Hairy Bromance

by T L Barrett

  In the west, the scarecrow, the Westfield Horror, lay like the discarded farm implement he appeared to be. He did not stir, but slumped in the chair. The effect was disturbing even to these hideous creatures. He was not happy.

  He was never happy, but he certainly was not happy right now. He hadn’t killed anyone in over three years. Unlike the others, he did not have to glutton himself continually on fast food fed trash. He ate souls that had been filled with fear. The more fear in the souls, the more satisfying they were. He had spent the past three years following a school bus route in rural New York. He would appear in this or that field and move incrementally, so that only the bored little kids could see him and report back to their more distracted older schoolmates.

  On his last outing he had noticed that the entire bus road silently down the road, all of the students peering in awed fascination out at him. He could taste the fear from where he had propped himself against a dead tree. He was one end-of-the-year school picnic away from a banquet that would set him up for a century. Then he got this summons from the haughty bitch sitting across the table from him. He hated jury duty.

  “Hey, not that I mind you being here and all, pipsqueak, but what happened to Bob Cartright?” Pucce asked. “Doesn’t he usually take the underworld seat at these things?” Bob Cartright was an investment banker, and secretly a naga, a member of a serpentine race that were fond of taking positions of power, wealth, and prestige in the human world. Pucce looked forward to asking the naga for some financial advice. He got in pretty steep with a ghoul bookie and he wanted to know how to shuffle some funds around without his old man catching whiff of it.

  “He had…he had zome bizzeness to attend to. He asked me to stand in for him,” the goblin said. Pucce nodded satisfied.

  “You and he are close, then?” the scarecrow asked. The other monsters jumped a bit at the sudden sound of his ghastly voice.

  “You could say zat, yes,” the goblin said.

  “Could we get started, please?” Lady ZumZ broke in. “Longfish you are the North; you begin.”

  “I, John Longfish, come from the north to bring the cold biting winds of Justice to these proceedings.”

  “I, Antonio Gratch Pucce, come from the east to bring justice that will rise upon the guilty.” They all turned their eyes to the goblin. The goblin blinked and swallowed.

  “I, L. P. Kahn, come from ze underworld so zat Justice can drag ze guilty down into ze earth and knaw on the ze bones of the unworthy for all time.”

  “Interesting,” the scarecrow said.

  “Hey, I thought it was good, kid,” Pucce said to the goblin, “very creative!”

  “Your name is ‘L. P. Kahn’?” Longfish asked with incredulity. “Really? Holy shit that’s hilarious!” He laughed and slapped a big brown hand upon the table. “Am I the only one who thinks that is friggin’ hilarious?”

  “Silence!” Lady ZumZ. “We must continue in da tradition of de folk tribunal, or do we all want to have to do our parts over again?” The male monsters groaned and shook their heads.

  “I, Lady ZumZ, come from de South…”

  * * * *

  Sally Rheimer finished polishing the unoccupied half of the bar at the Silver Bullet, looked over at the occupied half and sighed. At twenty-one she shirked at the thought that just a year ago she thought that working at a redneck dive like this would be a blast. “Good tips,” her mother had promised her, “and they have that open mike night on Thursdays. You could get discovered.”

  “I’ve been discovered, all right,” Sally muttered as the aging drunks at the end of the bar continued to ogle her. One of them waved a hand at her. She slowly polished the bar as she drew closer.

  “Hey, honey buns, you can come over to our side. I’ve got something that could use some polishing!” a red-faced man three barbecues away from a stroke said. A couple of guys chuckled or experienced gas.

  “Hey, Mister Motton, I hear Suzie,is loving it over at Oberlin. Has she decided on a major yet?” Motton’s face soured and he looked down at his drink. Talking about their kids usually dampened their moods. Of course, that one had dampened Sally’s mood as well. She would like to see what Oberlin was like, too. Heck, she’d even give chasing skirts in the bushes on the edge of the field hockey field a go. That’s what she had heard that Suzie really liked. She hadn’t mentioned that to Motton. That was big gun material. Of course, give him a couple more drinks, and she’d be pulling that one out of her hat, too.

