Hairy Bromance

by T L Barrett

  Hairy Bromance

  By

  T. L. Barrett

  Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.damnationbooks.com

  Hairy Bromance

  by T. L. Barrett

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-830-5

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-831-2

  Cover art by: Jessica Lucero

  Edited by: Isaac Milner

  Copyright 2012 T. L. Barrett

  Printed in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  1st North American, Australian and UK Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This work is dedicated to my dear wife Sandy, who, when I read her the book, laughed her ass off. Don’t worry, honey, it has to be around here somewhere. We’ll find it.

  Chapter One

  A Funeral for Mister Cuddles

  Barry Trudeau put down his coffee cup and his glasses and stood up. A cool May morning breeze came in through the huge screen windows of his porch. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and down over his paunch. It was time to go for a jog. Sitting around collecting social security for “bipolar disorder” and waiting for the latest strew of rejection letters for his nature poetry just wasn’t keeping the machine well-oiled these days.

  He took off his Hawaiian shirt, his jeans, and his Fruit of the Looms. He never wore shoes; that habit could be expensive and painful for someone like him. Naked and pale in the golden morning light, he stretched and bent over and slapped his shins, thighs, love handles, chest, neck and cheeks. Years ago, a Chi Gong instructor had taught him this. He never got into the yoga part of the whole experience, but he liked the slapping himself a bit; and he had fond memories of all those housewives in leotards.

  He checked his watch and then remembering, took it off and laid it on the card table with the latest New Yorker, his cup and glasses. The jogging lady should be due any minute. He clapped his hands together with enthusiasm and gave a little high pitched growl.

  He walked down the yard and stood just behind a flowering crab apple tree. He stroked his chin and waited. Man, did it feel good to stand here naked to all God’s creations. He wished everybody went around naked, but then, he thought, maybe the novelty would wear off. He imagined the jogging woman wearing nothing on her morning jaunts down Route 7. He supposed she might hurt herself. She gave enough of a bouncing spectacle in her sports bra.

  Soon the pert scuffing of her size six running shoes against Route 7’s black top came to his sensitive ears. Barry felt his body responding to the sound, his blood began to pump; a queer, icy thrill went up his spine.

  As the shadow of the woman grew across the dew sparkled lawn to his right, he began moving to the left, coming around the side of the apple tree and out into the wide open. When the beautiful, sweat-beaded woman turned her head to see who was standing there, Barry grinned and waved a hand in greeting. The woman started to raise a hand and then eyes wide, she startled. She took a half step back into the road. Her exquisite mouth was open, as she took in the full majesty of Barry’s full frontal. Barry’s grin widened.

  Then, squaring off with him, the woman’s face set. She raised a hand parallel to the ground. Her mouth shut, and one pretty corner turned up. Her hand fluttered from side to side in a “so-so” assessment. Barry’s grin faded.

  Undaunted, the lady jogger, woman of his dreams, continued her morning jog out of sight.

  A cloud covered the sun, and Barry’s shoulders slumped. He looked back at the house as if daring it to mock him. Knowing any chance of inspiration for the morning had been deflated, as well as other parts of him, Barry noted sadly, turning to the right and walking across the drive and into the woods.

  As he crossed into the speckled shade of the stirring branches, a calm clearness entered his mind. His pace increased. His mouth opened, his nostrils flared. His tongue lolled out against his lips. He tasted the morning and sniffed for hints of the day’s distractions to come.

  By the time he hit one of his customary runs, he was up on the balls of his feet running deftly through the undergrowth. He panted, his heart beating its wild steady rhythm. He reached up, as was his wont, to feel the thickening of his brow, the thick hairs that sprouted. His hand came away wet with sweat.

  He hadn’t started changing. The jogger’s assessment had struck a deeper blow than he had realized.

  He paused sniffing the air; a musty air assailed him, old cabbage and savage spunk. In his self-involved misery, his mind did not register the scent.

  A great growling roar filled the world to Barry’s left. A huge shape crashed through the undergrowth and towered over him.

  Barry ducked to the side, flinching low. Already winded from his run, Barry’s body decided against both fight and flight. It decided to play dead. He took half a step before his muscles went all logy, and he collapsed in composting leaves and pine needles.

  Seeing past the throbbing beat of his laboring heart, Barry twisted his head to see the eight and half foot tall Sasquatch leaning over him.

  The simian-like face wrinkled in a wicked grin. The little eyes, shadowed by the enormous brow, glittered with glee.

  “I got you good that time, Barry,” the rumbling voice came from behind the huge square teeth. The hairy sides of the Sasquatch shook with silent laughter.

  “You…” Barry managed to say between gasps, “are a wicked bastard, Glen.”

  “You found out about your mother, then?”

  “In your dreams, big foot,” Barry answered.

  “No, in yours,” Glen retorted. “That’s the spooky thing.” A huge scarred hand came down and offered Barry help up. Barry reluctantly took it and pulled himself to full height. He brushed at the needles from his bare side.

  “Just cut it, all right?”

