Though I would have preferred cash, my patience is rewarded by the steady swish of slippers sliding on a wooden floor. The knob twists and pulls, but the door won’t open. Like I’m supposed to believe he forgot it was locked. I get a few clicks and clacks while the bolt draws back and the chain’s undone. The black-painted door creaks open a crack.
You knew it was going to creak, didn’t you?
I end up looking into two squinting eyes peering through Coke-bottle glasses.
Yep. He’s old. He’s even wearing a plaid bathrobe and using a wooden cane. So we’re repeating ourselves. But this is no spry, vivacious Aunt May. We’re talking Methuselah. Wrinkled skin on a bony head, white hair so thin you can barely see it. He’s hunched, but just a little. To his credit, he’s got a barrel chest that doesn’t lend itself to easy bending, as though he was a dock worker once upon a time.
There’s a long, dim hall behind him with, yep, a ticking grandfather clock sitting at the end. No sign of anything moving, aside from the clock’s pendulum, but the puppy smell is thick.
“Hey there, Mr. Withers? Cruston Withers?”
“Go away.”
No “What is this, Halloween?” or “What do you want?” Just “Go away.” Points off for being stereotypically crabby. He tries to close the door, but I shove my toe in.
“Now, now, this’ll just take a second.”
“It’s not a good time.”
The floppy bathrobe hides his arms, but they’re strong enough to slam the door and nip the end of my big toe. Not an easy thing to do. Plus, it hurts. Maybe he’s not so clichéd, after all.
Admiring my bruised foot, I notice something else near the ground, something wedged in the jam. It’s the sort of thing Sherlock Holmes might call a clue. It looks like a dried piece of skin, a wrinkle that got sick of living on Cruston’s face and decided to make a break for it. I bend down and try to pick it up, but it’s stuck in the door. It stretches, but doesn’t come free until it snaps.
Huh. Latex—as in a makeup appliance, the kind they’d use to set someone up as an extra from Beneath the Dignity of the Apes…or… to make someone seem old. Hmm. This is suspicious. People usually go out of their way to look younger. Then again, it’s a big world. You have to figure there are a few trailblazers who try to look old. Maybe they think it makes them look more respectable.
But Withers seemed ancient. When it comes down to it, there’s only one sort that makes himself up to look like a particularly frail old man. Someone who isn’t frail.
Y’know, I’m starting to think maybe Withers isn’t his real name.
The door has an old crack down the middle. I apply a little pressure, and the wood groans, ready to give. Easy to crash through, but he could be anywhere in there—why warn him? Must be a sneakier way in.
Manhattan townhouses never have decent alleys, so away to the rooftop I fly. En route, I pass a first-floor window, where I spy with my little eye a set of heavy-duty weights. Second floor, I see a room full of bowling trophies, which doesn’t seem to have much to do with anything. No doggies, though.
The roof’s a disappointment. No skylight. It’s overdone, but I love crashing through those things. Nothing much to speak of at all up here, other than that black tarpaper stuff that covers most flat roofs. When I peer down back, I spot one cool feature you might not expect: an actual yard. It’s tiny. I wouldn’t raise sheep there, but it does provide those special moments of privacy for the mercenary on the go.
A hand to a windowsill, a drop, and I’m down. All the rear windows are dark except for the one in the basement. It’s one of those thin jobs, low to the ground, so I have to get on my knees for a look. At least now the bowling trophies make sense. Cruston’s got himself a lane down here—complete with a pinsetter, a digital scorekeeper, and an alley that’s been polished to perfection.
Doesn’t leave much space for thirty puppies. The rest of the place looks as vacant as Sophie’s face that time I asked her to a movie, so where the hell are they?
Cruston steps in. Not seeing me, he chucks his cane aside, throws off his Coke-bottle glasses, and slips into his bowling shoes. Then he straightens, flexes his arms, and cracks his knuckles.
It’s like I’m watching him change into his secret identity as… Bowling Man?
But which is his true self? Old man or young bowler? And does he have a sidekick named Gutter Boy?
