Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  Ready?

  It’s because no two of us are the same. Sure, there are similarities. This is why we are labeled as one “species”—or “subspecies”—as some of you so sympathetically state. Some have tried to link us to such legendary creatures as Bigfoot, Yeti, or the Abominable snowman. I’m honored! Those are big-name players.

  There have been great studies and endless lamebrain concepts as to why we are the way we are—our “condition.” Most of them are concoctions of truth, interspersed with romantic fantasy, elements from Hollywood, or the overactive minds of authors who refuse to leave their childhood beliefs and fears behind.

  So the question is Am I really a werewolf?

  Sure! I’ll go with that. I like the image. Werewolves are cool. They’re badass! But the truth is this. I have no fucking idea what I am. Yeah, I know … earlier I commented that people fear what they don’t understand.

  So … do I fear myself?

  Fuck yeah … sometimes I really do!

  Now, I can’t speak for my backwoods cousins Yeti and Bigfoot. I don’t know them, I’ve never met them, and I honestly have no desire to. As I said, we are not the same. But it seems we have similarities. In my case, I am not a shapeshifter nor am I supernatural in any way … that’s hyperbole, so let’s put aside everything you’ve learned about us from the movies or Stephen King and his endless line of predecessors. What I think I might be is nothing more than a great big genomic fuck-up … a mixed stew that was cooked up at some early point on the Darwinian timeline.

  Bullshit, you say? Well, let’s think about this. Most species—humans, animals, and even insects—are made up of sets, right? We usually have two eyes, two lungs, limbs, lungs, nuts, hands, ears, tits, and tonsils. Coincidence? I don’t know, but I doubt it. Somewhere on that great big evolutionary family tree, life forms branched out and adapted in order to survive. The most successful branch was the man/ape branch, which seemed to work well … somewhat. So, who’s to say there wasn’t a somewhat less prolific man/wolf branch … or dog … or cat … or, hell, why not? Man and bat? Society loves that one.

  What I’m saying is that essentially I’m a lot like you, assuming you are a human … and even if you aren’t. Maybe I’m just a shaggier version of you with the propensity to walk on four legs, kind of like … you got it … the ape. Maybe I have Uner Tan syndrome in my DNA, except that I’m just as comfortable walking on two or four limbs.

  Okay. I know what you’re thinking. What about the full moon? Yes. I love the moon, and for many reasons. But so do you. Pagan man has worshipped the moon since the dawn of time … and he still does. Does the moon affect me? Absolutely! It affects all of life. Do I transform during the full moon? Sure, but so does the ocean. Do I grow claws and hair like Michael Landon? Hell, no. My changes are intrinsic—as are yours—so you can lower that accusatory finger. Moon worship preceded sun worship in every formed religion in every primitive society. The moon is beautiful, mystical, sensual, and you have to agree … nothing quite compares to making love under the full moon.

  Yes, I can love. Does that surprise you?

  But there is a difference. The moon does offer me a gift that it hasn’t given to you. As with my lupine brethren, I am far better able to see under the light of the moon than in the light of day. So, while I can move freely about in the darkness, mostly unseen to your eyes, the moonlight enhances my hunting abilities greatly by helping me to see you as you trip and stumble about.

  Oh … did I say you? Pardon … silly slip, that.

  Okay. So I saved the best for last. Yes, I’m a carnivore. But isn’t this just another instance of the crackpot calling the kettle black? You have to admit that there’s nothing as tempting as a big, juicy chunk of bloody meat to soothe your primal hunger, right? So what? So our tastes differ a little. Big deal. You like filet mignon and I prefer a little filet mangnon. Unless you’re a vegan … then we’re different. And if you aren’t, do you plague the vegan for devouring tofu? Now, there’s something no one in the right state of mind should eat. Talk about profanity!

  Since we’re on the subject of food, I must say that I’m famished. And while I could go on about this for hours, there’s a full moon blazing overhead, and it’s a hunter’s moon. How about that? My favorite kind! There’s a coven congregating at Cambridge Moor … isn’t that a great fucking name?

