Astray: TheTricksters Trademark

Trickster Sample Chapters

The bird jumps off Amy’s hand and onto Fred’s shoulder. Its claws dig deeply into his shoulder muscle. The large macaw leans over and peers directly into Fred’s eyes. “I said hello,” the bird says staring insistently at Fred.
Fred reacts instinctively, leaning his head away from his shoulder trying to distance his face from the bird’s large, hooked beak.
“Cat got your tongue?” it asks before cackling.
Fred looks at the Macaw, its eyes fixed onto his own. The bird’s pupils are as a cats eyes just before it pounces, fixated upon its intended prey. Despite Fred’s innate rapport with animals he loses his nerve. He brushes the bird off his shoulder in reactionary panic, not at all concerned with being gentle. It falls to the floor in a flutter of wing and feathers.
Amy picks up the bird.
“Are you all right?” she asks, and both Fred and Caesar simultaneously reply yes.
Sal doesn’t think she was addressing the bird, but then again…
“I was talking to Fred, Caesar. You are a bad boy and you asked for that.” She pauses, looks at Sal and then Fred. “I’m sorry. He’s been in these moods lately. I think it’s a hormonal thing.”
“I will not be ignored!” Caesar squawks, interrupting with an impressive imitation of Glenn Close’ voice. “Oh, shush!” Amy says with insistence. “You have been watching too much television lately.” She returns the bird to its perch.
“I’ll get you for this, you dirty rat!” Caesar says mirroring James Cagney.
The bird remains all the while focused upon Fred.
“I’ll deal with you later,” Amy says, gesturing for them to move on.
After putting some distance between themselves and the bird Amy explains prompts his own turmoil. “That’s how he hurt his wing. He was aggravating a gorilla.” She looks at Fred. “I’m terribly sorry. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, I guess--except maybe for a bruised ego. I lost it there. It was all just so sudden. I mean, I’m glad I didn’t hurt him, but…” Fred fumbles, unable to find the words. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I understand. Caesar is a large bird and can be intimidating. Just for the record though, he does have his moments. Maybe after you become more acquainted you will understand him a little more. He’s unique.”
“I guess so,” Fred replies.
“I would love to learn more about that bird. I have to admit, this place is fascinating,” Sal says, realizing all at once that he’d been so enthralled with events that he hasn’t spoken for considerable time.
“As I said before,” Amy begins. “I love it here, and I think both of you will, as well. There are so many interesting things that go on every day.” She pauses. “I guess that answers my question about whether Caesar is all right. Shall we go back to the lab? I think you might like the computer. It’s really something.”
"As long as it doesn’t jump on my shoulder and yell at me I’m sure I’ll love it,” Fred says, smiling. “I will not be ignored.” he adds, speaking in a parrot-like voice.
Amy and Sal laugh and Fred realizes he’s found something at the facility that makes him feel decidedly comfortable…
Doctor Amy Patterson.
Goodson/Conklin 56
The Trickster’s Trademark
Chapter Sixteen

Caesar climbs down from his perch. The limited nighttime lighting in the sanctuary prevents him from flying safely so he dares not take flight. Instead, the parrot begins walking along a footpath toward the entrance of the facility. Caesar soon finds himself at the entrance doorway and begins climbing the edge of the doorframe, his strong claws and bill alternating as he quickly scales the steel frame. The bird continues upward and stops before extending his body and opening his large, hooked bill. The parrot hits one light switch, and then another, sufficiently lighting the sanctuary.
“Stupid monkey,” Caesar squawks aloud before taking flight. The parrot flies to the pool
area and picks up a rock in his beak before flying to the top of a large cage housing a Gorilla.
This gorilla hurt his wing.
Perched atop the cage Caesar looks down on the animal, adjusting his position slightly. Without a sound, he cranes his neck and takes aim. The rock strikes the unsuspecting ape on top of its head.
Caesar cackles as the primate jumps, screeching.
The gorilla looks up to see the bird and then begins quickly to scale the walls of the cage, its strong hands and feet gripping the bars as it climbs upward with as much ease as a man might traverse along a sidewalk.