  Life just wasn’t turning out the way that Sally had hoped. In fact she was sick of life. Not that she’d commit suicide; that was ridiculous; she just wished something important would happen. She used to fantasize that some rock or country star would walk into the bar to wet their throat after a long day on the road. They’d get talked into doing a short set up on the stage, and wouldn’t you know it, they really would like a vocal accompaniment. Yes, that was what she used to fantasize about. Nowadays she didn’t waste her time on even mildly realistic fantasies. Nowadays, she wished a brooding vampire would come in and sweep her off her feet, like in that awesome show her mom had DVR’d for her.

  At that moment a rock star vampire walked into the bar. Sally instantly knew he was both. She knew he was a rock star because she would recognize Ollie Prince anywhere. She had learned how to sing, and learned how to love music listening to his hit album when she had been just nine years old. Her mother often joked that the song, Doodle-boppin’ Girl had been the reason that her old boyfriend, Carl, had shoved off to Florida, but both Sally and her mom knew the truth. Carl had been into some pretty weird shit in the old bedroom, and Wendy Rheimer wasn’t about to attempt half of it with a child within a half mile of her.

  Sally knew Ollie Prince was a vampire, because he had been a beautiful and unattainable fifteen years old when she was nine years old. She could drink now, and Ollie Prince did not look like he could imbibe for another half a decade. That, and there appeared to be blood all over him.

  No one else took much notice of him, until he staggered toward the bar, weaved, hit a table full of thirty-something couples getting away from their kids, and then fell over near the bar.

  Everyone jumped up and ran over to him.

  “Help…” Ollie gasped to the circle of concerned alcoholics. “Help…they beat me…raped me…”

  “Who, who did this, son? Tell us!” Mister Motton said.

  A chorus of ‘tell us!’ sounded in litany.

  “Down the road, at that old abandoned farm…”

  “Was it the old Mcpherson farm?” Mister Motton asked.

  “I don’t know…yeah, maybe, I guess, but listen: they are monsters! They eat people,” the dying boy said. A bit of ketchup fell from his cheek and spattered on the barroom floor. This news struck the regulars hard.

  “Could it be? Cannibal monster rapists, in our town?” Doug, the bar owner, asked.

  “Yes…in your town…your children…danger…have to stop these monsters…” Ollie gasped. He gasped again, wheezed, twitched, gasped, grabbed Mister Motton’s arm dramatically, twitched and was still. Everyone was quiet for a long moment. Mister Motton put out a shaking hand and touched the boy’s pale throat.

  “He’s dead!” Mister Motton declared. A woman started weeping hysterically.

  “Phil, what about our kids? We left them with that idiot girl from down the street. I told you we shouldn’t. I smelled marijuana last time when we got back. I told you!”

  “It’s not happening to our kids, or to our town!” Doug declared. “We’re going to grab whatever weapons we find on hand, and we are going to go kill us some cannibal monster child-rapists!” A great cheer went up and the men and woman started stampeding toward the door. Sally watched them go in wonderment that none of them had yet thought to call 911.

  “Sally, you need to stay and cover the bar, all right?” Doug asked, throwing his apron over the bar and grabbing a baseball bat. “Just don’t touch the body. They’ll need to check the body all over for
clues, you know, semen samples and the like. I’ve seen how they do it on C.S.I.!”

  “Okay, I’ll make sure no one takes his semen,” Sally said, and in seconds she was alone with the corpse of her childhood heartthrob.

  Sally took the opportunity to clean up some of the nearby tables. As she went, she began with her lilting and lovely voice to sing the song that had rocked the pop world over a decade before: Doodle-Boppin’ Girl.

  “Your voice!” Ollie said from the floor. “It’s like an angel’s.”

  “Yours ain’t half bad yourself, Ollie Prince,” Sally said, nonchalantly, as she placed some glasses in a tub of soapy water.

  “You recognized me?” Ollie said.

  “You look the same, don’t you?” Sally turned her full attention to the boy who sat up now on the barroom floor. “You’re a vampire, now, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He got up, grabbed a napkin and wiped at the ketchup on his face.

  “Vampires are real?”