  You do see the tantalizing two-fold beauty of these circumstances, don’t you? Full moon equals witches-a-worshipping, worshipping witches equals naked flesh, and there’s nothing as tempting as naked flesh in the moonlight … except maybe a big, juicy chunk of bloody meat.

  Okay folks, it time for me to sign off. I have a dinner date with a witch.

  Just love those silly moon-worshiping Wiccans.

  Playing the Huddys

  The young man loped to the chain-link fence, retrieved the softball, and deftly rifled it from left field to second base. Bib overalls, and little if nothing else from the look of it, hung loosely on his sharp shoulders from frayed denim straps. Dark grime caked the visible edges of his bare feet like dried mustard, and his toenails were cracked and a similar tint of yellow. His unruly, yet matted hair clearly hadn’t crossed paths with shampoo in ages.

  He watched idly as his throw single-hopped to the second baseman, who barehanded it. The batter slid into second beneath the extended hand, raising a plume of dry defiance to an empty blue sky.

  “Daif!” yelled the outfielder. He turned dull eyes our way, pinning us where we stood outside the left field fence. “Him daif,” he repeated, clearly seeking an affirmation.

  “Nice toss, Champ,” I said. “Almost nailed him.”

  An epic smile split his face revealing horsey, gapped teeth. Semi-dried mucus and filth caked his meager moustache, which had me initially believing it was much fuller.

  “Nee gud na duhmbel,” he said to us and galloped back into position.

  “What the fuck he say?” Rich Berlander asked. Rich’s voice always reminded me of two bricks rubbing together, dry and ragged—a perfect companion to his surly, deeply grooved face. Despite the rasp, Rich enunciated rattlesnake words, which gave the impression that he was eternally pissed off. He had me convinced.

  “Got me,” Marcus Spracher offered. “Something about a dumbbell.”

  “He said he got a double,” I offered.

  “You speak his language?” Rich asked me, an eyebrow cocked dubiously.

  I ignored the remark. I’d known Berlander for nearly eight years, a battle of words with him was like trying to climb a waterfall.

  We, the sixteen members of Prime Circuit Technology’s softball team, watched the men on the field with a mixture of amusement, irritation, and disgust.

  “What are they doing here?” Rich asked me. “I thought you reserved the field.”

  “They appear to be playing ball,” I answered, somewhat piqued by Rich’s apparent assumption that being the coach empowered me to answer such questions. “And I did reserve the field. Do they look like they live by any schedule or rules?”

  We redirected our attention to the spectacle on the ball field almost in unison.

  The third baseman, a tall, blond fellow, was shirtless and shoeless, as were most of the ballplayers on the field. He wore filthy, thick-ribbed corduroy pants that were probably last in fashion before he was born, and rocked incessantly from foot to foot. He jammed an index finger forcefully into his left nostril and drilled as if he were trying to tunnel to his eardrums, occasionally removing it and tucking the findings into his mouth.

  Another male of undetermined age stood on deck, wearing a self-absorbed smile that displayed an absence of teeth. In one grubby hand he held a wooden bat while the other writhed down the front of his khaki shorts. He was either scratching himself with the passion of a flea-ridden rabbit, or the other likelihood, I preferred not to ponder.

  A loud crack heralded a solidly hit ball. Our friend in left field backpedaled, crouched low as if awaiting a good time to flee, and at th
e last moment, stabbed his gloved hand up and plucked the ball out of the air. He peered into the glove to assure that the prize was indeed his and barked a laugh that sounded like it preferred to stay inside of him. Gnaa-hunh!

  He granted us that childish grin and said, “He out!”

  Rich Berlander huffed. “That was almost coherent,” he said.

  The players all watched their outfielder as if awaiting the words of a great oracle. He raised his arm proudly, and they swarmed off and onto the field, changing sides.

  They, more specifically, were the Huddys. Hedging on legendary, the Huddy family had earned an extraordinary level of notoriety for being unabashedly incestuous. Three generations of their highly -concentrated blue-blooded cocktail had stranded the majority of them on the lower rungs of the intellectual ladder, yet inexplicably, a few had managed to persevere and exhibit an almost respectable level of astuteness. Sadly, even for them the incestuous calling was just too strong.

