I don’t have a real backstory for this one.  I just happened to see a photo of a giant isopod, which was all the inspiration I needed.

It’s story time for children!  Today we’re going to learn about giant isopods, which live in the deep, cold Atlantic ocean and can grow to be over a foot long.  They are not fish, but crustaceans.  Huge, nasty crustaceans that might make you vomit when you see them.  Here, look at this picture:

(I’m sorry to make you vomit.  I, too, am feeling a bit queasy as I write this story.)

But you see, isopods are Mother Earth’s creatures, too, so we musn’t shun them.  Millicent was a special giant isopod.  Beyond her vomit-evoking powers, she had one impressive talent:  she could sing opera.  Opera is a type of music, and some people think that if brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans or liver made a sound, it would be opera.  Other people find opera to be fancy;  they probably enjoy brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans and liver.  The only problems with Millicent’s amazing skill is that giant isopods do not have the vocal cords that allow them to sing, nor do they have the brain capacity to learn Italian, German, or any other language in which opera might be sung.  She also would not have fit well into the costumes–dreadful poofy things that would have swallowed her figure.

You might ask how she knew she could sing opera, or how she knew what opera was at all, given that she lived in the deep sea and had no contact with human beings.

She just knew, perhaps from some psychic ability.  She could feel her unsung arias welling up within her.  She may have been remembering a past life in which she was Maria Callas, the famous opera singer.  It is rumored that in her efforts to lose weight, Maria Callas swallowed a tape worm*, something about as hideous as a giant isopod.  A psychic link may have been forged based on mutual disgustingness.  One never knows.

So what’s a giant isopod to do?

She pondered this while crawling the ocean floor, snacking on squid and sponges.  For many days and nights (it was all the same to Millicent, given that she lived at the bottom of the ocean), she passionately meditated and prayed for knowledge of the one thing that would let her fulfill her creative dreams.  One blessed day, the answer came to her like a divine revelation shooting into her exoskeleton:  get a new body, preferably one with vocal cords.  But how?  Science had repeatedly failed at providing people with new bodies, so it was no help.  Fortunately for Millicent, paranormal enthusiasts were not so easily discouraged.

Do you know what a paranormal enthusiast is, kids?  No?  Well I’m just going to say this:  put a bunch of  paranormal enthusiasts in a box with some scientists.  You don’t have to shake it or anything –the carnage ensues naturally.  ”What’s carnage?” is an excellent question for Mommy and Daddy.

Anyway, our friend Millicent swam daringly to the surface of the ocean as she saw a boat drift by.  Several people were huddled on the deck around a group of candles and incense.  She stared, fascinated.  Here were the weird tall things that lived in the horrible air.  She’d heard other sea animals speaking about them, but she was never convinced that such beings actually existed.  But there they were, a whole pack of them crowded around a large woman in a turban.  The boat rocked and the woman called out to the waters.

“Oh great spirits, we have traveled here today for your counsel!  Above these cold waters, we beseech you to arise from your oceanic grave and speak!  Enter into this purified body of this medium, Madame Slapinski, and impart your wisdom!”  At this point, the woman threw back her head and rolled her eyes deeply.  You see, a medium is a special type of paranormal enthusiast who is like a hotel for disembodied spirits.  The spirits hang out inside the medium’s body and talk to the people listening.  Usually the spirits are kind enough to answer questions, but occasionally they only want to shout nasty words and do funny dances.  They might also say a lot of things like “my child” and “why do you not hear the screams of your Mother Earth?”  The less tolerant ones will say things like, “Where’s my bottle of rum, $#!$@&?”

Millicent looked around her and saw no spirits clamoring to enter the medium.  In fact, there appeared to be a vacancy.  “Well,” thought Millicent, “Since no one else is waiting …”  She closed her eyes in imitation of the woman, and instantly found herself outside her body and face-to-face with the medium’s spirit.  Millicent, too, was a natural medium!

“Aaaaagh!” shrieked Madame Slapinski soundlessly when she saw the spirit of the giant isopod.

“What?” asked Millicent in irritation.  “Aaaaaagh” was a dreadful aria;  apparently mediums were not musically gifted.

