Larry the mountain lion was on the prowl again, heading into hippie heaven to score a little dope.  The valley of Boulder, Colorado lay before him like an unsecured mountain trash bin offering illicit refuse.  Perched on his favorite rock cliff, he waited till the city slept before descending.  Down, down, down the mountain path toward the shining city lights.  The action called him!  His man Sanchez was on the Division of Wildlife animal control squad, and would be ready to supply an evening of fun  … for a fee.  The arrangement was simple:  Sanchez provided the tranquilizer, and Larry made the man look good.

He chuckled as he thought of the last excursion.  He’d been prowling around the sorority, baring his fangs at drunken college girls and waiting for Sanchez to appear.  When the Division of Wildlife van rolled into campus, Sanchez leaped out with his unnecessarily large dart gun.  He let it fly, and Larry felt the sting of the tranquilizer.  Ah, sweet, sweet tranq!  He reveled in ecstasy, giggling as the girls flocked to Sanchez while squealing things like, “Ohmigod you’re so brave!” and “Thank you so much, Mister Animal Control Guy!”  Sanchez twirled his handlebar mustache and lectured the girls about leaving food in their beer coolers.

Now he played the game again.  He darted around parked cars, his shadow barely visible in the twilight.  He slunk past houses and swing-sets, making his way to a fancy neighborhood on Mapleton Hill.  “There’s a girl there I want to impress,” Sanchez had said.  “Do your thing and menace, and I’ll bring the latest formula you want.”

“Menace?” Larry had said skeptically.  He communicated telepathically with Sanchez, who was something of a Dr. Doolittle.  He had tried learning human language for awhile, but the lack of a human larynx was no paltry handicap.

“Yeah, menace,” Sanchez replied.  “Growl, show a little tooth, twitch the tail, eat the family dog, you know.  That kind of thing.”

“Dog?” complained Larry.  “Is that the best you can do?  The domesticated ones taste like cardboard.”

“Ok, don’t eat the dog,” said Sanchez thoughtfully, rubbing his belly.  “That freaks them out and then they shoot bullets.  We need you alive.”

So he carefully avoided the houses with dogs.  Most of them were too fat and slow to detect his presence, anyway.  He waltzed under windows and leaped over gardens.  He drooled in anticipation for the tranqs!  He embraced this dark, dangerous lifestyle – he didn’t care what the other forest animals thought. They were all so comfortable in their little burrows, content to eat and crap all day.  Well, he had more to explore and ecstasy to experience!  And there was Sanchez now, springing into action before a screaming girl.  It was time!

He unleashed a roar and felt the sweet sting of the tranq …

Eight hours later, he awoke with a splitting headache, fuzzy memories of shrieking human females, and poodle fur in his teeth.  The new formula’s come-down was harsh and he felt queasy.  He was caged and muzzled, bouncing around in the back of a Division of Wildlife truck.  Sanchez was a rotten chauffeur.

Maybe it was the agonizing headache that had grown worse with each tranquilizer.  Maybe it was Sanchez’s off-key yodeling of Abba songs.  Maybe it was the muzzle pinching his nose and his churning gut.  But suddenly Larry saw how far his sordid life had spun out of control.  Instead of proudly stalking elk, he was selling himself for drugs!  His lust for the fast life had grown into dependence, and now he was on parade for the humans and eating poodles, for gods’ sake!  He knew what poodle fur did to his eczema!  As he blearily looked around the truck, he winced at the bleak truth:  Sanchez was not aDivision of Wildlife employee as he claimed.  What DOW employee would encourage this dangerous behavior, risking an animal’s life to get attention from females?  There was no equipment in the truck, no radio, and Sanchez’s uniform was a thrift-store parody of a park ranger’s garb.  He was a fraud and had been using Larry, egging him on with drugs and thrills.

The muzzle had been hastily buckled and it sagged, so he carefully worked his jaw free.  Larry settled in, feigning sleep and waiting for his moment.

Should he eat this traitorous human?  He’d heard humans were tasty enough, but his stomach was still upset.  No, best to wait until he was free and munch on rabbits for a few days.  That would calm his belly.

Should he chase the man off a ledge and watch him plummet to his death?  While satisfying, it sounded like way too much work.  His pounding head would make the sudden movement unpleasant.

Should he slink off into the woods when Sanchez opened the door, just as he’d done dozens of times before?  He could migrate west to California and forget this had ever happened.  But no, he refused to retreat in shame.  It was time to put those telepathic powers to good use.  He was strong with the power of telepathic influence!  He had simply never allowed himself to fully experience his own abilities, hiding his powers because the coyotes thought it was “weird” and the bobcats had once called it a “power of the devil.”

Enough with hiding and pretending to be normal!  He had to stop Sanchez from exploiting other wildlife.  The man’s brain was weak, domesticated, and far too well-fed.  It would be easy to manipulate.  All he had to do was think really hard about squirrels …

And that is how, 8 days later, Division of Wildlife officials found a naked man in a tree, nibbling on nuts and chattering in a strange, rodent-like language.  They tried to coax him down, but he only threw pinecones at them.  Eventually, after much debate, they called the Fire Department, spread a net below the tree, and shot a tranquilizer into the man’s backside.  The man fell from the tree and was shuttled quickly to the psych ward of the mental hospital.