  Numerous tales floated about Taylor Falls, and a fair share of neighboring towns, about the Huddys and the peculiar occurrences that involved them. Whether true or not was anyone’s call, but a few moments of observation would convince anyone that with the Huddys, anything was not only possible, but more likely probable.

  Years earlier the town of Taylor’s Falls, through charities and certain agencies, managed to fund a new home for the Huddys, hoping that it would instill some pride, honor, and maybe even some decency in the family and initiate a miraculous turnaround. It also gave license to tear down the horrid plywood structure that served as the Huddy home, standing for years on the border to the town dump. Though the donated home was pleasant, worthy of any middle class community, those involved had the wisdom and enough wherewithal to set it off in a remote corner of town. I never knew or cared where.

  Regardless, within a year, the house was said to be worthy of condemning.

  It was also said that so many Huddys lived in the house that the flow of bodies churned through the doors and windows like a water wheel, day and night. Stories were told of dogs, cats, goats, chickens, and occasional pigs, that reined freely both inside and outside the home, scattering waste wherever they went, like walking gumball machines. I had heard of a family dog that lay dead under the kitchen table for two weeks before the authorities, Department of Health, or whoever, removed it. Hard to envision, but who knows?

  “You gonna tell them to get off?” Billy Sanford asked me, sounding more challenging than inquisitive. He spit over the fence, took a pull from a bottle of Rolling Rock, and then spit over the fence again. There was a mischievous gleam in Billy’s dark eyes, but then, there usually was. A tall and rugged guy with an intimidating posture, he always looked ready to kick someone’s ass. In truth, he was a big-hearted soft-touch, usually neck deep in charity work. He had an affinity for children, and they for him, which was fortunate since he and his wife Debbie had eight or so of their own. Watching the Sanford family was akin to seeing two rowboats bobbing unperturbed on the waters of a mosquito-infested pond.

  As for the Huddys, there were probably twenty-five or thirty of them on and off the field. They were relatively harmless, but they did what they wanted, where and when they wanted. Few people had the nerve or desire to request anything of them, so the Huddys trumped on that advantage. Trying to get them to leave, if they didn’t want to, would be like squeezing cider from marble.

  Bob Huddy, known to most as “Buddy” Huddy, was the most approachable of the family. He was the person I needed to talk to if there were any hopes of getting the field for practice.

  I scanned the diamond and found Buddy standing near the far dugout with his arms folded like Cochise. Being more verbally adept and quite possibly the most intelligent, he was the one who dealt with the public when necessary. He was also rumored to have the singular honor of getting his sister, daughter, and granddaughter pregnant within months of each other.

  “Be right back,” I said to my surprised teammates and started around the field. I felt curious eyes follow me from both sides of the fence.

  A few of the Huddy women sat, or variable forms of the verb, on the home team bleachers. They were an intriguing lot, most of them with similar faces that ranged from plain to downright repellent. Evidence of their ancestral plight was exhibited well in their features, through broad foreheads, weak beady eyes, and large gapped teeth with prominent gums. Of all the Huddy women, the most conspicuous were Simone, Jenny, and Linny, who sat side-by-side-by-side. Possibly mother and daughters, maybe sisters, but a common assumption was that they were equal portions of both.

  Simone, believed to be the matriarch of the clan, looked to be around fifty-five and tipped the scales in the region of three hundred pounds. Her muumuu-clad bulk spread liberally over a healthy portion of the twelve-foot-by-five-tier structure. The great doughy folds of her arms and legs escaped from various points of her dress, exaggerating each of her movements with reverberated jiggles. The billowing meat of her butt draped loosely over two levels of seating. Close-cropped black hair exposed the severity of her face, which constantly displayed an aura of barely bridled lunacy. She was said to have the temperament of an infected Pit Bull, always ready to pounce. There was a facial similarity as well.

  Jenny appeared on track to twin the older woman, easily two-fifty, yet youthfully clad in a seam-splitting tank top and a pair of stretch pants that didn’t have an iota of stretch left.