  “Yeah, you know, I meant what I said about your voice. You shouldn’t be here. You should be out there making records and doing stadium concerts.”

  “It takes more than just a pretty voice to do that kind of thing,” Sally said.

  “No it doesn’t. Take it from me.”

  “All right, I guess, I will,” Sally said. She put her hands on her hips. That was it; Ollie fell hopelessly in love.

  “Hey, have you ever dreamt about flying?”

  * * * *

  L. P. Kahn had not really been selected to replace Bob Cartright, the naga, in the folk tribunal. He actually decided to take advantage of the opportunity after killing Bob Cartright in an elevator shaft in Boston the week before. L. P. was not actually a goblin, either, nor a member of any other folk affiliated race. L. P. Kahn was a little person, a little, German person.

  Yes, L. P. Kahn was his real name. His father Lucas Kahn Senior, a very tall and aristocratic German, had insisted on calling him L. P. without realizing the effects this name would have on his diminutive son should he ever encounter English speakers. L. P. killed people who had made too much of this unpleasant coincidence. He also killed people for calling him the “m” word. He killed people for very little actually.

  L. P. Kahn was a very angry little German person.

  He enjoyed killing monsters most of all. They made him particularly angry. He was looking forward to killing the monsters in attendance at the tribunal. He got very excited about the prospect. So excited, actually, that he was glad that they were all sitting around a table.

  He hoped to get some information about a particular monster before he exterminated this hive of perversions, but the scarecrow had already made this almost impossible. Plus the awful contacts he was forced to wear were driving his eyes crazy!

  “Why don’t you tell us all about goblin-Naga relations, Mister Kahn, if that is your true name?” the Westfield Horror said. “We would all love to hear how they have been able to throw away thousands of years of conflict under the Earth to ‘fill in’—here, the scarecrow, made quotation marks in the air; L. P. killed someone for doing just that, once—for each other in important political matters.”

  “I don’t think this has any bearing on Tribunal matters,” Lady ZumZ protested.

  “I would also like to know how you developed the odd habit of blinking,” the scarecrow continued, “the likes of which I have never seen in the entire history of the goblin race.”

  All faces turned to regard L. P. L. P.’s eyes started to water.

  “Since ve have broached ze topic,” L. P. began, “I should like to know zat you are not, in fact, just another psychotic hillbilly vith a scarecrow suit and a voice modulator.” All eyes turned to the scarecrow. The Westfield Horror sighed. He reached back, fumbled with a length of twine about his neck and removed his head. A few loose straws fell down on the table as he held his head out away from his body.

  “Satisfied?” the Scarecrow asked.

  “Absolutely, mein herr,” the pseudo-goblin said. In one fluid movement he leapt upon the table, pulled out a long curved knife and fell on Lady ZumZ. Even the snakes upon Lady ZumZ’s head were taken off guard as he slid the razor-sharp blade through the gorgon’s neck. Fluid that looked much like ketchup bubbled up out of the stump.

  L. P. grabbed the mask away from the gorgon’s face and twisted the head so that it faced the Wendigo across the table. The Native American’s eyes widened as they took in the petrifying sight of the gorgon’s features. His skin hardened into stone.

  Pucce, whose discretion always won over his valor had made it to the kitchen door before L. P. pulled a pistol from his pocket and fired a silver bullet through his heart. The were-rat let out one squeal of protest before he died against the door.

  L. P. placed the mask back on the gorgon’s head and laid it gently on the table. Then he jumped from the table and put it between him and the scarecrow. The Westfield Horror fumbled to reattach his head. L. P. popped his contacts out and pulled the itchy latex nose and horned brow from his face.

  “You’re just a midget?” the Scarecrow said with astonishment.

  “That’s little person, you piece of cow excrement!” L. P. roared. He lifted his pistol and shot a silver bullet between the button eyes of the scarecrow. Hay and bits of burlap flew into the air.

  “I don’t have a brain,” the scarecrow announced and pointed to his head.

  L. P. paused. His face broke into a wild grin.

  “You didn’t just zay that! Tell me you didn’t just zay you didn’t have a brain!” the little monster hunter brayed with laughter.