Within an instant the powerful primate is at the top of the confine, climbing in a frenzy of anger and moving ever closer to the bird.
The parrot watches, cocking its head as the ape draws closer.
As the gorilla closes in on the bird Caesar jumps, narrowly avoiding the primate’s crushing grasp.
The large parrot grips a finger in his beak and tears it off, spitting it back in the gorilla’s face before jumping upward once more, evading yet another swipe.
The ape goes wild, snarling and reaching up to catch the bird with first one flailing four-fingered hand and then the other.
Caesar bites off another appendage, then another, fingers and toes.
The ape hangs thirty feet up, its grip faltering as there is less with which to grasp. It hangs in defiance, rage taking control like an elephant run amuck.
“Stupid monkey!” Caesar says again, looking the beast in the eye.
The ape looks at the bird, the developing pain at last bringing it to its senses. The primate looks downward before slowly turning to face the bird.
Caesar cackles maniacally before slowly biting off one of the ape’s remaining appendages.
The large parrot crows in triumph, imitating a rooster as the ape falls the distance to its death. He watches after it for a moment with fully dilated pupils, his eyes fixated on the growing puddle of blood oozing from the gorilla’s smashed skull.
Without a sound, Caesar takes flight and turns off the lights. The bird then hops onto the ground and begins toward its perch.
“Stupid monkey!” the macaw says repeating the earlier comment.
With blatant arrogance, Caesar climbs to the crest of his perch and stretches his wings confidently, as if showing off large muscles. The parrot begins a loud noise that resembles the laughter of a lunatic, the shrill sound echoing about and violating the silence. One by one, the other animals join in, each offering its own voice in a preternatural choir that sings of a broken link in the harmony of nature’s chain.
As one voice they perform, a symphony orchestrating a tune that speaks of imbalance, a repertoire written in the key of evolutionary chaos, the arrangement conducted by fear.
This continues.

Goodson/Conklin 73
The Trickster’s Trademark
Chapter Nineteen

George will later declare this particular day like sliding off a razor blade and landing into a pool of alcohol. First, he’d gotten up late, old faithful his alarm clock somehow magically resetting itself once again during the night. George knew he had set it, and compared the clock to the dryer and its never-ending and voracious appetite for his socks. Then, as George tries to compensate for his lost time by racing to work he’d gotten a speeding ticket, the officer deliberately detaining him to make a point, informing George that he would have gotten there sooner if he hadn’t been pulled over for speeding. Always polite to the police George repeatedly thanked the officer, agreeing with him throughout the enduring lecture until the cop had finally pulled away. Then, speeding ticket in hand George whispered that the long-winded and condescending cop could kindly go and fuck himself.
George then proceeds to the office, looking at his watch as he gets out of his car and hits the door lock button on his Cadillac, realizing the instant he shut the door that the keys are still in the ignition. He retains his composure about this however, realizing immediately that there is nothing to do about it. He will have to take care of it after the meeting to which he is already late. His boss had been adamant about him being punctual for this particular assembly, reminding George again verbally when he had handed George the memo, expressing his insistence about being mentally attentive, as well.
George enters the gathering without a word and takes an immediate seat. One look from his boss, Martin Williams tells George that he will definitely be hearing about it afterward.
Williams, a devout Christian is also a disciplined man, insisting that all of his subordinates possess similar inclinations.
“See me after the meeting, Monroe,” Williams says, barely skipping a beat, inserting the comment between his explanations of the charts and graphs that he points to as he continues speaking.
George only nods, forcing himself to appear as if he is actually paying attention.
Soon Williams’ words resemble those spoken by the adults in the Peanuts characters cartoons, muffled and unintelligible. George is convinced that is because he’d been to so many of these sales meetings that they have all come to sound the same, the end result being they want more sales and to turn more of the sales into profits.