Larry, now clean and tranq-free, perched on his favorite rock ledge once more and viewed the distant scene with his keen eyesight.  Satisfied, he turned his back on the sordid lifestyle of his youth.  It was time to regain his territory, find a mate or five.  There was much to explore.  His poodle-eating days behind him, he lived the rest of his life in pursuit of fine food and female company, just as a mountain lion should.

Don’t be Lion Snacks!

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Stories, Repentance & Wailing by splarks
No Comments »

Once upon a time, there was a bear named Zombearo. He was a bit melodramatic, what with the serape and sombrero, but he was good-hearted for a zombie bear. He didn’t eat too many kids, and when he did, he tried not to slurp the brains.

His life had started out tranquilly enough. He was like any other young forest cub, frolicking joyfully among daisies and fruit trees, tormenting hikers and raiding garbage cans. Then one day a Mexican jackrabbit with a gray, rubbery coat shuffled into the hollow. Zombearo (who was just Geoffry back then) poked his head out of the den curiously. This jackrabbit didn’t look nutritious, but he’d consider a nibble if it got close enough. As if the bunny heard the bear’s thoughts, it turned and fixed Geoffry with a piercing, yet dull gaze.

“Braaaaaainssss …” it hissed.

Geoffry considered this. Rabbits had a reputation for stupidity, but this was the first he’d heard of one looking for mental augmentation. He had to admire the bunny’s fortitude; it wasn’t often that you saw them trying to better themselves. Usually they obsessed over procreation and alfalfa, heedless of who could observe their indulgent behavior. “I can’t really help you there,” he said, “but you can check with the old beaver at the fork in the creek. I hear he started a rodent school awhile back. He might let you in if you ask politely.”

The jackrabbit continued to stare, and a line of drool formed under his chin. Geoffry shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, the old beaver would have his work cut out for him. “Well, adios,” he said with what he hoped was a cheery toss of his head. “You .. uh … you have a good time now. I’m off to clean my claws.” He turned and headed back into the den, but as he stuck his head in, he heard the rabbit growl, “NYYAAARGH!” and there was a sharp pain in his backside. The bunny was hanging by his jaws from Geoffry’s butt! The bear used all his might and smacked the rabbit, breaking its neck. But even as he picked the rabbit’s teeth from his hide, long after the sun had set, he felt a chill seep into his bones despite the balmy evening.

For the next seven days, Geoffry shivered and the color drained from his fur. The old jack rabbit’s voice echoed in his head. Curiously, brains did sound kind of tasty. He’d always been indifferent to organ meat, but suddenly brains sounded delectable. Yes, brains! Nutritious brains in a sauce of berries and spearmint! He knew where to gather chokecherries and mint along the creek. He hurried off, salivating profusely. Small animals frequently congregated at the water. Berry-mint brains would soon be his. He paused to drape an ill-gotten serape over his now-gray bulk, and balanced the matching sombrero on his head; when the sun came up, he didn’t want to be tainted with its filthy light. He silently gave thanks to the foolish peasant who had left them behind.

The chortles of Zombearo echoed in the moonlit forest, lending a sinister cast to the night.

***

All seemed normal in the forest for the next few weeks. Bears occasionally indulge in animal flesh, after all, and his excesses went unnoticed. But gradually, a gray army began to appear. Deer with glowing red eyes stalked the woods. Chipmunks perched in trees, fat cheeks stuffed full of brains and drool. Raccoons scampered through the brush, bits of gray matter stuck to their little hands. Even the fish had succumbed to the awesome power of Zombearo – a few salmon had escaped his jaws and went on to be fine cannibals. A few of the raccoons had adopted his serape fashion by stealing bandanas and underwear from country clotheslines. He thought they’d missed the point, really. Why did nocturnal animals need to be protected from the sun? They looked charmingly quaint despite their faulty logic, so he politely said nothing.

But despite his newfound reign over the forest, Zombearo began to feel remorse. How many lives had he wantonly snuffed in his mad lust for honey-walnut cerebral cortices? Wasn’t he taking more than his share? How many brains did he really need each day? Seventeen seemed excessive, particularly when you considered how he munched on squirrel brains throughout the day as though they were grasshoppers. What if he was depleting the forest brain supply? Was he really so selfish?

He resolved to cut back on the amount of brains he ingested. Fortunately for the world, zombie-hood is a delicate balance, and precisely seventeen brains are needed each day to maintain one’s gray pallor and saliva production. When Zombearo began his brain diet, he unwittingly upset the chemical balance in his putrefying body. He experienced what is often called, “Occipital Deprivation Coma.” For three weeks, he slumbered in the oak grove. The forest animals generously heaped brains before him, and the crows tried to force him to chew, but their efforts were in vain. One day, the great hulk known as Zombearo simply exploded.

The funeral was a solemn affair. The cougar buried the remaining bits of the bear’s corpse in the oak grove. The coyotoes gave the eulogy, and a weasel broke down crying, “He was so noble! He never once bit a schoolgirl’s ankle! It was always me, taking more than my share an’ spreading terror! I’m so ashamed! I’ll eat less now!” Within three days, the weasel was in a coma. Thus, the forest was saved from zombies as guilt-stricken animals began dropping dead from brain deprivation. Occasionally, you may still find an old crow feasting on carrion, but if asked about his fiendish behavior, he will flap his wings and caw something obscene, defiantly preserving the memory of Zombearo and his tattered serape.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Rampaging, Repentance & Wailing, Zombie Attack by splarks
No Comments »

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
No Comments »