by Steve Vernon
Big
Hairy
Deal
A
Creep Squad Novel
By
Steve Vernon
Table of Contents
Title Page
What Folks Say About Steve Vernon
Chapter One – The Bear, the Bigfoot and Me
Chapter Two – Pure Harmonized Terror
Chapter Three – A Big Shaggy Funny-smelling Eagle
Chapter Four – Talking With Bigfoot
Chapter Five – Winnebago Alder Bush Surprise
Chapter Six – The Ghost of Sam Steele
Chapter Seven – There is more than one way to skin a dead bear
Chapter Eight – The Sleeping Giant of Thunder Bay
Chapter Nine – The Breath of the Great Lakes Dragons
Chapter Ten – Faster Than A Turkish Half and a Half Hitch Reef Knot
Chapter Eleven – Talking to a Mountain
Chapter Twelve – Shaking Hands With the Raven
Chapter Thirteen – In Which I Grow Wings
Chapter Fourteen – Food For The Crows
Chapter Fifteen – Lies My Mother Did Not Mean To Tell Me
Chapter Sixteen – Chasing Rabbits Only Makes Your Feet Sore
Chapter Seventeen – Following the Scent of Feathers
Chapter Eighteen – A Billion Searches to the God of all Googles
Chapter Nineteen – The Tale of Old Shuck – as Told by Coyote
Chapter Twenty – Death Dog Beat Down
Chapter Twenty One – Me, Doing Something
Chapter Twenty Two – The Prophet to the Rescue, Sort Of
Chapter Twenty Three – Hair of the Dog
Chapter Twenty Four – Word Choice is Awfully Important
Chapter Twenty Five – Wayward Sky High Domino Tipping Match
Chapter Twenty Six – Raven, Prepare to be Plucked
Chapter Twenty Seven – A Giant Geronimo Free Fall Pancake
Chapter Twenty Eight – Dead and Back Again
Chapter Twenty Nine – All of the Peanut Butter Sandwiches in the World
Chapter Thirty – You Better Quit Kicking My Dog Around
Chapter Thirty One – Taking Care of Bigfoot
Chapter Thirty Two – Singing Up The Cave of Tears
Chapter Thirty Three – This is One Of Those Kinds Of Stories
Chapter Thirty Four – Stories Never Truly Die
Chapter Thirty Five – Out of the Cave and into the Light
Chapter Thirty Six – Triple Somersaults All Over The Place
Chapter Thirty Seven – A Major League World Class Grade A Butt-Kicking
Chapter Thirty Eight – One Last Dad Story
Chapter Thirty Nine – A Long Midnight Feather Duster
Chapter Forty – The Long Arm of the Storyteller
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Further Reading: The Tatterdemon Omnibus
Also By Steve Vernon
About the Author
What Folks Say About Steve Vernon
“If Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson and Robert Bloch had a three-way sex romp in a hot tub, and then a team of scientists came in and filtered out the water and mixed the leftover DNA into a test tube, the resulting genetic experiment would most likely grow up into Steve Vernon.” – Bookgasm
“Steve Vernon is something of an anomaly in the world of horror literature. He’s one of the freshest new voices in the genre although his career has spanned twenty years. Writing with a rare swagger and confidence, Steve Vernon can lead his readers through an entire gamut of emotions from outright fear and repulsion to pity and laughter.” – Cemetery Dance
“Armed with a bizarre sense of humor, a huge amount of originality, a flair for taking risks and a strong grasp of characterization – Steve’s got the chops for sure.” – Dark Discoveries
“Steve Vernon is a hard writer to pin down. And that’s a good thing.” – Dark Scribe Magazine
“This genre needs new blood and Steve Vernon is quite a transfusion.” –Edward Lee, author of FLESH GOTHIC and CITY INFERNAL
“Steve Vernon is one of the finest new talents of horror and dark fiction” – Owl Goingback, author of CROTA
“Steve Vernon was born to write. He’s the real deal and we’re lucky to have him.” – Richard Chizmar
“Fifty-eight percent of Canadians believe that Bigfoot exists while only 27 per cent believe in politician’s promises at election time, according to a survey of 1000 Canadians conducted by Praxicus Public Strategies Inc. for the Canadian Taxpayers Federation” – Thursday, September 11, 2008 Metronews.ca TORSTAR NEWS SERVICE
Chapter One – The Bear, the Bigfoot and Me
Let me tell you a story that is almost true and completely factual – except for the parts that REALLY count and them I mostly made up.
My name is Adam and I happen to have three Dads.
One of them is dead.
One of them isn’t dead – but he isn’t exactly alive, either.
And the third one is mostly mythical.
Like I said – a true story – and it happened something like this.
Just let me tell it to you.
One moment I was standing in the Cape Breton Highlands – and why in the heck did they call them highlands, anyways? I mean, they don’t look all that high to me. Everywhere I look all I see are rocks and trees and rolling terrain and it seemed more of a humpy kind of a hill country rather than any sort of a highland.
I ought to know.