Blah, Blah, Blah! This, of course is typically followed by a new and improved justification for somehow taking more of the commissions away from the salespersons. It is like watching a deranged game show, George thought as a game-show host voice now begins to speak in his head. That’s right, Mister Monroe, you’ve won the booby prize! And, as an added bonus, you’ll get to pay that speeding ticket on your new and improved smaller salary! Now choose carefully, George, will it be door number one, where you will lose a mere eighty percent of your client base, or door number two where you will find…
George suddenly realizes he is developing a whopper of a headache.
The meeting ends shortly after that and George gets up, stopping at his desk and retrieving some aspirin before, like a dead man walking proceeding to the firing squad known as Williams’ office.
He knocks and stands in the doorway of Williams’ office, waiting until his boss invites him in before entering. George has been in this office many times. It was once a place he liked going to, Williams’ predecessor being the former occupant. That man’s name was Nate Brown and Nate had insisted that people call him by his first name. Nate generally only invited people there to offer good news. There were bonuses for landing good accounts or being salesperson of the month, which used to mean something, the recipient able to count on receiving no less than five hundred in cash as a reward for their hard work instead of the near-the-entryway-door parking currently offered. Nate had been a hard-working man, standing alongside his fellow workers and lending a hand, helping with inside sales support, always wishing people the best and quick with a kind word. Nate died at this very desk, a heart attack taking him and a cruel twist of fate replacing him with this exact alter ego named Williams.
Williams invites George in and take a seat.
George does so and looks at the nameplate on Williams’ desk. Mr. Martin Williams, it reads. George is certain the plaque is incomplete; Williams’ last name on the sign lacking the follow-up word asshole.
“How are you today Mister Monroe?” Williams asks, seating himself.
“Just fine, thank you,” George returns, doing his best to muster something resembling enthusiasm, believing nonetheless that it sounded feigned after he’d said it. It is no secret that he doesn’t like Williams, the man insisting from the onset that everyone call him Mister Williams, not Marty, stating that “work is a place of business, not a social center.” Friends gather at family events such as church or the occasional barbecue. Work is not a place to make friends because work is sacred, a discipline ordained by God himself.
Williams rustles briefly through some papers, pulling one out and reviewing it quickly.
“Glad you’re doing well, Monroe because I couldn’t help but notice that you were late for the meeting, and I guess I thought maybe you might be feeling a little under the weather. As a matter of fact, I’d have to say that legitimate illness would be the only acceptable excuse for being tardy. Any other reason is simply an excuse, which leads me to the purpose of this little meeting of ours.” Williams set the paper he’s picked up down and removes his glasses out of his shirt pocket.
George sits in obedient silence, already convinced he isn’t going to like this.
“I have no choice but to add this tardiness to your personnel file, you understand. Now, I’d like to begin by saying that you aren’t being singled out here today, there are others that have similar problems and I’ll be dealing with them over the course of the next couple of days. The problem specifically is you seem to be in a bit of a slump in your sales.” Williams pauses, and places a piece of paper in front of George.
George feels his already pounding head begin to beat more heavily as he picks up the document and begins reviewing it.
“What you’ve got there, Mister Monroe is a profit and loss report. If you look at it, and if you understand it then you’ll see your profits aren’t much more than your losses.”
Insulted, George reads it as quickly as his headache will allow. He knows what a P&L report is. He knows also that his profit to loss ratio had taken a sudden and dramatic turn for the worse the moment the company had transferred his best clients to house accounts. It is profit for the company--and a loss for him. George knows also that this man sitting before him is well aware that the sudden imbalance is no coincidence. The P&L is the subject of a discussion the two of them have already had, and one that quickly developed into an ultimatum. The company informed all the sales staff that if they didn’t like the option they were presented with, they were free to leave. Of course, they would have to remember the non-compete waiver they had all been forced to sign, an agreement that left George in a position where he would be forced to learn all new products, and establish all new customers. At his age, George would go a long way to avoid that option, the thought of how many years it might take to build up a fraction of the customer base that he still holds intact despite the cuts he’s been given a very scary prospect indeed. No, George would rather ride this pony to the end, even if it did try to buck him off.
"Now, with respect to your seniority with the company we’ve decided to give you a chance to redeem yourself, to get back on track.”