“Hideous creature from the deep!” moaned Madame.

“How rude!” thought Millicent.  She thought the medium was rather unattractive as well–she had only two arms, for goodness’ sake!–but she didn’t go around pointing it out.  Millicent had good manners, like I hope you do, too, children.

“You may not pass!  Get thee behind me!” Slapinski ordered.

“Okay,” said Millicent, and crawled behind her as instructed, where her body lay vacant.  What a bizarre thing to demand, she thought as she settled into the medium’s body.  Millicent was nauseated just being in it!  It was all soft and squishy, with no protection at all.  Why, anyone could come along and gnaw on it.  The teeth were virtually non-existent, the claws pathetic, and it smelled dreadful.  But yes, yes!  There were the vocal cords.  She coughed and wheezed for a few moments while the humans around her waited, hardly daring to breathe.

Finally, she began.  At this point, I should share Wagner’s opera “Tristan und Isolde” with you, for this is what she sang.  However, I do not like brussels sprouts, and I positively loathe boiled lima beans.  Therefore, I will direct you to this lovely page on Wagner’s famous opera:  http://wagneroperas.com/indextristan.html.  Go on, explore the joy of opera.  Now look back at the picture above.  It may seem revolting to you, but I assure you that Millicent was in ecstasy.  Her newfound voice quivered with exquisite vibrato.  She thrust her arms wide as she filled her lungs with air, once such a horrible thought.  As her voice rose above the ocean waves, her small audience grasped each other in awe.

“What … what can this mean?”  whispered Everett, Madame Slapinski’s assistant.

“Hush, Everett!” said Mathilda, a devoted Slapinski disciple.  “I didn’t know she could sing so beautifully.”

“I didn’t either,” said Marcus, a would-be paramour of Madame’s.  (You will need to look up “paramour” in the dictionary.  I don’t want to get into it during story hour.)

“Come to think of it,” said Everett, “I heard her singing Madonna’s ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ in the shower last week, and it was dreadfully off-key.  Sounded a bit like Alvin and the Chipmunks, actually.  ”

Blissfully unaware of the reaction of her audience, Millicent sang on against the backdrop of the frigid Atlantic ocean, candles wafting smoke around her.  Then, a tapping on her shoulder stopped her.  It was Madame Slapinski’s spirit, and she was not amused.

“Foul Beast,” Slapinski said, her astral eyebrows twisting disdainfully, “While I must admit that your knowledge of opera and skill at singing are truly magnificent, I insist that you return my body to me.”

Milicent paused.  She was finally living her dream.  Was she really obligated to vacate the medium’s body?

“I refuse to be possessed by a giant sea-bug!” screeched Slapinski.  “If I’m going to be possessed, it better be some impressive arch-demon!  I call upon the Angelic Hosts, the Archangel Michael, the–”

And suddenly, Millicent found herself back in her own body.  While her exoskeleton was infinitely more comfortable, she mourned her loss of vocal cords.  The shadow of the boat passed over her, taking with it Madame Slapinski and her only chance of singing.  She cried miserably, except that giant isopods can’t really cry, so really it was just some shuddering and stomping.  A bright light appeared before her:  Madame Slapinski’s spirit had returned!

“Loathsome insect,” she said imperiously, “I heard your deep-sea wails and despite your hideous visage, I feel compassion for your plight.  I have one small hint for you:  it is called ‘the zoo.’  I shall say no more.”

Fortunately, that was all Millicent needed.  She had absorbed a lot of human knowledge during her brief journey to Madame Slapinsky’s body.  A zoo was a place where animals lived to entertain human beings.  Many, many humans visited the zoo each day and according to the vast archives of informatin in Madame Slapinsky’s mind, everyone is psychic.  Most people simply don’t know it.

Millicent practically salivated as she thought of the opportunity.

“Thank you, Madame Slapinski!” said Millicent.  The next day she strategically placed herself in the nets of an American scientific expedition and within two weeks, she was transported to a zoo in New England.  Zoo officials were puzzled at the sudden increase in spontaneous operatic singing by zoo patrons, who burst into magnificent song and then shivered outside the Deep Sea exhibit, curiously reluctant to go near the giant isopod enclosure.  The giant isopod, however, seemed inordinately interested in humans.  Some zoo patrons even insisted that the curious creature … smiled.