  The Westfield Horror roared and knocked chairs flying as he came around the table toward L. P.. L. P. scrambled behind the statue of the astonished wendigo. He fumbled in his pockets.

  “Are you looking for something?” the scarecrow asked and held aloft a monogrammed lighter. L. P. had left it on the table after the scarecrow had asked him to light the ceremonial candle.

  “Mein Gott!” L. P. said.

  “He won’t help you now, you little bastard.” The scarecrow laughed.

  At that moment a Molotov cocktail flew through the kitchen window and exploded across the floor and the lower half of the scarecrow.

  The scarecrow roared in panic and ran about the room, setting things on fire. L. P. leapt to the window and peered out. A huge mob of rednecks stood outside the farmhouse. Some of them held back in fear; others charged toward the building with rifles and pitchforks.

  The little man looked at his pistol and shook his head. This was not going according to plan.

  * * * *

  A shot rang out above them, and made Glen and Barry jump. They looked at each other with hope and dread in the near dark of the basement.

  To their right, a bulkhead door flew open and moonlight poured down. A figure floated down on a moonbeam and landed gracefully upon the basement floor.

  “Peter Pan, my man!” Glen exclaimed.

  “Ollie!” Barry said, wagged his tail and panted. The vampire hushed them and came forward and broke their chains. Another shot sounded from above.

  “I could have done that,” Glen muttered.

  “Actually, I think they were cursed, buddy,” Ollie said. “Come on, we have to get out of here. I sicked a bunch of rednecks on the monsters upstairs.”

  “Way to go, Ollie!” Glen said and surrounded the vampire in a hug. Barry chocked back a tear and piled in for the love.

  A little figure appeared on the stair. They all turned to see a little person pointing a pistol at them. Barry growled.

  “I have zilver bullets in zis gun, beast!” L. P. announced. “You vill stay back and let me pass, unmolested.”

  “Do you have enough bullets to lay down an angry Sasquatch, a vampire and a werewolf, you…whoever you are?” Ollie asked.

  “Watch who you are calling molesters, you m—” Glen began.

  “Don’t call me zat! I varn you!” L. P. screamed. Footsteps could be heard upstairs. He
circled toward the bulkhead stairs. “I vill be leafing now.”

  L. P. stumped up the stairs and turned at the top.

  “I vill hunt you down and slay you one day. Ve vill meet again!”

  “Maybe in munchkin land,” Glen muttered.

  L. P. fired a wild shot down at them and disappeared into the night.

  “I smell fire, guys!” Barry whimpered. The three friends crept up to the top of the bunk head stairs and saw the little man run around the side of a barn.

  Just then, a group of rednecks came around the side of the house, their jingling key chains announcing their presence long before.

  Barry stepped out, and blinked in the moonlight. His face was swollen and bloody, chains dangled from his wrist. His bathrobe was torn.

  “Holy shit!” one of the rednecks exclaimed. “Were they keeping you in the basement? Did they rape you, too?” Barry nodded. One of them started for the bulkhead.

  “Wait…” Barry said. “The guy who…raped me…he went that way,” Barry announced and pointed around the barn.

  “Hey, thanks a lot!” one of the rednecks said and fired a shot at random at the barn. Two of them chased after the bullet.

  “Hey, man, you might want to stick around and talk to the police,” the last redneck advised. “They will probably want a semen sample from you.”

  “All right, I’ll do that,” Barry nodded. The redneck grinned with pride and ran after his cohorts.

  “All’s clear, guys,” Barry hissed. Glen and Ollie followed their friend across a field and into the woods.

  * * * *

  Back at his house, Barry ran through the rooms touching things, picking them up, and then tossing them aside. How had he ever acquired so much crap? He could hear the clock ticking above the kitchen sink. He wondered how he could have ever found that sound reassuring. He went into his bedroom and threw his clothes across the room. Finally, he opened a suitcase and threw the contents of his underwear drawer, a couple of Hawaiian shirts and some chinos into it. He figured the Hawaiian shirts would make him inconspicuous. Then he ran out to his book shelf. What to bring?