George cannot help but wonder what Williams means when he says “we.” Did this man have a mouse in his pocket or maybe a Gerbil up his church-going and hypocritical ass? We, George thought is often nothing more than an individual trying to persuade another that he is not alone in his position about a given issue. More than that, George believes it is also a cowardly way for this man to avoid admittance that this is actually his exclusive idea, deceptively presenting it instead as if he were only a dutiful messenger delivering information. Can’t blame me. Hell, no!
George, his pounding head now somehow worsening, finds himself having to concentrate to remain calm. He bites his lower lip in an attempt to thwart the headache and then quickly reconsiders, convinced the gesture might send the wrong message.
“We’re going to give you ninety days to get back on track,” Williams says.
Calming himself and speaking very slowly George reminds Williams that his profit and loss ratio became lopsided only after they had taken away his key accounts.
“That’s business,” Williams replies instantly, looking George in the eye. Williams leans slightly forward over his desk. “We believe that’s the nature of the beast in sales, Monroe. It happens everywhere, always has and no matter where you work. It’s called incentive. It gives you every good reason to utilize your God-given talents to find more customers. Business is about growth, sir, progress, and if you aren’t moving forward in this world then you’re falling behind.” Williams leans forward still more, lowering his voice. “Personally, I think ninety days is more than generous, and I expect to see results much sooner,” Williams adds before leaning back, folding his hands and setting them on the desk in front of him.
George says nothing, knowing that if he speaks at all it may very well lead to him losing his temper and, ultimately his job. Silence hangs for a brief but electrified moment as invisible sparks fly between them, an arc of white-hot but silent emotion.
“Well, Mister Monroe I do have many things to do this morning, so let me just thank you right up front for the extra effort I know you will put in. If you don’t have any questions right this moment then I should like to wish you a nice day. Oh, and please do close the door on your way out. Thank you,” Williams says before looking down at the paperwork on his desk. “Oh, and God bless,” Williams adds.
George gets up without a word, realizing that he is grinding his teeth. It takes every bit of his effort for George to close the door gently.
George feels it is unlikely he would ever see Williams in church.
He wishes to see him in hell.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“What’s new, George?” a man asks, taking a seat beside George at the bar. He is a short, stout man with thick brown hair and a full beard and mustache.
“Hey, Paul. How’re you doing?” George returns, extending his hand. The two shake as a bartender approaches. Paul orders a draught and offers to buy George a beer, as well. George holds up his full glass and asks for a rain check.
As he’d been doing, George absent-mindedly resumes running his finger along the rim of his glass.
The bartender returns bearing Paul’s beer. Paul gives him two bucks for the dollar draught and tells the man to keep it.
“Well, either you’ve turned gay or you’re doing pretty well for yourself,” George asserts.
“Well, I’m sure as fuck not gay,” Paul retorts before sipping his beer. “But I’m still not sure about you,” Paul adds, setting his beverage down on the wooden bar before belching proudly. “So,” Paul begins, “where you been? Oh, and by the way, you look like shit. Been working hard or what?” he asks.
He only nods his head. “Same old sales shit, you know. Nickel ahead, boss robs you a dime,” George replies dryly. “Looks like you’re doing all right, though. It’s not like your tight-
ass self to be generous enough to actually tip somebody.”
“Easy, now,” Paul returns, his eyes falling on a young woman entering the front. “I’ve been doing all right betting on the dogs.”
“The track?” George replies. “That racket? You actually made money betting on the dogs?” George snorts. “I thought you knew by now to stick with the ponies.”
“It wasn’t at the track, actually,” Paul says, lowering his voice and looking around.
George looks at him a moment before leaning back and away from him on his barstool.
“Oh, please! Don’t tell me dogfights. Don’t even tell me that!” George says, looking at Paul distastefully. George shakes his head and looks away from his friend.
“Hey!” Paul returns. “I put a thousand bucks in my pocket last night. That’s more than I ever won on the horses in a single night.”