The End!  Try not to get possessed by hideous sea bugs, kids!

*Highly unlikely, of course.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril by splarks
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Abigail, Horseman of the Apocalypse

Once upon a time, there was an otter named Abigail. Abigail was a very special otter because she was the unwitting Seventh Horseman of the Apocalypse. Fortunately, she remained unaware of this until a fateful night in February. Prior to that, she’d been an ordinary otter, playing in rivers, tossing clamshells at herons, and sleeping more than necessary.

She was lounging in the river one evening, when she heard a deep voice call her name. Curious, Abigail swam towards the dark figure near the river bank. She gasped as he came into view; she had never seen anything like this hideous creature before. His face was missing the important parts, like eyes,ears, and skin. He was dressed in filthy, yet fashionably tattered black robes and carried a knobbly black stick with an ugly skull carving on top. She wondered if he was one of those “goths” she had heard about on Oprah. He stood beside two enormous horses and watched her intently with glowing red sockets.

“BEHOLD!” he bellowed. “I greet you in sorrow, fellow Horseman.”

“Um … hi,” said Abigail. Yes, this was definitely one of those gothic characters, probably coming to bum a cigarette or invite her to a poetry reading. She didn’t fancy a night of poems about deep despair and dead black roses, and she mentally prepared a litany of polite excuses.

“I have come to deliver your steed to you,” the creature said, and pointed to the brown horse on the left.

“Oh,” said Abigail in relief. It was merely a delivery mix-up. “I didn’t order one of those. The Schwann’s order came on Thursday.”

The Horseman opened his mouth in equal bafflement, and then cleared his throat. “You will ride it during the Apocalypse.”

“Did you try the Thompsons down the river?” she asked, hoping to resolve this misunderstanding quickly without unnecessary tragic conversation. “They sometimes have things delivered. Maybe they ordered an Apocalypse – “

“SILENCE!” roared the man. “You will take your steed and prepare for the Day of Doom!”

Abigail drew her lips back in distaste, but wasn’t about to contradict a dangerously unstable, death-obsessed man ten times her size. “Fine, fine. How am I supposed to feed it?”

“It is no earthly beast. The dark night and the fear of mortals will nourish it, as well as the tears of the dying and the bereaved.”

“Night … mortals …tears of the dying …” muttered Abigail under her breath. She wished she had a pencil and notebook, as she knew she’d forget this all by morning. “Look, I’m late for, um, whisker-cleaning night. Can you just hitch the horse to that tree? I’ll see if I can rustle up some tears of the bereaved for his breakfast.”

“No. You must hear your instructions for the day of terror.” Abigail was relieved to hear that his voice was calmer and less imperious. She looked pointedly down river towards her den. She was itching to get back to it; she’d recently nicked it from a beaver and the place was in sore need of re-decorating and washing, and it was also past-time for dinner. However, the ghastly man ignored her and continued. “Ok, you have the brown horse. I’ve got the black horse, the Unnamed Beast has the red horse, Larry has the pale horse, Our Lord has the white horse, and Megan has whatever the hell that mule-thing is. Here, I printed this table from Wikipedia; it’s a nice summary to help you get acquainted.”

She studied the table as best she could in the moonlight. “This doesn’t say anything about a mule or a brown horse.”

“Wikipedia doesn’t always have the most current information. We added the mule for diversity’s sake, and yours was an afterthought.” He caught sight of Abigail’s raised eyebrow and hastily added, “But that doesn’t mean it’s not important, of course.”

Abigail was getting tired of treading water for this maniac, but she was keenly aware of the big knobbly thing perched above her head. “Why do I get the brown horse? You might have noticed that I am also brown. I’ll blend right in, if I can even stay on it to begin with.”

