my best to fill her in.

When we go back downstairs, TA-DAAAAA! Ms. Congeniality is in the hizzy. Chatting amiably over the counter with Daisy, laughing. Miraculously wearing a calm face.

She sneered at me and said in her manly-man's voice, "What, are you leaving?" A missing toothed smile crossed her lantern jaw.

I smiled back, said, "No, we're changing rooms."

She bulked up her square shoulders, came at me, fists bunched. "You think this is funny?"

Good God. Friggin' terminator.

"No," I say, "there's nothing funny about assault."

Her new best pal, Daisy, pipes in with, "Don't engage him! Don't engage him!" 

Like I'm the wild animal.

Shocker, the badger backs off, trying to make a good impression, and commences buddying up with Daisy. Half-asleep, my wife's barely hanging onto the counter.

I turned to the delightful dominatrix, and said, "You know, all I wanted was sleep. We were just going to change rooms. But now you're down here trying to rewrite things."

"Don't engage him, don't engage him, don't engage him," chants Daisy, the most fickle hotel clerk in the universe.

"Whatever. Call the damn cops," I said, as I guided my wife over to the sofa. A cooking show was playing on the overhead TV. It wasn't about tacos.

Daisy finally phones the cops, but to my dismay, my nemesis is over there, dictating the "facts." Making sure everything is correct, at least in her meth-skewed world-view. Then Daisy, while describing us as an "elderly couple," mentions our designated new room number (twice!), along with my wife's name and phone number, right in front of Ms. Sunshine.

I quit listening. There wasn't any point.

The call is in. The Incredible Hulk stomps outside to await 5-0, ready to get the first word in. The law arrived and talked to her first. A lot. Finally, a friendly cop grilled me. Never asked me my name or to see my I.D. He did look at my wife kinda funny, though, because she was sitting upright but with her head hanging, eyes shut. I explained about her minor operation and pain pills, told him she slept through the incident.

He asked me if I kicked the door in. I said, "No. I'm wearing tennis shoes. I'm not a cop, nor am I that strong. I did kick the door once in a childish fit of sleep-deprived anger and told her I was calling you guys, but I didn't kick the stupid door in."

It was explained to me that since the cops didn't witness the Battle Royale, if I brought charges of assault, basically it'd be my story against her lies. And she had a "witness" in Long John Cowboy (mysteriously never questioned, nor seen again, obviously still jaw deep in tacos).

Last thing I wanted was to go to court ("Judge Judy?") with my arch enemy, especially out-of-state. I had no intention on spending money and wasting any more thought or time on The Creature From the Crack Lagoon. She'd end up in prison eventually without my help.

I told the cop, "Forget it then. I'm done. She has kids. Those poor, poor kids. I just want sleep. Unless she's gonna keep pursuing this crap about my kicking down her door."

He nodded, walked off. A police pow-wow was held in front of the traitorous Daisy. One officer went outside to consult with his charge.

Ten minutes later, Hurricane Helga stormed through the lobby, redder than a fire hydrant, ready to blow a blood vessel. For the first time, her bluster had vanished and she didn't say a word or even look at me.

I imagine the chat with the cops went something like this, "You should go in there and thank your new best friend 'cause he just saved your ass. Otherwise, I'm'a giving you a breathalyzer (which you'll fail), a drunk and disorderly, physical assault, child endangerment, you want me to go on?"

Officer Friendly comes over, says, "Folks, you're fine. Let me know if I can do anything to help you."

Meanwhile, my once BFF, then ex-BFF, now BFFF again, Daisy, says, "Okay, I can check you guys into room #107." Like, the Pillbillies hadn't heard the room number enough.

"No thanks," I said, "I don't feel safe with my special friend in the same hotel. We're outta here." Officer Friendly gave us an empathetic nod.

So Daisy checked us out. Under the name "Alabama Ball." (Good Gawd, people, never, EVER stay at this hotel. But, oh what fun I'll have if we end up getting "Alabama's" credit card info!).

I thought about asking Daisy who she thought looked more like someone named "Alabama Ball:" us or my combat opponent? It would've been a waste of breath.

Daisy won't even comp us for the night. She says she can't. Whatever. What's one more little lie between pals?

It's after three in the morning and we hunt down another hotel. But the doors are locked. A friendly-looking woman opens the doors. I took a deep breath, prepared to tell our tragic story. My wife wisely interceded, said, "Do you have a room?"

"Oh," she said, "I can't really check you in until I'm done doing the weekly audit. I'm sorry. It may be another hour or so." Then she looks at us again. "Okay, give me your information, I'll check you in later."

"Thank you!"

She said, "You guys looked so tired and you've clearly been through something. I had to do it."

From the worst of humanity to the best. We needed that.

I still never got to sleep, pumped up on disbelief and adrenaline, constantly reliving the psychotic encounter in my mind's cinema.

Remember, folks, it could happen to YOU! 

Speaking of true tales of horror, check out my new tale of non-fiction, Corporate Wolf. You'll believe a werewolf can plan objectives and delegate tasks!