He grabs a ball and steps to the line. When he grins, I think he sees me, but he hasn’t. The end of the alley is below the window. He’s looking at the pins.
I can see how he earned all those trophies. When he moves, he uses a classic stroking form, favoring finesse and accuracy over speed and power. Shoulders square to the line, up goes his backswing, his arm about parallel to the ground, leading to a smooth, almost silent release.
See what I mean about my memory? I’ve been married like four times, but for the life of me can’t remember their names right now. This crap, I know—and I have no idea how I know.
From here it looks like the ball’s headed straight for the 1-3 pocket. I can tell exactly when it hits, because Cruston’s face lights up, cracking a bunch of that old man latex.
Only, instead of clacking pins, I hear…yapping.
Sweet Lord.
Why would I bother making up stories when the world keeps throwing things like this my way? He’s not Bowling Man. He’s not a hero. He’s a…
The basement window is thick, a metal mesh sunk into the glass to discourage intruders. I’m not discouraged—not by a long shot. I’m in, landing feet first in the center of the alley before a broken shard can hit the ground.
A look back at the pins confirms the sickening truth.
-choke-
They’re not pins, they’re puppies! OMG, they’re puppies! He’s using puppies as bowling pins! Held into shape by Velcro straps! Sweet mercy!
He did get a strike, though. Got to give him that. All ten pup-pins fallen and whimpering, they’re nearly swept back into the sorter. I tear out the guts of the machine, revealing that their twenty brothers and sisters are being held in the device. I free them so quickly and furiously, Cruston doesn’t get the time to move.
When I turn to face him, he’s still staring at me in shock.
“Not a good time, huh? Is this a good time?”
I clock him in the gut. His abs are nice and hard, probably from all those workouts, so the second time I drive my fist into him, I don’t feel any need to hold back.
“How about now?” A right to his jaw.
“Is now a good time?” A left to the chin.
What remains of the latex and fake hair sloughs off. He’s no retiree—he’s a bruiser in his prime. Even so, I have to wonder how he’s still standing after the sixth blow. Then I realize I’ve been punching him at just the right angle to keep him up on his feet. I guess even my instincts don’t like him.
I stop for a second. Down he goes.
He tries to crawl away. His voice is pained, but macho deep. “You don’t know what it’s like!”
I shove my mouth against his right ear and scream:
“Bowling with puppies? Why would anyone know what that’s like?”
“I don’t hurt them!”
Figuring there are two sides to every story, I try to calm myself by kicking him in the side. “You tie them up in little shapes, run them through a pinsetter, and hurl a sixteen-pound bowling ball at them! How can you not be hurting them?”
“I…I think they like it!”
Bunching his plaid robe in one hand, I lift him so we’re face-to-face.
“Like it? LIKE IT? How about I run you through all that and see how YOU like it?”
“Okay! Maybe they don’t like it. But I swear, I don’t hurt them…much.”
I pull back for another go. He puts up his hands and pleads.
“Please. Didn’t you ever have something you felt like you had to do, even though most people would think you were crazy for doing it?”
I na
rrow my eyes. “Like killing bad guys for pleasure?”
“Well…uh…if that’s where you want to go, sure, I guess. You gotta believe me, I wasn’t always like this.” His eyes get all weepy. “I was a bowling champ, playing in the big leagues. Had a trophy bride to go with the trophies and all the money in the world. Night of the big match, I’m one frame shy of a perfect game and making my approach when this kid’s puppy gets loose from his birthday party. It goes running across the lanes. I see it heading toward mine, but I’m in the zone. I didn’t want to break focus, and I figured it would see the ball coming and get out of the way, but then…then…”
He closes his eyes and lowers his head. “I was kicked out of the league. My gal left me for a foosball champ. I became a pariah. Oh, I tried to move on, I swear. I even thought I had. Then, one afternoon, I chucked a rock at a squirrel—and in some weird way, out of nowhere, I felt better. All the pain I’d been carrying around disappeared for a while. But it came back, worse than before, and I realized what I had to do to keep it away.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” I punch him again a few times, but stop before he passes out. “One question. Why do you dress like an old man?”
