by Colin Sims
She probably had a point, but that didn’t mean I was going to give up.
“Oh yeah?” I said, and stomped on the gas.
For a full second and a half, nothing happened. Nothing at all. Somewhere deep inside the hybrid’s microprocessor was a design spec insisting, “But … I’m a Prius! You’re not supposed to drive me like this!” It eventually got the hint, however, and gave the engine full battery power. The acceleration knocked Pigtails against the windshield and I swerved to shake her off. It worked. Her leathery wings caught the wind like a pair of sails and she was gone. Now it was just me and the dark, winding road of Mulholland. I kept my foot on the pedal, steadily picking up speed. It felt good. The Prius and I were one. I was a race car driver. A pro. I hugged the turns, I gunned the accelerator and I smashed into every mailbox and trashcan the roadside had to offer.
I twisted in my seat, searching for any sign of the monster girls. All I saw was another pair of distant headlights winding up the road behind me. I wanted to scream at whoever it was to turn around and flee. Yet it was possible the girls were gone. I hadn’t seen them for a solid minute. Maybe they didn’t want to be seen in public?
That hope was dashed when my roof caved in and an upside-down goblin face snarled at me through the windshield. She didn’t have two fangs anymore; she had a whole mouth full of them.
I yelled for her to get off and yanked on the wheel, but it didn’t work.
Her face did disappear, though, and for a split second, I actually thought she was gone. Then a bony, clawed hand crashed through my side window and tried to grab my face. Now before you judge me for the exceedingly girly screech that followed, just imagine how you would react in this situation. At least I had the presence of mind to grab its wrist and keep it from tearing my head off.
A frantic battle ensued until there was a sudden explosion of gore across my windshield. It was like an oil drum of red paint got tossed against the glass. I couldn’t see a thing. I also noticed that I was no longer holding the clawed hand at bay—I was just holding the clawed hand. It now ended in a bloody mess somewhere along the mid-forearm. The girly screech returned.
I flipped on the windshield wipers and tossed the hand out the window. I could barely see the road through the streaky-red smudges. Then bright headlights shone aggressively into my rearview mirror. The car from earlier was nearly on top of me, honking its horn. Did it want me to stop? Did it want me to get out of the way? The message was unclear. For all I knew, one of the monster girls had found herself some wheels. Thus, I stomped on it.
Another of them landed on the roof and tore off the passenger-side door. It was actually pretty amazing. How strong does someone have to be to do something like that? I jerked the Prius to the right and scraped against a new Mercedes. It didn’t stop her. The next thing I knew, I had my hand on her throat keeping her snapping jaws away from my face.
She hissed something unintelligible, and I shouted something even more unintelligible right back. To be honest, I was surprised I could keep her at bay at all. She had just ripped the door straight off its hinges. You’d think she could overpower a simple hand on her neck. Either way, I couldn’t keep this up forever. I was driving with one hand and fighting a demon with the other.
I decided on a drastic move. Or perhaps, “decided,” isn’t the right word. I reacted with a drastic move. I took my hand off the wheel, opened my door and jumped out. It was just like the movies. I hit the pavement, rolled a bunch of times, and landed right side up in time to see the Prius launch itself off a cliff. I heard it crash, flip over a dozen times, and then—honest to God—explode.
Apparently that really does happen …
The car behind me screeched to a halt, doing a half spin at the cliff’s edge. A girl jumped out carrying a tactical shotgun—I watch a lot of action movies—and started firing down the hill. Seven shots later she went back to her car, popped the trunk and casually took out a bazooka. I stared, dumb-faced, as she widened her stance, aimed upward, paused, and then fired. The resulting explosion looked exactly like a firework display. She nodded once and tossed the bazooka back in the trunk.
So …
Let’s start with her car. It was a brand new, jet-black Mustang that had been tricked out to the point of resembling a poor man’s Batmobile. The windows were tinted; the exhaust pipes were jet-like; the side paneling looked armored; and the engine—even at an idle—sounded like something from NASCAR.
Next, there was the girl herself. I noticed three things about her:
1.) She was tall.
2.) She had a ponytail.
3.) She was wearing pajamas.
Because why wouldn’t she be wearing pajamas? I’d just been attacked by three skin-ripping, blood-drinking gargoyles—why should the girl who just showed up in a Ford Mustang wielding a shotgun be wearing normal clothes? She even rocked some Hello Kitty slippers, I noticed.
Then she was standing over me, looking confused. “You okay?” she asked.
I stared up at her blankly, and she frowned.
“You are François Lemieux, right?”
I continued to stare.
“Parlez vous anglais?” she asked. “Êtes-vous François Lemieux?”
Jesus Christ, was that French?
“I’m from Palo Alto,” I said numbly.
I’m pretty sure that at this moment I was in what paramedics might refer to as, “a state of traumatic shock.” I was shaking all over, the world was spinning and I couldn’t think. When I tried to stand, I toppled over in a heap. I settled for remaining seated in the middle of the road.
After a pause, she plopped down beside me and cocked her head. “So … you’re not like a wizard or anything?” she asked.