Throwdown at the Honker Inn!

Not too long ago, I (barely) lived through a true-life Jerry Springer episode.

We were staying at an Oklahoma Honker Inn (name has been changed to protect...the guilty, I suppose). Saturday, midnight rolled around and I'd almost moved on to sleep. Except the air conditioner died. *Thunk* Hsssss...

Well, that sucked, but seemed fairly tenable if I could just kick off a blanket, get comfy, become one with the bed, think of...random thoughts...and weird visions (what's that guy with three eyes doing?)...and...and...

Bang! Slam! Crack! Crack! Booooooommmm! Tromp, tromp, tromp! "Woo-HOOOO!" "Woo-HOOOOO!"

Suddenly I was in the middle of a battleground.

Crap. I burritoed my head within the pillow and hoped for the best. But even through the pillow, I still heard...

"Woo-HOOOOOO! Here we go! HERRRRRE we go!"

Incredibly loud slamming of doors and shouts went on for over an hour. My wife stirred when I flipped the light on beside her to get to the phone (but mercifully--a weird way to put it--she'd had minor surgery and was conked out on pain pills).

Hey! The phone's not working! Great!

Cursing, red-eyed, already sleep-deprived, I put on my clothes (buttons mismatched), and stumbled out into the hallway. Yep, a whole lotta noise coming from the people next door.

I went down to the lobby and no one was there. Just a sign that said "Be back in 5 to 10 minutes." Finally, a young woman rounds the corner, asks if she can help me.

"Yeah, my phone's not working, otherwise I wouldn't be down here. There's all kinds of noise going on next to me. Doors slamming, loud partying, shouting--"

"I know," she says with a smile, eager to please, "there were some boys down in the exercise room making noise. I had another complaint already. I talked to them."

"But...that's on the other side of the hotel. I don't think it's them. I'm at the opposite end."

"Oh, they're probably just running back and forth. Boys will be boys." Smile.

I said, "It's 1:30 in the morning. Shouldn't these boys will be boys be boys in bed?"

"Oh, don't worry. I'll get to the bottom of this," she says, less than confident.

We ride up on the elevator together. Scared of her own shadow, she admits, "I've only been here three weeks. I really hate this."

Sympathetic, I agree. "I know, I would, too. I really appreciate it. And, I mean, I believe in fun like the next guy, but it's 1:30 in the morning!"

"I know, right?" she says. "And you're old, too. Um, I mean--"

"Good night."

All is apparently well and done. Daisy (we'll call her "Daisy") has done her due diligence. I begin to drift off. I'm floating, finally, eyelids heavy, body lifting, three-eyed fish with hats covered in stars swim past me...and...and...

BLAMMO! BASH! CRASH! "Yee-HAAHHHHH!" SLAMMMMMMM! CRACKETY-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK! "Wooooo-HOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!"

I nearly fall out of bed. The savage party people are back with a vengeance. Purposefully slamming every door repeatedly as hard as they can. Shock-waves vibrated through the walls.

I'd had enough. The phone had failed. The air conditioner had failed. Sleep had failed. Daisy failed. At 2:20, I throw my clothes on again, go next door, pound on the door.

A clearly wasted, glassy-eyed, fake-blond woman in a too small t-shirt answers the door.  Cigarette in hand (non-smoking room), beer in the other. Two small kids hovered behind her.

I said, "Could you PLEASE stop slamming doors?" (Okay, okay, I mighta shouted it a bit).

Waiting for a nice, civil reply, I stood there expectantly. Instead, she slurred, "Get the f**k outta here." Then slammed the door in my face. The final indignation.

That lit my fuse. I gave the door (an ineffective--nothing like the movies) kick, and yelled, "That did it! I'm calling the cops,"I stomped down the hall. ("So THERE".) 

Behind me, her door flew open.

She screamed, "Hey! Hey! You wanna go, bitch? Let's go! C'mon! Kick down my door, bitch? I'ma' gonna kill you, bitch!"

I'm thinking, Okay, this just got bad.

Flump, flump, flump!

She ran after me, grabbed the back of my shirt, hit me in the back, then the shoulder blade, shrieking the entire time. "Let's go! Call the cops on me? Yeah, right! You kicked down my door! You wanna go? C'mon, bitch! I'll kick your ass! I'll..."

"Jesus! I didn't kick down your door!"

I kept plugging straight ahead, crazy thoughts running through my mind (I bet her kids are proud of her.) She's pulling at me, slamming into me rassler style. Then she races around in front of me and drops into a crouch. Her claws go up, middle fingers flipping me off, incredibly sharp, scary fingernails scratching the air. (Honestly, since that day, I've tried to emulate that move and don't know how she did it; clearly practice makes perfect).

I'm suddenly trapped in one of the ever-increasing and disturbing news stories you read about where crazy people kill someone over the stupidest reasons.

"I'm gonna rip you a new one, pussy! C'mon, let's go!"

"I'm not gonna fight you," I said and kept walking. I mean, A) I don't fight women; B) Frankly, I don't fight men, I'm 58; C) I particularly don't fight crazed, hammered idiots; and D) I don't want to die, especially in such a stupid situation.