“The brown horse is Annoyance.” The creature primly spread his robe and sat down on the river bank, leaning towards her in a conspiring fashion. “Oh, I know it doesn’t sound as glamorous as Death or Famine, but think about it. Annoyance is a creeping killer. It raises stress levels, taxes the heart, causes emotional disturbances,divorces, fights, and vengeful waitresses. Everything else is so in-your-face, so bleeding obvious. Annoyance is suave, insidious. And to bond with the horse, you have to experience some of its essence.”

Abigail gazed skeptically at him. “You sound like my mom when she gave all the clams to my brothers because she loves them more than me.”

The Horseman coughed, looked the other way, and spoke unnecessarily quickly. “I assure you that Our Lord loves you just as much as he loves us. It’s just … we think your level of experience is better suited for Annoyance. The rest of us are seasoned terrorists. We know what to do. We don’t want to scar your tender heart before it’s ready for the heavy stuff.”

Her belly rumbled. “So why choose me at all? I’m an otter.”

“It’s been decreed.”

“By whom?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“I can’t stay on that thing, you know.” She felt cross even thinking about the prospect.

“Sure you can,” said the Horseman, with what he probably thought was a kindly voice, although it was more nasal than anything, despite his lack of a proper nose. “You just need a little help and practice. That’s why I brought Clarence a little early. Here, let me help you up.” Before she could protest or squirm out of his hands, the Horseman had seized her and tossed her on top of the horse, who was unimpressed with this gesture and reared up. Abigail had no choice but to bite into his back to steady herself, but this caused Clarence to run.

“Shit!” she heard the Horseman shout. Through the bouncing blur of trees and stars, she thought she heard him chasing after them, but the sound quickly faded. Is this the Tribulation? she wondered. She knew little of Biblical prophecy but recalled the term “Tribulation” as referring to hard times. She was fairly certain that hanging onto a horse’s backside with her teeth as he tore across the countryside counted as “hard times.” Perhaps this qualified as “bonding” with the horse. But as her brain jarred in her skull, she wondered why on earth she was expected to participate in this bizarre human drama.

She was about to take her chances and open her jaws, when a voice thundered from the heavens. “CLARENCE, STOP.”

Clarence stumbled to a stop, and Abigail flopped from his back in a most undignified manner, dropping the Wikipedia table.

“IT IS I, SATAN.”

This seemed suspicious to Abigail. “Why is your voice coming from the heavens?”

There was a resounding silence, and then Satan said in a quieter voice, “I am a ventriloquist, actually. Anyway, I will answer your question.”

“What question?” Talking to a disembodied voice made her head ache.

“The one you thought of during your perilous journey just now. You must participate in the human apocalypse because you are part human.”

“Oh fabulous, of course,” she said, annoyed. Dinner was waiting at home, yet here she was, entertaining evil idiots. “Silly me, to look at my fur, whiskers, webbed feet and tail and not have realized.”

Satan must have detected the sarcasm in her voice, because he snapped, “You were abducted by aliens and your DNA was tampered with, foolish otter. You have inactive human DNA sequences waiting silently to be activated by the upcoming apocalypse.”

“I was not abducted by aliens!”

“You were, too. Don’t you remember last summer when you lost your den to another otter because you were away for 2 months?”

“I … I was traveling. In Spain.”

“Abigail, you are a river otter. They won’t let you on a plane.”

“I swam across the ocean!”

“You are not a sea otter. Your habitat is restricted to fresh water.”

“I’m an endangered species in Wisconsin!” Her voice shook with desperation. “I have special flight privileges!”

Satan packed an amazing amount of skepticism into his single, polite cough.

She hung her head and sighed, banishing the memories of pale gray creatures with large eyes and poky instruments. “Ok. Whatever, Satan. Will it be easier to ride this thing with alien DNA?” Clarence neighed indignantly at being referred to as “this thing,” and Abigail shrugged at him apologetically.

“Not really.”

“Why should I believe you, Satan? Isn’t the sole purpose of your existence to obfuscate the thought process of humans?”

The clouds gathered in the direction of his voice. “Yes, but you’re an otter so you don’t have to worry.”