My teeth chattered by way of response. It was possible that even if I weren’t in shock I still wouldn’t have known how to answer that.
“Wow.” She looked baffled. “You’re just a regular guy?”
I nodded slowly. My eyes were transfixed on the glow of the flames from my car just over the hillside.
“Well, you’re doing great,” she said. “Just breathe. But we have to get out of here soon. The police are coming.”
“The police?” I said.
“Yeah. I mean, they’re not a problem or anything. Just a hassle.” She stood up and offered me her hand. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
I looked up at her but didn’t move.
She pulled a face and then took me by the arm. “Okay, upsy-daisy,” she huffed with a surprised grunt. Once I was on my feet, she shot me another curious look. “Huh,” she said. “You’re heavy.”
“Heavy?” I said.
“Yeah, it’s just … you shouldn’t be.”
I had no idea what she meant by that—I barely weighed a buck-forty—yet I figured it was a question that could be answered another day.
She helped me into her car, and a minute later we were rumbling through the Hills on our way to Sunset.
“You live in Westwood, right?” she said.
“Uh huh.”
“Palm Towers?”
“Uh huh.”
“Second floor? Apartment 212?”
“Uh huh.”
It wasn’t freaky at all that she knew exactly where I lived. And of course, on a more average day, I would’ve had a lot of questions. However, in my current state, the only thought my brain was capable of producing was the smooth, tranquil thrumming of a massage chair.
When we arrived, she hopped out of the car and helped me up the stairs to my apartment. When we got to my room, she gave it a quick survey and asked what had happened to my chair.
“My chair?” I asked.
I had now slipped into a pattern where my only mode of response was to repeat the last word of whatever she just said.
She brushed some of the debris off my bed and then planted herself in front of me. “Okay.” She put her hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry about this, but it’s for your own good.”
“My own go
od?”
In a blink, her eyes turned a deep shade of florescent purple. “You will forget about tonight,” she said in a slow, even tone. “You will remember going to a party and nothing else. When you left, you discovered your car was stolen. The scratches on your body are from drunkenly falling into a bush.”
I squinted at her. “A bush?”
She squinted back. “What?”
“What?” I repeated.
She frowned. “Are you not hypnotized right now?”
“Hypnotized?”
She stared at me with her glowing eyes a moment in confusion. “Weird,” she said with a light gasp. “This should work …” Her eyes went back to normal and she gave me a pitying look. “Well now I really am sorry.”
Before I could respond, something amazing happened—something more unusual than anything that had happened so far. The girl spun around and a Hello Kitty-slippered foot collided with my head. She’d thrown a roundhouse kick. Nobody does those in real life. Nobody.
All the same, I was knocked out cold.
Chapter Two
Bigger Than You Thought
One of the things beer commercials never show is the morning after. Sure, they show freshly filled pint glasses with frothy foam on top; they show friends clinking glasses; they even occasionally show Clydesdales pulling antique sleighs through the snow. What they don’t show is the rotten, smelly next day with the sun seeping through the blinds as stale booze steams from your pores and you want to wretch. They leave that part out.
Now as a UCLA sophomore, I was all too familiar with the effects of a hangover. Yet as I woke up that morning, I learned that there are hangovers, and then there are hangovers. This was neither—because usually a night of drinking doesn’t end with a car chase and getting knocked out by a mysterious girl who kicks you in the head.
Plus, the situation was made worse by my alarm clock beeping like a midnight freight train. The numerals 7:25 flashed across its face in a taunting reminder of my original plans. I groaned and rolled over, but the overwhelming need for water pried me from my mattress and sent me staggering into the kitchen. I was only half-surprised to find Buckner still wide-awake in the adjacent living room playing Xbox.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, keeping his eyes on the TV and steadily working through a family-sized bag of Cheetos Puffs.
“What are you doing awake?” I asked.
“Never went to bed,” he said before glancing at me. “The more important question is what in the heck happened to you? You look like the ass end of a road kill. You get lucky last night or what?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. The idea of “getting lucky” reminded me of the goth girls before they turned into … whatever it was they turned into. Reflexively, I looked down to see if there were any bite marks, which there weren’t. Which was odd.
“Uh,” I said. “I have to ask you a serious question.”
He pressed pause. “What’s up?”
I hesitated a moment and then sat on the couch. This was a tough subject to broach without sounding completely insane. “Did you convince some gothic-looking girls to come over and flirt with me last night?”
“What do you mean ‘gothic-looking’ girls?” he asked, knitting his brow.
“You know, spiked collars and boots and stuff.”
“Naw, just my friend Brooke. You met her. She was that brunette you did the Macarena with. Or was that the Funky Chicken? I couldn’t tell.”
“Look,” I said. “I need you to tell me the truth. When was the last time you saw me last night?”
“Shoot, I don’t know.” He scratched his head. “I remember you were at the bar pouring drinks for people. You were making a mess, too—spillin’ booze everywhere.”
“Right,” I said. “Did anything happen after that?”
“Happen? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Just humor me.”
