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Adventures In Living With The Mythical |
| Hey, y'all. It's Elouise. Guess it's time to tell my part of this thing. Everything started long ago, to tell the truth. Down in the swamp, we had managed to push any sort of non-human law out, thanks in large part to our own special brand of toxic sludge. It's made from a few different plants that grow abundant down there. You brew it nice and thick, let any flies and gnats or whatever land in it, cause the bugs will come in from the stench. You stir it once or twice a day, no more than that. The toxic chemicals, with names far longer than I can pronounce or even remember, will begin to brew from the bacteria inside of it. It's hazardous for humans to eat. It's toxic for most non-humans to even smell. There may be other names for it, but in the bayou, we just called it tar. Garrett will swear up and down that he came up with it, say that he brewed it as a research project while he was cooking up meth in that trailer of his. He'll even get Marissa and Tarissa to agree with him. But if you happen to be unlucky enough to come across that carpet bagger, and you're unlucky enough to be trapped in a conversation with him, ask him about details. When did he start? How did he come up with it? How did he know it was done? That's when his story will fall apart. Truth is, tar's locally known down there, handed down from the Native Americans who used to live in the swamps afore us. They created it over centuries to fight back against windigo and other nasties. Rougarou is just one of the lucky few to be immune. Us and the dragons. But what's the chances of anyone coming across that rare breed? Part of me always knew that Garrett would come back with tar. His grand scheme isn't so hard to figure out once you're in his head. He's the type of guy who will just burn the entire house down so no one else can have it. Especially if he can sell the ashes of it or the land it was sitting on. When his goons came, Jason and Crash were probably out dealing with him or the terribly fake twins somewhere. He enjoys doing that. Walking up to the hornet's nest, kicking it once or twice, then standing there to see how angry they'll get at him. Poor Garrett never could figure out there's a difference between anger and panic. And a panicked person will kill someone to survive if they have to. How I got captured isn't all that interestin. Some charlatan had come to my door, claiming his cell phone had died and needed a tow truck for his car. True enough, there was a car out front, with hood up. No smoke coming from it. Headlights still on. I don't know much about vehicles, to tell ya the truth. Can barely tell a Corvette from a Chrysler, but I did know that everything looked suspicious with their silver sedan. What could I do with the feller? He was wearing an old T-shirt advertising some jamboree or something, one of those giant music festivals that became so popular for a while. I invited him in, told him to wait while I went and got my cell phone. The intention was to shift, scare the bejesus out of mister 'out of juice' in my living room and figure out what was going on. The sound of the window opening in my bedroom changed my plans. Trailers aren't known for having the most secure windows on the planet. Mine was no exception. Now, an average person off the street won't crack it, but any experienced burglar can get threw them with no problems. I had always relied on my own abilities. After all, a thief won't be stealing too many more things if they're bouncing around a rubber room talking about giant gator women. But that didn't go too far with two gentlemen holding pistols loaded with silver. There was a brief struggle. The guy in the window didn't give me a chance to shift. I ran into the living room to see my front door being kicked in, and another guy brandishing a pistol. Unfortunately, I did the thing all victims do when faced with something like that and stared down at the pistols rather than their faces. I could see something of a family resemblance, but I didn't pay much more attention than that. It's hard to fight while trying to shift into your fighting form. And hurts like a son of a bitch. Fight didn't last long before I was escorted out the front door and sat into the silver car. As we drove by, I could see Jason being loaded into the back of a cop car. His back was to me, and I know he didn't see me. All I could think then was Garrett. That son of a bitch. I was sitting in the back of the sedan, crammed in there, between two brothers with the father sitting up front talking about how proud of he was of his boys, blah, blah, blah. I didn't pay attention. I just watched out the window. We were taken across town into a property that was overgrown. From there, Marissa and Tarissa both met me. The terribly fake twins waved enthusiastically as I was brought over. "Look Rissa, it's Clarissa!" Marissa exclaimed. I'd always hated that name. Told Garrett so. Hated the idea of being part of a triplet. Told Garrett so on many occasions. Don't know why he wants triplets so bad. Well, I have one idea, and it's kind of sick. "Why, if it isn't Emma! And her friend Lamborghini!" They both rolled their eyes and grabbed each of my arms. The one I called Lamborghini was gritting her teeth. "My name was Lexus, and now it's Tarissa," she snarled. "You wouldn't know anything about being in a sisterhood. Or being in a family." I rolled my eyes as I was shoved into their truck. "I know all about family. Both good and bad. And sister, it's the right thing to leave bad family before they make you worse." There was a gator growl in her throat. I knew right then and there she wanted to end me. If Garrett hadn't been there, it would have gotten real nasty real quick. But old Garrett just laughed. "Ladies, ladies. We can't spill her blood yet. We got more important work to do." He turned to the other guy, he looked like a man who spent a life working in the sun. His face resembled shoe leather. "Now, you spread that stuff all over town. Anywhere you can spread some." He looked down at it confused. "I don't get it, won't they just wash this stuff off?" Garrett laughed. "Go ahead. Stick your finger in it." The darn fool stuck just the tip of his finger in it. It was coated when he pulled it back. It strung tight for a moment like a strand of cheese clinging to a slice of pizza in a commercial. Then that strand snapped. He tried wiping it off his fingertip, but the more he tried, the more coated his fingers got. He flailed, cried, smearing the stuff on his shirt, his pants, all over his other hand. His fingers fluttered and flailed like he saw a bee. Garrett's booming laughter provided a soundtrack to his impromptu one man show. "It'll take more than the power of Pine-Sol to get that stuff out," he laughed. "Hope that shirt ain't a goodun, that shirt and your jeans are ruined." Though when he pronounced it, the ruined came out sounding like 'ruint'. "Now that you're through with your performance art, get that stuff smeared. We ain't got much time. Get your boys and get to work." The old guy ran off, grabbing two men. They jumped into a vehicle, and drove off. Meanwhile, I was rolling down a bumpy back road. It was sometime before I heard sirens and gunshots. Things were playing out bad back there, and I knew they'd only get worse. Life has a funny way of falling apart from time to time. Forcing us to stitch it back together in whatever way we know how. Tar's greatest property isn't in what it kills, but what it creates. Through the stench and the destruction that follows it, it creates chaos, allowing our kind to waltz in and take over. Like Garrett had just done. As we rolled down the overgrown drive of the farmhouse that Garrett had either bought or stolen, I watched the tree tops and the sky. I was certain it was going to be the last time I ever got a chance to do that. |
un: 
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