I continued to try and pass to safety. She lashed out, scratched my hand with her claw, dashed back in, slashed my arm. Doing my best to dodge her attack, I plundered on, but it was akin to being tossed into a rose bush (a vile, amped-up, sociopathic, rose bush).

Out of nowhere, a seven foot-tall cowboy with an even taller cowboy hat, wearing an immaculately pressed long-sleeve cowboy shirt, gets in my face.

The hell? Where'd HE come from? Surely, I'm hallucinating. Giant cowboys don't just show up in the middle of brawls...wait...  Now, I'm REALLY gonna die.

Clearly, he was there to defend his woman's (term used loosely) honor, trying to put a muzzle on his dog so he could hoe-down on my face. With about three feet of height on Meth-thusela, he picked her up easily and threw her back down the hallway. Many times.


"Go! Go back to the room. Go eat tacos," he shouted. 

Tacos? What the hell?

To me, he said, "What're you doin'? What's your problem?"

"Look, I'm not gonna fight you, either," I said as I tried to bypass the hellbilly duo. 

(Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...)

Meanwhile, Long, Tall Tex continues to lasso his hellcat and toss her back down the hallway. Undeterred, she lunged at me again. Wash, rinse, repeat. Through Tex's intervention, I finally managed to make it to the elevator, but I just know I'm gonna get a country stomping.

Finally, I made it inside the elevator. Tex wedged his back against the doors, keeping them from shutting. Sweet, sweet momma comes running up again, dives. Tex grabs her.

He shouts one last time, "Go back to the room! Now! I'll take care of him! Go! Go eat tacos! Git!"

At long last, she goes to eat tacos (fear not, dear reader, as she'll return to the narrative; oh, yes, yes she will). Tex is still holding up the elevator, now buzzing like a swarm of locusts.

He presses four strong, cattle-rustlin' fingers into my chest, says, "Talk to me. Just let's chat."

I'm hammering buttons to no avail. I'm freaked out. I manage, "She attacked me."

Matter of factly, Tex says, "Look, we didn't slam no doors. It wasn't us. We been gone for an hour. We went out to get tacos. We didn't slam no doors."

In response, I punch buttons. The elevator's going "BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....." I'm so way beyond slamming doors. And, oddly, I want tacos.

"Get it? It wasn't us," Cowboy continued. "We didn't slam no doors. We went out to get tacos."

I couldn't think clearly. I wondered why a family would get tacos at 2:00 in the morning. The guy wasn't letting me leave the elevator, wouldn't let the doors close. Finally, to get him outta my face (actually, I'm 6'2" and I'm looking up), I told him, "Look, just let me go, I'll change rooms."

And that sounded like a hella good idea. I needed sleep. Appeased, Tex finally backed off, releasing the elevator doors. I ride down to the lobby...

Wait! This showdown is SO big and SO momentuous and SO surreal (and SO damn long), that it'll have to be continued...until next week!

In the meantime, here...read a book...

Full Moon Over the Highway

My eyes! Gahhh, my eyes!

So we're tooling down the highway (that's not us in the above picture) when a motorcycle zips by doing at least 80 miles per hour. With a girl holding onto the driver, wearing the skimpiest of thongs. Her cheeks are spread wide and pointed up for the world to see.

After I'd finished laughing, I said, "I bet her mother's proud of her."

Because laugh is what I did. I assume the woman in question thought this was the most extreme in sexy, but it was ludicrous at best. They went on careening down the highway, surely causing wrecks left and right, not only by their break-neck speed, but more importantly by the shocking glare of the full moon.

("But, officer, I was blinded by this blazing full moon. It wasn't my--"

"In broad daylight? Have you been drinking, sir?")

Later, I gave it more thought, because there are just things you can't unsee). I wondered if she regretted that poor sartorial choice whilst picking out gravel and dead bugs from her arse cheeks. What would've happened had she taken a tumble, fallen off? I imagine the thong would be immediately retired. Furthermore, aren't those things possibly the most uncomfortable and ridiculous pieces of bottom wear ever designed? Finally, is it illegal to be showing that much skin on the highway? 

I got together with my research assistant, Ms. Google, to find out. The results may astound you! (Hyperbole alert!)

In most states, it's okay to ride a motorcycle topless, male or female. Because women's breasts aren't considered obscene. (Those zany, nutty free spirits in Portland, of course, conduct a "World Naked Bike Ride" every year). Now, here's where it gets tricky... Genitalia is forbidden to be exposed, natch. Those parts are naughty. Naughty, I tell you! Because not everyone has them, I guess. But I couldn't find anything regarding arses, so ladies and gentlemen, let those moons shine!

Though, on the highway? I do believe a case could be made for breasts and full moons on the highway to be...um...a dangerous distraction. Just sayin'.

Speaking of full moons, my new werewolf thriller/(very) dark comedy, Corporate Wolf, is out now by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press. Get in on the throat-tearing, gut-gnawing wacky hijinx today!