However, Abigail had grown cranky with the delay of her supper, and she interpreted the darkening sky as proof of Satan’s insincerity. The wild journey, the unexpected personal revelations, and the presence of a diabolical being were too much for her recently-altered mind and body, and her growling stomach was the last straw that caused her alien DNA to suddenly became activated. She shot a laser beam from her mouth and incinerated Satan, who, despite his demonic power, was an earthly being and susceptible to alien technology (aliens don’t believe in Satan, despite all those devil-worshiping reptilian underlord theories you may have read on the Internet). It was all a bit confusing, as she could not see Satan’s incorporeal form, but her special alien DNA confirmed that his supernatural life signals had abruptly terminated.

“I just killed Satan,” she marveled. “I wonder what else this DNA can do?” She set off to find out, and Clarence followed. She had grand adventures doing so, but they are for another tale. Suffice it to say that having thus upset the plans for the Apocalypse, for there can be no Apocalypse without the Prince of Darkness to orchestrate it, she was disowned by the other Horseman, who mourned their lost purpose in life. God was not especially perturbed at her actions, being benevolent and all-accepting of mortal free will, and He ignored the pleas of the other Horsemen to annihilate her soul in a fiery pit of sewage. Abigail and Clarence eventually settled in a small Italian villa, because endangered species in Wisconsin really do have special privileges that include unrestricted flight travel. She resumed her life of clam-cracking, heron-scaring, and oversleeping, but this time she had a charming horse friend to share in her joy. Clarence was relieved to be rid of his Apocalyptic duties, as he was not a war enthusiast and preferred to spend his time pondering the mysteries of the cosmos.

At times, Abigail thought of the aliens and wondered if they had foreseen these events, or if she was merely a discarded lab-rat who had fallen into this earth-shaking destiny. Regardless, she really liked Italian clams, so she couldn’t complain. Clarence eschewed the tears of the dying and bereaved and subsisted mainly on The Night, although he occasionally indulged in mortal fear without mentioning it to Abigail. There they lived out their days, happily.

THE END

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril, Super Powers Suck by splarks
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Once upon a time there was an absolutely gorgeous frog named Enrique. The idea of an attractive frog might seem ludicrous, but you aren’t a frog, are you? Thousands of swooning lady frogs can’t be wrong; Enrique was hot. His bulbous eyes were perfectly round and always shone with a dreamy, sensitive cast. His luscious green skin had the ideal amount of slime to its texture. His webbed feet were large yet delicately formed, and left aesthetically pleasing prints in the swamp mud. Yet Enrique’s most remarkable feature was the brownish spots on his left shoulder. While his admirers frequently commented on the artistic placement of the spots, Enrique thought that when viewed from the proper angle, they looked rather like the Virgin Mary. He mentioned it a few times to his friends, but they only laughed and said, “Oh Enrique, that sense of humor is simply dangerous!” Humiliated, he told himself that they were just spots, not some grand proclamation of divinity, and followed his friends into their exciting and fast-paced nocturnal activities.

One night Enrique was lounging on his favorite crusty log, hoping to score. He’d prepared himself for yet another wild night on the swamp, carefully stretching out the balloon under his chin so it would swell to full capacity and impress the females. He’d recently started a little modeling work (nothing special, he liked to tell people, just a couple of spreads for Toad Today magazine), and modeling was much more tedious than he’d expected. He was exhausted but his agent had promised him a bottle of Jack Daniels, which was about three times his body weight, and he wasn’t about to let that opportunity go. The bottle now lay securely behind the log, and he was just about to pry off the lid when a shriek interrupted him. An old wrinkly frog cowered before him. “The chosen one!” the old frog wheezed. “Look, it’s the sign of the blessed Virgin! She speaks through this one!” The old-timer pointed a trembling finger* at Enrique’s left shoulder. A couple of nearby frogs glanced over. “Hey,” one said, craning his neck, “that does kinda look like the Virgin Mary.”

“Where?” asked his companion.

“Well, if you—here, come sit where I am. Ok, now turn your head a little—no, the other way—yeah, ok see that spot there? Ok, that’s her nose, and that one there is her ear –“

“Oh yeah, yeah,” said the other frog excitedly, “Yeah I see it now. Holy crap, I’ve never seen anyone with a picture of the Virgin Mary on their shoulder! Do you suppose–?”