  “Whoa, what got into you?” Glen asked, his long arms bending into fists and going akimbo. He surmised his friend’s panting condition. “Why are you all fleshy still? I can see your little wiener.”

  “Hey!” Barry said, putting a hand over his groin reflexively. “Well, now you know how I feel. I’ve always got to stare at that huge nasty thing.” Barry gestured at the huge member hanging down between the Sasquatch’s legs. “Can’t you weave a loincloth or something? I told you I’d buy you one.”

  “Ah, you’re just jealous,” Glen said. “Speaking of buying: did you get a chance to pick up any comics for me? I’ve can’t wait to find out what the Punisher’s gonna do now that he’s dead and all.”

  Glen had an addiction to Marvel comics. Barry should never have agreed to start purchasing them for him. It was just so incredibly low-brow. He felt awkward going into that cheesy, teenage-infested comic book shop. It just didn’t jive with the underappreciated poet mystique he was trying so hard to maintain. It had been one of the original terms they had hammered out over beers when they had set their differences aside and agreed to protect the woods together. Glen remembered the terrible first encounters they had. His eyes went to the large puckered scar where Glen’s right nipple used to be. That old guilty feeling came back.

  “Sorry buddy, my car is acting up. It goes into the shop, tomorrow.” Barry wiped the
sweat out of his eyes and looked away.

  “Seriously, are you all right?” Glen asked, his voice softening as much as a Sasquatch’s voice can soften.

  “Yeah, you know,” Barry said, flipping back his pony-tail. “I’m just having one of those days.”

  “Well, it isn’t getting any better, man.”

  “What, now?” Barry asked.

  “That bastard logger…Mcooney?”

  “McCain. What did he do now?”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna like it. I know I didn’t,” Glen said, his teeth setting together with a clamp.

  “Show me,” Barry said. Glen led Barry through the trees. Sometimes the branches came back and whipped at Barry’s naked belly. Barry swore.

  “Change, for chrissakes!” Glen muttered.

  “I’m working on it,” Barry whined. Then he ran into Glen’s huge hairy rump. Regaining his footing he looked around him and winced at the glaring sun.

  The woods had been ravaged in a clear-cut all the way down the hillside and turning out of sight. Every tree had been cut down. Only the most prime had been taken. Ragged stumps remained. The sight hurt Barry’s eyes. The blood pounded in his head as he surveyed the indiscriminate carnage of the land.

  “Oh my…” Barry breathed.

  “And then some,” Glen said. “I think it’s time.”

  “Oh, you’re not just a-saying,” Barry growled. He wandered out into the wreckage, awkwardly stepping over fallen and discarded timber. Then he stopped and sniffed.

  “What is it?” Glen said, stepping forward.

  “Stay still!” Barry waved Glen away. “I can’t smell a thing over your stink.” Barry took two bounding steps onto a log and then bent over. “No.” Barry stared down at something. His back hunched. The muscles there gathered and twisted, bulging outward. Hair sprouted across his back and filled into a thick wolf’s coat. “Nooo!” he howled into the air, lifting a pronounced muzzle to the sky.

  “What is it?” Glen said, bounding toward the werewolf. Trees split and cracked under the weight of his great feet. Then Glen saw.

  A fox, red with gray at its muzzle, lay curled against a dead tree. Blood and snot caked its fine muzzle. A thin gray tongue hung lifeless between the clever, sharp teeth. Death glazed the open eyes. Most of his left foreleg and shoulder were gone, as was the tail.

  “Mister Cuddles?” Glen said. His vision swam in the great tears spilling out onto his wide simian nose. The friends stared at their little companion. Mister Cuddles, the red beggar, was dead. He would no longer try stealing their Doritos. He would no longer scamper and try to walk on his hind legs to make them laugh.

  Barry turned his muzzle and looked into the teary eyes of Glen. Both creatures began to growl, deep in their throats. Barry started forward and then looked back.

  “The old one-two, then,” Glen said, nodding. “I get the high ground. I got a case of smash-happy coming on.” Barry nodded his agreement and loped off into the trees below the clear-cut swathe. Glen, leaning forward and using the knuckles of his hands, strode across the cut to the woods above.

  * * * *

  Clint McCain had done a whole lot of satisfying work this morning. Yes, this wasn’t technically his land. Yes, he wasn’t using the kind of woodsman etiquette they preached at the natural resources courses. When your soon to be ex-wife doesn’t have the nerve to meet you face to face, but sends some pig with a letter from the women’s shelter instead, well, a man just doesn’t really give a shit, does he? As far as he cared, she and her finger-paint-wearing, faggot of a son could go to hell. She took the dog, too. Of course, that’s what really hurt. The way she pussies both of them they will both be fat and biting her before the year was out.

  Today, God help the S.O.B. who tried to stand between them.

  Clint took a swig of coffee from his mug and surveyed the timber already loaded, the work that lay ahead. He grinned and stroked the fox’s tail hanging from where he had clipped it to the front of his denim jacket. That was a good sign. He hadn’t needed a bunch of hounds and snorting horses like those tights-wearing Lymies used, either. Imagining them in their silly hats with their bugles made him chuckle. With this kind of luck, he imagined he could drive on down to the Packing House in Lyndonville and see what kind of trouble he could muster up. Fighting or fucking, it was all good to him.