My Dad – my REAL Dad – has seen the Rocky Mountains and the Himalayas and from all of the stories that he hadn’t had the time to tell me about all of those REAL mountains but my Mom told me anyways – I figure that those mountains my Dad saw were a heck of a lot “higher” than Cape Breton could ever dream of.
“This is Cape Breton Bigfoot country, Adam,” Warren told me. “So you had better keep your eyes wide open.”
That’s Warren Teller talking – the guy who married my Mom, Penelope.
He met her on the highway. Mom’s car had a flat tire and he had pulled over and offered to help fix it – which would have been a really nice thing to do if he had ACTUALLY known how to fix the tire. It turned out Mom had to tell him how to do it and he still goofed it up along the way.
The man was a moron, in my opinion.
Worse yet was the way that Warren was ALWAYS trying to tell me all of these long and stupid stories that had absolutely no point at all – about mysteriously unidentified flying saucers and deep sea underwater monsters and more boring old ghost stories than you could rattle a rusty set of leg irons at.
As far as I was concerned Warren must have somehow substituted a pot full of boiled asparagus in place of his brains, somewhere along the way. In fact I am pretty sure that the doctor dropped him on his head at birth. In fact I am ONE HUNDRED PERCENT sure that after that doctor had picked baby Warren back up from the delivery room floor Warren’s mother had most likely dropped him back down again two or three times just to be sure that he bounced all right.
Warren is actually my stepdad – which is another way of saying that he was a bit of a total complete and freaking dork.
I mean just take a look at the guy. He is built about as thin as a green reed with a lumpy Adam’s apple that sticks out from the skinny of his neck and bobbles up and down like he was constantly trying to swallow a live kicking bullfrog inside of his throat.
The man looked absolutely one hundred percent gorky.
There just wasn’t any other sort of a word for it.
In fact – if you look up the word “
gorky” in any dictionary that you care to mention I bet you ten bottles of ice cold orange pop that you will see a picture of Warren, skinny neck and all – still swallowing that bullfrog.
“But Adam,” my Mom would always tell me. “He is your stepdad, after all. You are just going to have to learn to get along with him.”
“I don’t have to get along with him if I don’t want to.”
“Well,” Mom would always tell me after I said that. “If you cannot get along with him you’d at least better learn to listen to him.”
Which always got me angry.
“I don’t have to listen to ANYBODY!” was how those sorts of discussions usually wound up ending with – that and a slammed door.
There was just no way around it.
I knew what Warren really thought of me – even if he didn’t know it himself. I was the kid of some other guy. I was in the way. I was something to be put up with. The way I saw it Warren mostly wanted my Mom all to himself and I was just some kind of an unnecessary detail that he would have gladly loved to sweep under the carpet with last month’s pizza crumbs.
I didn’t care what he said differently.
As far as I was concerned – all that Warren being my stepdad actually meant was that he had accidentally married my mother about six months after my real Dad was accidentally killed by that unexpected baby carriage.
Which sucked.
My real Dad getting killed happened about six months ago outside of a little Afghanistan town that was called by a name that sounded like someone’s mouth was full when they had named the town what they did.
Do you want me to tell you just exactly what killed my real Dad?
An I.E.D. was what they called it in the newspaper – an improvised explosive device – and I cannot tell you just how many times I have wondered about what other kinds of words you can spell with those three little letters.
I.E.D.
Just what was that supposed to freaking mean, anyway?
Why don’t they just call it what it really was?
It was a stolen baby carriage filled with four cooking oil tins full of high explosive and a case of roofing nails.
So that’s exactly what I would call it.
I would call it a B.C.F.W.F.C.O.T.F.O.H.E.
And a case of freaking roofing nails.
Who would do something like that?
Who would even think of such an idea?
I mean, what did he do – get up one morning, eat himself a peanut butter and banana and honey sandwich and then say – hey, today I think that I am going to build a bomb out of a baby carriage and maybe blow somebody’s Dad up with it?
Now that is a question to chew over.
Never mind talking about freaking Bigfoots.
“There is no such thing as a Cape Breton Bigfoot,” I said back at Warren, only half-listening to what he was trying to tell me. “They are totally made-up and mythical.”
That is me – Adam Sawyer – wearing that Batman backpack that my mother bought me in a Halifax Wal-Mart, hunchbacked on my shoulders so high that I looked a little like somebody really ought to have named me Wild Bill Quasimodo.
“It’s a true story,” Warren said. “I read it in a book.”
I didn’t mind stories.
I just hated people telling them to me all the time. I mean, if I wanted to hear a story I could turn on the television or check out Youtube or even read a book. I just hated having to listen to somebody going on about something that probably didn’t ever happen the way that they said it did.
I hated English class for the very same reason.
“Don’t believe everything that you read,” I told Warren.
And I left it at that.
My Batman backpack was WAY too gorky for a seventeen year old kid like me to wear – but my Mom had bought it for me – so I cut her some slack and I wore it whenever I didn’t think anyone else was actually looking.
I cut my Mom an AWFUL lot of slack these days – except when it came to Warren.
I just had NO patience for the man.
“It’s true,” Warren repeated. “The story goes that over the last century there have been many reported sightings of a gigantic humanoid with long shaggy fur prowling through the forests of the Cape Breton Highlands.”