“A thousand bucks?” George replies. “You won a grand betting on dogs fighting?” George shakes his head again. “What am I doing wrong?” he asks himself aloud. George swallows the last of his beer and flags the bartender. “How many dogs died for you to get that much money?” George asks.
“None,” Paul replies, and shrugs. “It’s not like you think. These guys…” he trails off as the bartender approaches, not wanting him to hear. Paul quickly pays for the beer and George asks him what the name of the dog is that he ought to thank for the brew.
Paul ignores the question and resumes. “No one wants their dog to get hurt, much less killed. The operation is different than it used to be. To begin with, dogs fight each other anyway, like it or not. They’re tough! They can handle it. You can usually tell which dog has won before there are any serious injuries.”
“Usually?” George asserts. “Serious injuries? Yeah, and people don’t usually marry their
cousin, either,” George submits.
“What do you mean by that?” Paul asks.
“I mean that dog fighting is associated with backwoods mentality. It’s something hicks enjoy isn’t it, a rip-roaring Saturday night event for those living back in the swamps?”
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” Paul returns. “There are people attending you wouldn’t believe to be involved in this sort of thing, but they do,” Paul says, holding his beer aloft as if toasting the point he himself just made. “But they do!” he repeats. Paul downs his drink. “Bit touchy about it, aren’t you?” he asks.
“No, it’s just inhumane, don’t you think?” George returns.
Paul shakes his head. “No, it’s just the law of the jungle.”
Silence hangs between them for a moment. A man wearing cowboy boots plugs a palm-full of quarters into the jukebox behind them. A moment later, Willie Nelson is singing Always on my mind. A fan of Nelson, George listens.
Speaking of dogs,” George begins at last, “I have one now.”
“Oh yeah, what kind?”
“A Pit Bull,” George says and Paul guffaws, shaking his head.
“What the hell did you get one of those for?”
“I didn’t buy it. I ran it over.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope, I’m not joking. Scared the hell out of me, I thought it was a kid,” George says,
looking at his watch. “I brought it home and nursed it back to health. Then I ran an ad, thinking somebody would claim him. The dog has to belong to somebody, but there was no reply. Kathy decided we should keep him rather than bring him to the pound where he would definitely get
the gas, being a mature Pit bull and all. No one would have taken him home to their kid.”
“That’s for sure,” Paul states in agreement. “So how’s his temperament?”
“He’s a teddy bear,” George says. “Most of the time, anyway. But I’ll tell you, I feel sorry for any asshole that tries to hurt me with him around. The dog already kicked ass on some punks in my neighborhood. Man, was that impressive!” George says, shaking his head as he conjures the memory. He proceeds to explain, the story telling abilities he’d honed and polished over the years as a salesman revealing themselves as Paul sits in attentive silence.
The two had been neighbors years before and had become close friends, their relationship remaining intact even after George and Kathy moved and despite their busy lives. Paul has always liked George’s stories, knowing once he got started there was no stopping him.
George describes how the dog knocked the kid down with the lightning-fast leap, and the way it knew to get rid of the knife. “The way he disarmed that kid leads me to believe that dog is either very smart, or trained.” George says.
“Or both,” Paul offers, fascinated as much with the details of what happened as the way George described it.
George pauses, nodding in agreement. “And there’s something else,” George continues.
He describes the object in the dog’s head, and about the microwave.
Paul strokes his beard in thought as he listens.
George finishes and the two of sit in silence pondering the phenomenon.
“I couldn’t be sure George, but I think that animal may have come from some sort of lab. I mean, from the things you’ve described that animal has some unusual credentials. I don’t believe that is an ordinary stray.”
“I know. I was thinking the same thing, actually. But he really is a great dog. Besides, I
placed an ad and there were no takers. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Well, it’s a possibility the government wouldn’t look for an escaped test subject in the lost and found of the newspaper. I’d be inclined to believe however they would definitely want to locate it. It is, after all an investment. It’s likely the search will intensify with each passing day. Of course, all of that is dependent upon how important the animal is to them, what kind of testing they may have used it for,” Paul says, shrugging before sipping his beer once again.
“I know,” George returns, “but all of that is speculation. We don’t know that any of that is true.”