  There was a great popping and cracking coming from the low ridge above him. He stopped and looked up with only his eyes. It was an old hunting trick the old man had taught him. Deer and the like didn’t pay you too much mind if you were real still.

  Something flew through the air. Clint ducked his head down and dropped his coffee. A rock, which was half as big as he was and probably just as heavy, fell with a thunderous crack against the hood of his skidder. The yellow metal buckled in against the engine housed inside. Clint scanned the ridge again, this time moving his head, his shoulders hunched.

  A monstrous roar filled the clearing. Clint’s eyes fell upon the biggest creature he had ever seen. A huge hairy ape, taller than any man, glared down at him. It bared its terrible teeth and roared again.

  Every fiber of Clint’s being told him to run, but the inhuman fury in the creature’s eyes had speared him where he stood. Clint felt the warm urine against his leg. The beast leapt off the ridge right toward him. This got Clint moving.

  He turned and spied the truck. The rifle he had used earlier lay half in the opened passenger side window. He struggled through the detritus of the clear cut, living every liquor-addled nightmare he ever had. He moved toward the truck and the gun but never seemed to get any closer.

  Another great hairy shape landed with a thud on the hood of said truck. This thing had the general shape of a wolf in the long muzzled head and the thick mane of hair about its shoulders, except it stood on two legs like a man. It curled great clawed hands out in front of him, as if beckoning Clint on toward the truck.

  Clint let out a thin raspy screech, twisted his body left and ran, turning his head to keep the second thing in his field of vision. He found his feet and bolted forward blindly to escape these nightmarish beasts.

  His groin caught something and a great tearing pain assailed him. Looking down he almost spiraled and tumbled off balance. He had caught up against one of the ragged stumps he had left standing in his haste to clear cut as much of the timber he could and be gone, before some tree-hugging nosy got involved in what did not concern him.

  Clint yelped and struggled to remove himself from the stump. He looked back over his right shoulder. The snarling werewolf was off the truck and approaching. He looked over his right. The wrathful Bigfoot bore down upon him.

  Clint let out a great high yodel of fear and pain and launched himself off the stump. With a ripping sound, Clint’s Carharts tore completely open. He staggered with numb and blind fear away from the horrors behind him. His legs moving automatically, and somehow avoiding the many pitfalls and hummocks, he made his way downhill toward the hopeful safety of Route 7.

  * * * *

  Barry reached out a furry hand and grabbed the hair on Glen’s arm. His face had shifted back, somewhat, allowing him the propensity for speech.

  “Hold on.” Barry said. The Sasquatch, filled with primal fury, turned his head and growled.

  “I don’t think he’ll be coming back,” Barry said.

  “Why not?” Glen barked.

  “I don’t think he’s got the sack for it,” Barry said and pointed to the stump upon which Clint McCain had been snared. There was seam thread from McCain’s work pants and some blood. On a jagged promontory of the stump hung a wrinkled fold of skin. Glen leaned down and sniffed.

  “Is that one of his testicles?” Glen asked.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Barry said. Glen and Barry looked at each other. The astonished grin on Glen’s face made Barry snort. This got Glen started. Soon they were both doubled over laughing. It was often like this after a good chase. Barry caught his breath, still seeing the look of stupid terror on th
e logger’s face. He let out a long yipping howl of laughter.

  Then it was quiet. Barry and Glen both looked up to the ground where a length of red fur lay where it had fallen from McCain’s shirt front. They looked up the clear cut, toward where their companion lay.

  “You should let me go after him. I’m hungry, damn it,” Glen said.

  “Glen, you know how you get after eating long pig. You’re goddamned intolerable,” Barry reminded. Glen sighed.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Still, that was classic.”

  “Yeah, classic.”

  * * * *

  They built a great pyre for their comrade in arms out of some of the fallen timber and laid his little red body and tail on top of it. They lit it at dusk, drinking many six packs of beer and reminiscing. At one point, Glen stood up and began to chant some Nordic warrior rite he probably picked up from a Thor comic book. Barry humored him, and soon found himself weeping openly and nearly chocking on his latest beer.

  Later that night they both laid there, drunk looking up at the stars.

  “Hey, Barry.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When you go to the comic book store, make sure you ask the clerk about Walter Langowski.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, Sasquatch, from Alpha Flight.” Sasquatch was the enormous strong man of the Canadian super team, Alpha Flight, and of course, Glen’s favorite super hero. He had gone into a great depression when he read an Avengers comic and the only Sasquatch superhero was slain with his comrades in the first couple of pages, and off panel at that. He hoped they would resurrect him, as they did most superheroes.

  “Sure, Glen, you bet.”

  “Good old Langowski,” Glen reminisced, “that guy represented.” He was quiet for a moment. “You know it was outright discriminatory, the way they offed him like that.”

  “I know, Glen.”

  They were quiet a long time and then Glen started to snore. Soon, Barry joined him.

  Late at night, Barry awoke to Glen crying out in the night.