Face bruised, teeth loose, he offers a feeble shrug. “That, I just kind of like.”
Well, I’m not going to judge someone for how they dress. The puppies, though? Holding him up by his robe, I smash his face, letting go at just the right moment so he flies a few feet before hitting the ground.
I’m deciding how best to continue our little chat when a rumbling down by the machinery turns me around. Damn it! Thought I tore out enough of the guts, but the pinsetter must still be working. All this time I’ve been busy having fun, those poor pups have been in danger of resetting.
“Quick, how do you kill the power?”
Cruston points to a circuit panel. I yank the main breaker, and all the lights go out—but the rumbling continues.
“That should’ve worked, I swear!”
It gets louder. So loud, it’s obvious now that it’s not the pinsetter— or any machinery at all. It’s one of the pin-pups, a cherubic beagle half wedged in the gutter. He’s thundering against the lane like he weighs a ton. He falls and rolls toward us in a wobbly bowling-pin way. As his furry form begins to enlarge, the Velcro straps holding him in pin shape crackle and snap one by one.
He’s free, on all fours, almost still looking like a dog, but the malevolently glowing eyes are a giveaway. The thing he’s becoming rises up on its back paws, like it’s begging. The hindquarters thicken into decidedly un-doglike legs and feet. The front paws throb into formidable four-fingered hands. The chest widens, rib cage cracking as it grows. Its ears become less floppy, more goblin-like. The snout—heritage of the proud breed that inspired Snoopy— pulses and warps into a grotesque porcine parody. Horns sprout on its head—not huge, but no less attention-grabbing thanks to the hawk-shaped black patches of skin leading up to them.
Color? Mostly two shades of green, with a black raccoon mask around the eyes.
Being fifteen feet tall prevents it from standing in the low-ceiling basement, but it tries. As it flexes, it cries out in a hollow, aching voice that speaks of the infinite stretches of the empty abyss of space:
“I AM GRUTO, THE CREATURE FROM NOWHERE!”
Nowhere? Can’t let that one go.
“Is that a beatnik reference? Like, Nowheresville, man?”
The big lug looks around, puzzled, genuinely lost. “How came I to be here? And from where did I come? Why cannot I remember?”
Hey, I’ve been there—waking up disoriented in a bowling alley, lousing up my sentence structure. It’s like staring into a mirror. But this isn’t the time or place for a metanoia.
Cruston crazy-crawls for the door, hoping to get lost in all the excitement. Torture’s kind of a sore spot with me, falling squarely in that “deserving” category. So I point at him.
“Oh, Gruto! I know how you came to be here! It was him! That guy, the one on his knees, wetting his pants! He’s the one what brung ya!”
Gruto’s head snaps toward the bowler. He puffs air from his nostrils like a big bull with a raccoon mask. “I…hunger!”
“No, please! No!” Cruston picks up his pace and scuttles out into the hallway.
I try to give Gruto some space, but it takes him a long time to squeeze through the door. By the time he’s out, Cruston’s nowhere to be seen. And the rest of the basement’s a long, wide, cluttered mess: old weights, a steamer chest, a dress dummy, an old birdcage, a haunted Ouija board—you know the drill.
Poor Gruto. You can tell he’s no good at hide-and-seek from the way he’s forlornly squirming around, halfheartedly pushing stuff out of the way. That leaves it up to me. The stairs are the only way out, and I haven’t heard anyone on them, so he must still be down here. Hm.
I slink up to Gruto and whisper, “We’re a team, right?”
The Creature from Nowhere nods.
“Okay, then. I’m going to creep over and hide by the stairs. You stay back here and make a bunch of noise, so he thinks the coast is clear. Got it? Let’s do this.”
I creep back to the stairs, find myself a shadowy spot, and motion for Gruto to do his thing.
“Where could that human be? I hunger!”
Sure enough, some boxes shudder, and Cruston skulks out, trying to reach the stairs.
I’m on him. “Going somewhere?”