“Wow!” Paul exclaims. “What if that dog is some kind of lab-grown mutant?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Yeah, and there’s a cockroach over there in the corner with a camera built into its head. It’s a government conspiracy,” George says, shaking his hands in front of him in a panicky gesture. “There’s no escape! They’re everywhere!”
“Hey, you never know what to believe these days,” Paul says. “Anyway, when can I have a look at this dog?”
“For what, to size him up to see if he can fight?”
“No, you’ve just got me curious, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t know. Tomorrow, I suppose.” George says.
Perfect. I’ll come by and take a look at the mutt and then you and I can go and watch a dogfight. How’s that?”
“Oh, jeez. You really want me to go and watch that?”
“Yeah, I do. That way you can see it’s not like you think,” Paul says. “Believe me; I wouldn’t support it if the animals were abused.”
“I suppose,” George replies, getting up off the stool and arching his stiffened back. He is beginning to feel his years now, his joints and muscles reminding him increasingly every day of his age. “I’ll call you tomorrow about six,” George says. “Thanks for the beer.”
“You got it,” Paul returns. “Drive careful.”
George waves a hand and leaves, tired. He feels like the days are now somehow too long and too short at the same time. Even Paul commented he looks beat. George will go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow he will find a job, no matter what. This is all getting to be too much. Two lousy beers and George feels he’s downed a dozen. The forecast is calling for snow and George finds himself wishing for a blizzard. Four or five feet of snow would allow some badly needed rest. For the first time in his life, George feels like an old man.
He despises the feeling.


Chapter Thirty-Two
Removing his coat, George makes his way into his bedroom, closing the door and undressing without enthusiasm before collapsing into bed. Sleep comes at once, a welcome knight on a pale horse.
George dreams.
Somewhere in between consciousness and sleep lies a moment that is neither of the two but links them together, a dusk that hides the clarity that helps identify things seen off in the distance, and within the mind. Despite his exhaustion, this happens to George as he collapses into bed. For reasons not understood, his last conscious thought as he drifts off into sleep is the past Halloween, the thought carrying him into a dream, fluttering as if on the wings of a bat.
George remembers opening the door to go to work, his mind already gearing up for what is to be a busy day, almost tripping on something as he turns to say a final goodbye to Kathy.
After regaining his balance, George turns to see what he has almost stumbled over, peering down at it with mild suspicion. At his feet on the linoleum landing is a dead crow.
George bends over and touches it, certain it is a prank, some kind of prop placed there by one of the neighborhood kids as a Halloween gag.
George picks it up, and watches its head roll slightly. It is an actual crow, the body not yet stiff and its neck obviously broken. He remembers this, and he remembers Kathy sticking her head further out of the door to see what is happening, the expression on her face changing quickly from mild concern to complete disgust. Then her face changes expression again and she raises her voice to a shrill pitch, telling George in a frantic voice to get rid of the bird, that it is terrible bad luck. Kathy continues, babbling something about old wives tales and black magic. Her ranting continues and she steps away from George as he draws closer to her.
George tries to explain that it is only a bird. If there is anyone unlucky, it is the crow. It had flown in here and somehow broken its neck trying to escape the tight confines of the building.
This thought carries into the dream, details of the memory significantly exaggerated.
In the dream George finds the crow, his discovery of it happening in a kind of drawn out slow motion, the sound of his own heartbeat loud and redundant as events move forward. The crow is dead in reality but in the dream, it clings to life on a thread, its black eyes staring at George as he picks it up after nearly tripping over it.
The bird looks at him a moment before uttering the words liar, liar, liar, and the words heard as the raspy caw of the dark bird. The call of the crow is repeated, and continuing. George did not yet have the dog the previous Halloween but in the dream, the dog stands at his side looking curiously up at him before turning its gaze upon the bird and licking its snout as if before a meal.
Kathy comes out and looks at him then, her throat torn open. Her shirt drips blood onto the floor a single, audible drop at a time. George only looks at her and says goodbye, turning and carrying the bird in hand while maneuvering mechanically down the stairs. The dog follows willingly, a loyal companion all the way down and out the door.