The two frogs stared at him in awe. The old frog leaned against the log and continued to wheeze, with occasional mutters of “chosen … holy amphibian … tadpoles of doom …” Enrique stared back at them, unsure of how to respond. More curious frogs had gathered around his log, jostling each other for a glimpse of him. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak something profound.

“Uhh …” he said. The circle of frogs drew a collective, anticipatory gasp. “Uhh…” he repeated, scratching his belly nervously. “I, um, well I’m going over to that puddle over there.”

“The puddle!” someone shouted. “It’s the Holy Puddle of the Lord! He goes to contemplate! Tell us our future, oh Sacred One!”

Enrique snapped his head around angrily. “What the hell?” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous! Two minutes ago, that old geezer noticed my spots, and now you’re all following me and asking me to predict the future? I’ve known about these spots for years, but you all gave me patronizing little laughs! Yeah, I know what you all said about me! ‘Oh, that Enrique, such a pretty face but he’s got pond-scum for brains.’ Do you think I didn’t hear you? Well? Do you?”

In the silence that followed, he clearly heard the crickets and the cicadas. Someone flicked a tongue and the chirping stopped. The subsequent crunching irritated Enrique even more. “So yeah, you easily-led sycophants,” he growled, noting smugly that the majority of the crowd seemed perplexed by the word choice, “I am going to contemplate. I’m going to do what I should have done long ago—believe in myself and ask the Virgin what she wants of me, her humble servant. But I don’t have to share it with you. Get out of here!”

The crowd didn’t move and instead everyone waited patiently for Enrique to move towards the “Holy Puddle of the Lord.” Enrique sighed. “There’s a full bottle of whiskey behind my log,” he muttered.

The crowd scattered immediately towards the bottle, and Enrique lowered himself onto the grass beside the puddle. He tried to ignore the disgust and fury in his heart, closed his eyes, and called out to the Virgin. He used no elaborate incantations or frivolous props, only his sincere desire to serve the Holy One. Soon he heard an angelic voice.

“Enrique.” A lovely calm fell over him like soft blades of grass. “My beautiful little frog … you have finally come to me.”

“Yes, O Mary,” he whispered.

“Well,” the voice said, now sounding slightly perturbed, “that’s wonderful, but I’m afraid you’re too late.”

“Uh … what?” his eyes opened and he saw the Virgin’s outline. Though hazy, he couldn’t mistake the look of consternation upon Her Divine Face.

“How long have you know about the spots on your shoulder?” she demanded.

“Well,” he mumbled, scuffing his toes in the mud, “Um … abut 10 months, I guess.”

“Right,” the Virgin said sharply. “And ten months ago I was ready to tell you that your swamp was going to be annihilated to make room for a landfill.”

What’s a landfill? Enrique wondered, but the Virgin continued speaking. “If you’d called to me then, you could have warned your people and evacuated them to a new, safe home. But what did you do, Enrique?”

“I … um …” he blushed. “I started modeling.”

“And drinking whiskey,” Mary accused.

“Yeah.” He looked miserably around him at the swamp.

“You ignored the Divine signals, even though you knew they were genuine, Enrique. And you must know that I am truly sorry, but as you chose a life of debauchery instead of using your holy gift … well, now you lie in the grave you dug.”

The calm presence withdrew, the figure faded, and the frog’s shrieks were heard for miles as the bulldozers descended into the swamp. Enrique’s drinking buddies were consumed in a tangle of steel jaws and mud, while the handsome frog himself drowned in his own reflection as the giant wheels flattened him into the puddle.

Millennia passed, and an advanced reptilian race from a distant solar system began studying Earth. A team of archaeologists was dispatched into the swamp-cum-landfill, which was now a snowy wasteland. The reptilians used a heat-producing device to melt all the snow and produce a comfortable working environment. For several months they excavated the site. During the fifth month, a research assistant unearthed something odd. It appeared to be a hideously underdeveloped member of their species, yet it was not fossilized like the rest of the primitive creatures they found. It appeared to have perished only yesterday. The archaeologists stood around this curiosity, poking it periodically, but nothing happened.