Holy gorky squared infinity plus.
What was this moron trying to tell me?
Warren was telling me that like he was reading and reciting it off of a blackboard scrawled in boring-colored chalk in the boring-part cortex of the left-most boring side of his brain.
“Sure,” I said. “And there are just as many reported sightings of kids enjoying themselves in the middle of a pop math quiz – but that doesn’t really mean that it’s true.”
“It’s true,” Warren said for the third time – as if saying a lie three times was going to make it stick any closer to the facts. “The local folk call him the Cape Breton Bigfoot. Early pioneers first spotted what they described as an eight foot tall ape-like beast with a tangle of snarled dirty hair and a pair of car-door-stuck-out ears and what most people described as the most soulful pair of large brown eyes that you could ever imagine.”
Wonk-wonk-wonk-wonk-wonk, blah!
“Really?” I asked. “Did early Cape Breton pioneers REALLY HONESTLY describe him as having car-door-stuck-out ears?”
“That’s a metaphor,” Warren said. “I was just being colorful.”
“You want to be colorful,” I said. “You ought to try bathing in red and green paint – the checkered kind. You could probably pick yourself up a can or two in the How-Stupid-Can-You-Really-Be store.”
“Very funny,” Warren said. “It’s a true story whether you giggle at it or not.”
I just rolled my eyes sarcastically.
“It sounds to me like that particular story has long outlived its best-before date,” I pointed out. “Which in my mind makes it the worst kind of green and blue molded-over baloney.”
I don’t know why Warren was acting so upset about what I was saying to him. I mean, I was just trying to set the man straight. It wasn’t like I was calling him a liar or a dork or a doofus – now was it?
“The story is true,” Warren repeated. “As true as story can be.”
“And where did you hear that?” I asked.
“Stories are everywhere,” Warren said. “Heck, these hills are FULL of stories just begging to be told.”
What a laugh.
“Sure they are,” I said, sarcastically. “I bet you there are whole caves crammed full of stories. I bet you there are caves just puking stories out of their mouths like the kid who ate too much birthday cake.”
“I bet there is,” Warren said. “You keep your eyes open and you might even just see it.”
“I bet there is not!” I replied. “It is stupid and it is dumb and I don’t believe in your stupid dumb stories.”
That second stupid and dumb seemed to hurt Warren’s feelings.
“That hurt my feelings,” Warren confirmed. “Don’t you even believe in anything? Don’t you even believe in monsters?”
I thought about what Warren was asking me.
I thought about that nameless guy sitting over in that unpronounceable village in Afghanistan – chewing on a mouthful of peanut butter and banana and honey sandwich while visions of exploding baby carriage bombs rolled and boomed through his head.
I thought about that very same guy sitting over there and giggling as he carefully packed that box full of roofing nails into the baby carriage full of high explosive.
So, yeah – I believe in monsters.
Only I didn’t tell Warren any of that.
I just stood there and I stared as he bobble-swallowed another giant bullfrog in the back of his long skinny throat.
“No Warren,” I said. “I don’t believe in monsters and I don’t believe in Santa Claus and I don’t believe in the Tooth Fairy and I sure as Wikipedia don’t b
elieve in any sort of Cape Breton Bigfoot. There is nothing out here in these woods except maybe a couple of lost wandering grizzly bears.”
I folded my arms on my chest to show him that I meant business.
“Cape Breton is too far east for grizzly bears,” Warren said, shaking his head and giving me that look of his that always seemed to say to me – my golly, just how stupid can one kid get. “The worst thing we might come across is a cranky black bear or else maybe a coyote – and both of those animals are pretty shy of humans.”
It turned out that Warren was more right than he actually knew.
In fact, he was absolutely right about grizzly bears not being in Cape Breton and I knew it myself because I had already looked it up on Google before the hiking trip, just in case – but I sure wasn’t going to tell him that.
According to Google, Cape Breton Island was an island on the northeast end of Nova Scotia that measured about ten thousand square kilometers in total – making it the 77th largest island in the world – or Canada’s eighteenth largest island – and what kind of a brag was that, really?
We’re number eighteen so we try harder?
Big hairy deal!
The highlands actually were the tail end of the North American Appalachian Mountains – and according to some geologists Cape Breton originally was physically connected to present-day Scotland and had only been separated by a couple of million years-worth of continental drift.
It’s true.
I looked it up on the internet – and the internet NEVER lies.
“We’re perfectly safe,” Warren concluded. “No grizzly bears, no mountain lions, not even any dinosaurs. No sir, there is nothing out there but the possibility of a rare and random unexpected Bigfoot sighting.”
I know that he was just trying to make me have something close to a good time out here but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.
“What-freaking-ever,” I said, fishing my I-pod ear plugs out and squishing them just as deep into my ears as they went.
Warren shook his head like I had said something pitiful and sad.
Then he started to softly sing.
“Bigfoot went over the mountain, Bigfoot went over the mountain.”
I’m not saying he was any good at his singing.
I mean, talk about pitiful and sad and gorky to the ultimate max!
The man couldn’t carry a tune in a cast-iron bucket if you glued the bucket handle into his grip.