He shrugged. “Not that I recall. I did get distracted talking to a pretty little redhead though, so I might not be the best source. Why? Did something crazy happen?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I think I drank some absinth last night.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. Your friend gave it to me. What happened next … I’m gonna go with ‘hallucination.’”
“Hot dang, really?? I heard that stuff makes folk a little batty! What’d’ya see?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Well, yeah.” He chuckled. “That’s the point of hallucinating, ain’t it?”
Yes.
Yes! That was the point, wasn’t it? Buckner was a genius! Absinth makes human beings hallucinate. It makes them see things that aren’t really there. The only conclusion to draw from this was: Last Night Didn’t Happen. No gargoyle girls. No car chase. No girl with a bazooka. It was allllll a dream.
“Hold on,” I said and shot up from the couch. I looked out the window to my assigned parking space. It was empty.
“Do you know how I got home last night?” I asked.
“Probably Ubered it,” Buckner said. “That’s what we did.”
“So my car’s still in the Hills?”
He laughed. “That or it’s getting towed. Better be prepared to pay up, buddy boy. But don’t go changin’ the subject now. What’d you see last night?”
I turned to him and attempted a shrug. “It’s hard to say.”
“Well, my question,” he said and pointed meaningfully, “is how’d you get all them cuts and bruises? You get in a fight?”
I looked down at my scraped up chest. It was still highly possible that these injuries were sustained in a normal drunken stupor, rather than a paranormal one. Still, I needed a second opinion.
“Alright,” I said, sitting back on the couch. “I’m gonna tell you what I saw. It’s gonna sound crazy, and you’re gonna laugh at me, but I gotta tell somebody.”
So I told him. I told him about the goth girls taking me to the bedroom. I told him about them morphing into monsters and chasing me outside. I told him about the girl with the Mustang, the shotgun and the roundhouse. By the time I was done, I sounded like a guy who’d just finished a marathon.
“So you think any of that was real?” I asked.
“Doubt it.” Buckner shook his head. “I mean everybody knows magic is real and all, but just the small stuff. Last I heard, there weren’t any vampires or werewolves lurkin’ about.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “They were like vampires. They were drinking my blood for God’s sake!”
“But you said the bite marks are gone, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I can’t explain that.”
“Well, look.” Buckner leaned forward. “There’s a real easy way to settle this. Hold on.”
He got up and disappeared into his room for a minute. He reappeared with his laptop and sat next to me.
“If you doubt it, Google it,” he said. “Let’s start with something simple.”
“Like what?”
“Vam-pi-ers” he spoke as he typed with two fingers. “Are, they, real, question mark. That oughta do it.”
The first thing to pop up was a Wikipedia article. Buckner clicked on it.
“Go to the ‘sightings’ tab,” I said, pointing.
“Way ahead of you, hoss. Check this out.”
We both peered at the first paragraph and Buckner began reading aloud.
“Since the Reveal of 1982, thousands of people worldwide have claimed to see supernatural creatures, including vampires and demons. However, authorities have never confirmed these sightings, which are largely believed to be false. Moreover, numerous cases have been proven as elaborate hoaxes. Experts believe that all such sightings are merely designed to exploit the public’s imagination and generate mass hysteria regarding the Magic Phenomenon.”
He looked up from the laptop. “See?” he said. “None of that stuff is real.”
“What about the government websites?” I said. “Look up the M
agic Department.”
“Dang, I still can’t believe we have one of those.”
“Type it in,” I said. “I think it’s under magic.gov.”
“Got it.”
A second later we were both skimming through the website. We both chuckled when we saw the Wikipedia paragraph had been cut and pasted verbatim.
“Here, look at this,” Buckner said. “They got a whole section on monsters. It says here that the Department of Magic Affairs has conducted a thorough investigation into the existence of paranormal creatures and found no evidence that they exist. It also refers readers to the ‘What is Magic?’ tab for a reminder that magic is merely defined as a bio-electric phenomenon affecting less than 0.000001 percent of the world’s population. It also emphasizes that this in no way suggests the existence of werewolves, zombies, vampires or aliens.”
“What does it say about gargoyles?” I said.
“Doesn’t mention them. I’d assume it’s the same though.”
I leaned back and rubbed my scalp, putting my hair into a mad scientist style.
“It seemed so real,” I breathed.
“Well, I ain’t never tried absinth myself,” Buckner noted. “But I hear it can mess you up somethin’ good. I’d chalk it up to that, compadre.”
Just then, a text ringtone came from my pocket. It made the sound of a stormtrooper’s blaster from Star Wars and Buckner raised an eyebrow. “That the misses?” he asked.
“Dude, she’s just my girlfriend,” I grumbled, digging the phone out of my pocket.
“Well don’t let your future father-in-law hear that kinda talk. He might fire you. Ever think of that?”
I didn’t answer. Meagan’s text was angry. It began with “François!” and I could almost hear her shouting it. She also fully spelled out her words, which was never a good sign. It asked with very pointed language why I was avoiding her, why hadn’t I answered, where I currently was and what I was currently doing. It also threatened a personal visit if I didn’t respond within thirty seconds.