“We will take it back to the mother planet,” declared the head archaeologist. “Perhaps it can be revived using our recent technological developments. Say … look at the markings on its shoulder. Looks kinda like … what was that god the primitives worshiped? The Sturgeon Larry?”

“Virgin Mary, sir,” said one of the assistants.

“Right, Virgin Gary. Interesting. It may be some sort of a holy relic. Well, send it home and let’s keep digging.”

Perhaps … just perhaps … Enrique the Handsome Frog would get a second chance to fulfill the destiny he so foolishly squandered. Unfortunately, the reptilians’ technology wasn’t so great and they failed to revive him. Because no one had a better idea, he was turned into a paperweight labeled, “Deformed Man; Virgin Gary” and presented to the head archaeologist’s father-in-law as a birthday present.

THE END

*Do frogs have fingers?

Tags: Alien Oddities, Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril, Repentance & Wailing by splarks
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From the archives:

Once upon a time there was a wombat named Emilio. Emilio was a very special wombat because his nose contained a Pez dispenser. He was exceptionally popular with the other young wombats and a few koalas as well, for they all wanted his tasty sugary treats, stored abundantly in his body.

Emilio was aware that normal wombats did not have candy factories in their noses. The deformity was a result of a cruel experiment by Carnivorous Confections, Inc. When he was a young marsupial, he’d been captured by mercenaries and subjected to bizarre and seemingly pointless interrogations and sugar experimentation. Early in his imprisonment, Emilio recognized the deep-set yet subtle insanity of his primary captor, Dr. Winifred. Winifred, a small and peculiar-smelling man (at length Emilio decided the scent was similar to chevre), would stalk about the room where the cages were kept, rattling the cage bars and shrieking, “Admit to the divinity of aspartame! I know you are in contact with It, you foul, furry lump of flesh! Convey my messages at once! Why are my requests not granted? What is preventing their transmission to the Divine Web of Sweetness?” His frantic, menacing eyes would appear at Emilio’s cage as if estimating his animal capacity for deceit. “Yes, yes,” he would mutter. “Yes, I’m sure it’s you …”

At first, during the long, ever-light days of his captivity, Emilio feared Dr. Winifred and his unexpected rampages, yet they soon became a source of amusement for him. The other animals (3 rabbits, seven rats, a hamster, a carpet python, and a pair of surly kangaroos) were greatly relieved to see someone else taking the heat, and Emilio’s good-natured perseverance endeared him to the group. He’d made a list of Winifred’s accusations on his wall in secret wombat script, using a mixture of saliva and the ink he rubbed off of the newspapers he slept on.

“Filthy marsupial of pestilence!”

“Infidel, you deny me nirvana!”

“Despicable, treacherous wombat! Your insolence will not go unpunished!”

“You withhold the sacred pleasures of sugar substitutes, and you shall be made to reveal them!”

“I shall place a Pez dispenser in your nose, fiendish pile of fuzz!”

This last one was a great joke among the lab animals until Dr. Winifred made good on his promise. One day Marlene, Dr. Winifred’s assistant, entered the lab with a gurney and a tranquilizer gun. She began shuffling about the room, spraying disinfectant gleefully and chortling to herself. She stopped in front of Emilio’s cage and sputtered, “You know what that old lunatic is planning, don’t you, Wombat? He sent me down to Wal-Mart to pick up a pack of these—“she displayed the brightly colored Pez dispensers with Tweety Bird heads, “—and measure the dimension of your nose.” She bent her skinny, sloping shoulders down to his cage and hissed, “I hope you like the scent of Pez, Wombat,” and unlocked the cage, clutching the back of his neck and immobilizing him as she deftly measured his nose with one hand.

“Bite her!” squeaked the hamster, and Emilio heard the kangaroos grunt in agreement, but he could not reach Marlene’s hand. He felt the sting of the needle, and barely had time to give thanks for the use of tranquilizers before he sunk into a drugged haze.

He dreamed of narwhales swimming gracefully in a torrential sea.

When he woke, his nose had been replaced by the Tweety. He reached up and felt the hard plastic embedded in his nasal cavity, and heard the gasps of the other animals as he raised his head. The youngest rabbit snarled in a laughable manner.