  I foolishly imagined the cellulite adorning those two bodies resembling giant, clear baggies filled with five hundred pounds of wet oatmeal. My stomach lurched and I almost had to reverse direction, but I instead focused on Linny.

  Linny was the genetic freak of the family. Firm, trim, pretty, and as sexy as the day was long. She sat sprawled like everybody’s favorite centerfold with her long, supple legs spread and resting on the bench in front of her. High-cut denim shorts barely concealed what her pose outwardly ached to display. A blue plaid button-down shirt—held in check by her shorts for no buttons were fastened—only just concealed bountiful breasts that were unhindered by anything so binding as a bra. Her shoulder-length hair may or may not have been dirty, but the unkempt look of her chestnut mane only added to her feral sexuality. Linny was well worthy of admiration … until she opened her mouth.

  Shifting to offer a generous view of very nice cleavage, she greeted me with a nasally, “Hi, minsder,” eliciting an anomalous symphony of chortles from her kin. Her forced, almost hypnotic sensuality, when combined with her simpleton voice, was disturbing. It didn’t belong there, like the cat that went “moo.”

  I veered wide of the bleachers, a good decision since Simone was known to award those not to her liking a huge wad of well-aimed phlegm. Fortunately, I was out of range.

  Filthy Huddy children of assorted ages and various stages of undress swarmed the visitors’ bleachers, from a dwarfish little girl wrapped in a winter jacket, to another little girl of about three, buck naked and squatting under the bleachers. The children were perpetual motion, weaving ferret-like through the metal and wood, twisting and threading, emitting a cacophony of shouts and incoherent words.

  An English Sheepdog trotted by with two children in close pursuit. “Pooka, Pooka!” they called to it.

  One child noticed me, pointed a dirty little finger, and in a froggy little voice asked loudly, “Who him?” In a fury of motion, the children retreated under the bleachers, their minimal eyes following my passage. “Who you?” the same voice inquired.

  “Me?” I said. “Lew.”

  “Mee-loo,” the child copied, and then all the voices were saying it.

  “Meeloo – meeloo – meeloo.”

  I grinned and held the smile as I approached Buddy Huddy. Arms still folded, the man watched me with wary eyes. Many of his kinfolk halted play on the field, making me a little uneasy. He was probably fifty, give or take a few years, though he physically looked much younger. His body was well formed and muscular, but his face was a ruddy display of filth and pa
rchment, deeply weathered by the elements. His hair was a tousled graying confusion of twists and spikes. He remained silent as I walked up to him. A few of the men on the field approached, loyal disciples to the overlord of their twisted empire.

  “Uh, hi, Buddy,” I stammered, feeling like Livingston greeting the cannibals. I figured it was unlikely that anything communicable could be transmitted through a handshake, but why risk it? I refrained from offering. “I’m Lewis Larabee.”

  Buddy leveled a cagey gaze at me but said nothing.

  “That’s my team over there,” I explained, pointing to the men mulling about outside the left field fence. “We reserved this field last week with the recreation department … so we could practice.”

  “Why you here today?” Buddy’s suspicion seemed to elevate.

  “Pardon?”

  “You reserved the field last week, then why you here today?” Buddy asked, his expression unchanging though I had a notion that I was being toyed with.

  “What I mean is we reserved …”

  “We’re here today,” Buddy continued through my words. “We play, and you play, too.”

  “I don’t think …” I started to say, picturing an intolerant few on my team trying to share the field with the Huddys. It was not pretty.

  “You play us,” Buddy expounded. Many of the Huddy boys, mouths slack, agape, and by Christ, some even drooling, nodded in agreement.

  “You want my team to play your … uh … team?” Stunned, I was about to dispute, but quickly contemplated it. I had heard, more than a few times, that the Huddys were very good softball players. Maybe there was a worthwhile scrimmage here.

  “Let me ask the guys,” I said, and then retraced my steps back to my team.

  My proposition to take the Huddys up on their challenge was not exactly met with favor.

  “Are you fucking nuts?” Rich Berlander asked. He looked at me as if I had suggested circumcision with a weed-whacker.