He gets on his knees, begging like a you-know-what. “Don’t let it get me!”
I almost feel bad for him. “Sigh. Do you promise to never, ever bowl again?”
Even if he says yes, there’s no reason to believe him. But if something’s going to make a sadist reevaluate his life decisions, having one of his victims turn into a raging monster and try to eat him may be just the thing. So, yeah, I’m thinking about letting him go, but then he goes and ruins it all.
“I’ll…I’ll use squirrels! I swear it!”
“Here he is, Gruto! Right here!”
“Noooooo!”
Before long, Gruto’s belly is full. I’m already fond of the big guy, so I hate to think about it, but what if Withers was like Chinese food and Gruto’s hungry again in an hour? By rights, I should spritz him into oblivion here and now. But when he eyes me with that creepy look of gratitude, I can almost still see the puppy in his face. If he stays docile, maybe I can get S.H.I.E.L.D. to study him?
Have to be sure, though. “Gruto, let’s head upstairs and talk a minute, okay?”
The living room ceiling is taller; the afternoon sun pleasant. Gruto manages to slump into a loveseat without hitting his head. I pull up a chair, sit, and look at him.
“We’re not so different, are we? You lash out due to genetically programmed aggression. I enjoy killing, but not inflicting senseless pain. Usually, anyway. They call us monsters, but it’s the sadistic creeps like the one you just ate who are the real monsters. Oh, buddy…” I point to his teeth. “You’ve got a little piece of Cruston right…there.”
He’s civilized enough to look embarrassed. As he picks his teeth, I’m thinking this could work.
“So we’ve got that in common. And the amnesia thing? I don’t tell everyone this, but even when I do remember something about my past, I can’t exactly trust it.”
It looks like I’m getting through. “Do you…hunger for living flesh, as well?”
“No, but different strokes, right? Thing is, since you and I can’t define ourselves by our memories, maybe we can define each other through, you know, mutual trust. I guess I’m saying maybe we could be…you know, buds. Or we don’t even have to put a name on it. If S.H.I.E.L.D. gives you some downtime from their testing, we could just hang out sometime.”
I’m not sure if I’m making him misty-eyed or bored, but his eyes drift over to the window. A gassy, boiling sound erupts from his torso.
“Heh. That your stomach growling or an earthquake? Wanna order some pizza?”
He’s still not making eye con
tact, so I slump back in the chair.
“I get it. I’m being pushy. I totally understand. I get the reluctance, the disorientation, the rage that comes bubbling up out of nowhere. Nowhere, that’s where you’re from, right? I’m only saying, I’m at a place right now where I feel like I’m from Nowhere, too. Maybe we could be from Nowhere together?”
CRASH!
All fifteen feet of him go out the window. Well, mostly the window. He takes out a hunk of wall, too. See that? I put myself out there, and even a freaking monster only wants to get away from me. It’s middle school and Sophie all over again. It’s like my life is just another cheap monster story.
Maybe you should check out what he was staring at.
Thought you were going to leave me alone for a chapter. But why bother?
You have to stop him.
Plus, it’ll make you feel better.
How? Is this what I’ve come to? So pathetic I have to go chasing after some self-centered creature to get some attention? He’s no prize. Why doesn’t he have to stop me? If I’m such a loser, why are they making a feature film about me? A much-anticipated feature film, I might add. Anyone elevator-pitching a Gruto, the Creature from Nowhere? What does that tell you?
No, listen to us.
You have to stop him because he’s a monster loose on the streets.
Oh. I get you. A metaphor. Solving his problems is like solving my own. Funny, you’d think I’d be more in tune with subtext when I’m talking to myself.
It’s not subtext!
Look out the window!
Oh, my. And I’ve got a great view, too. Kids again. Right across the street, twelve little girls in school uniforms are marching along in two straight lines. Sounds familiar, but what really matters is the opportunistic apex predator headed straight for them.
“Gruto hungers!”
Oh, Gruto. We all hunger, don’t we? In another place, another time, we might’ve been friends. As it is, I hop out with my ADD and zap him into goo.
Paws Page 13