Still, he shouldered the burden of deformity and instead resolved to focus on whatever new abilities he had. Whatever Winifred and Marlene had done, they’d inserted some sort of genetic code for candy-secreting enzymes into his genetic structure. He realized that if he twitched his tail to the left a few times, a Pez would appear in Tweety’s mouth. It took him a few times to get the hang of it, but soon he was spitting candy at every animal in the room. They murmured their appreciation, all except for the python, who suffered from cavities.

Winifred had been watching from behind the one-way glass and burst in triumphantly. “At last!” he screeched. “I have conquered the marsupial taint! Candy falls from its nose like heavenly fire scorching the mountains! SWEETNESS IS MINE!” He rushed out of the room, shouting, “Marlene, the press releases—get the AMA on the phone!”

Emilio found that he did enjoy the scent of Pez, although he had to conclude that the candy wasn’t the brand name but some cheap knock-off that Winifred had synthesized. Later that evening as they munched on the generic Pez, the lab animals discussed the day’s events.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” said one of the rats, “that his life’s work is creating a wombat that can produce candy at will? I mean really …”

Emilio sighed in agreement. “Yes, I agree. What satisfaction can he possibly get from having a plastic Loony Toon hanging out my nose? How does this benefit the world? What useful contribution to society is he making?”

“He’s crazy,” the hamster said flatly. “There is no great philanthropic motivation behind these nefarious deeds, Emilio. He’s a genius, sure, but he’s playing without a full deck. In fact I think he’s got a deck that consists solely of the jack of clubs.”

Suddenly the python reared its head and hissed. The male kangaroo rolled his eyes. “Oh Christ,” he grumbled. “Jeff’s ‘channeling’ again.”

Emilio watched the snake warily. “Eh?”

“Oh,” said one of the rabbits, “He’s convinced that his ancestral memories give him a direct conduit into Satan’s mind. He has these fits—” the bunny gestured to the convulsing snake “—and spouts a bunch of threatening BS about apocalypses and annihilating our souls, then comes to and says it was Satan.”

“FOOLISH WOMBAT!” shrieked the snake. “Are you so blind that you cannot see my diabolical plot?”

“Uh …” said Emilio uncertainly.

The snake turned its blazing eyes on the wombat. “It is I, SATAN, who possessed the mortal shell of Winifred, and I, SATAN, who masterminded this evil plan! I wish to bring chaos to the animal kingdom. SUGAR. I desire rotting teeth and injuries caused by sugar highs! Insulin spikes! Malnutrition! I desire addiction, raids of human stores and house, chaos and destruction. You are my pawn. You will distribute the tasty yet non-nutritive confection to each animal you meet upon your release.”

Emilio appraised the snake. The overwhelming scent of brimstone, the chorus of demonic voices speaking as one, the mysterious appearance of the cloud of flies—Jeff’s channeling seemed genuine. “If I agree, you’ll go away and leave me alone?”

“Yes, of course, until it’s time for me to collect your doomed soul.” Satan seemed sincere. “And as an added bonus for your continued cooperation, I’ll remove the Pez dispenser when I’ve created an army of wallabies with Pixie Stix pouches.”

“Ok.”

“Emilio!” cried the hamster. “You aren’t seriously going to do what the Prince of Lies wants?”

“Look,” said Emilio, “I want a normal nose again. If Satan just wants me to play Easter Bunny and traipse about the countryside distributing candy—“ here the rabbits scowled “—then I’m game. It’s a stupid plan anyway and will never work, so what’s the harm?”

“Yes,” smiled the python. “What’s the harm indeed? Good, clever wombat. I shall now summon my minions to free you.”

And that is how Emilio the Wombat became the slave of Satan. He was right, it was certainly a stupid plan and it didn’t work at all because most animals got sick of candy pretty quickly, and the carnivores generally refused to bother with eating it. However, Satan was willing to admit defeat so long as he got to dine on delicious soul of marsupial and drink up the screams of the damned.

THE END

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Mad Scientists, Marsupials, Religious Peril by splarks
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