Once outside, George finds the morning sunlight replaced by an extended and rich darkness. Hundreds of large birds are perched everywhere, resting in trees and on telephone wires. They cover rooftops, completely blocking out the structures that support them as thousands rest uneasily.
Their eyes remain fixated upon George. He hears a low but identifiable murmur coming from the countless murder of crows, and repeated. As one voice, the birds utter a single word chanting liar, liar, liar.
George makes his way to his car, his own heartbeat still rhythmically heard in his ears, pounding, pounding. The dog slips past him and takes a seat on the passenger side without a sound before George seats himself behind the wheel. The birds continue staring at him with an acute gaze as they repeat the same word in unending succession.
He starts the car and pulls out of the driveway, realizing what he sees is demented. George is traveling in slow motion but is somehow also covering a lot of ground in a short time, the journey resembling the stationary but rolling background used in old movies like Keystone Cops. The scene grows more bizarre as George begins noticing bodies along the side of the road, each of these dressed in some kind of gruesome and graphic Halloween costume.
There are fires. Big bonfires riddle the roadside, their flames flickering high into the too-dark night, the plumes of smoke billowing skyward and blackening the moon as if spirits insistent upon darkness.
Elusive shadows emerge and disappear, restless souls seen at random in the erratic flicker of flames. Of these beings, George can occasionally identify one as a large dog or wolf. Other silhouettes appear human, these invariably running, pursued by creatures of which many defy description. Some of the beings chasing the shadows that look human have wings, these found in abundance.
At once, George finds himself out of his car and at work. The roof of the building is missing and there is to be seen a large pit extending well past the floor and into the ground.
Earthen walls cradle medieval style torches, the flames creating dark and irregular shadows that creep at random across the bottom as tortured souls. His dog at his side, George sits at the edge of this in a large chair resembling a throne. A number of people are present, most of these bearing their own canine.
He watches as one stands and tosses something into the pit, the object rolling as a misshapen bowling ball along the dirt and gravel bottom, the dim torchlight disguising it. At last, it stops and George stares after it, soon realizing it is the head of his boss, eyes open and staring at George with accusation. George turns away, appalled.
Looking down and towards his dog, George discovers his canine is chewing on a femur. The dog looks up at him and wags its tail briefly before resuming. Its teeth make a greatly exaggerated scraping sound as it continues to gnaw on the human leg. George stares after it in disbelief, his eyes wide and fixated as the canine teeth crush the outer bone and fare into the marrow. Blood swelters out of the rigid tissue and grows to become a large puddle at his feet.
George closes his eyes, his dream-self unable to endure looking at it.
There is raucous and the shadow-laden crowd begins to scream, an obnoxious compilation of cursing and cheering. George opens his eyes to find a gathering along the edge of the pit. Some shake their fist. One stands along the edge hoisting a basket of money. Adorned as a medieval monk this same man looks at George.
“Want to make some cash?” the stranger asks, the words clear despite distance and ranting.
George looks away, his gaze falling into the center of the pit. There he discovers his own
dog. He watches a man use a pitchfork to spear a dead dog found nearby his animal.
The bizarre attendant pierces the prone canine and heaves it over his shoulder into a lifeless pile of already deceased creatures.
Another dog enters the pit, the owner holding one hand high to display a fist full of money. The man with the basket approaches and extends the container to the man with the dog.
George watches as this stranger looks down into the arena where his dog faces George’s own. The opposing canine appears in excess of two hundred pounds. It stands staring at Loki, fangs bared. It is poised to pounce. A signal is given and the fight commences.
Loki sits waiting for the canine before going right for its throat, killing the much larger animal in a single strike.
George watches as his pet returns to the bone, resuming without missing a beat. He sees the man with the pitchfork perform once again his gruesome duty, struggling with this larger dog.
The man holding the wagers approaches in possession of several bags, each filled to the brim with cash. He places them at George’s feet without comment and walks away.
George finds himself alone with his animal. He somehow understands there are no more to defeat this night, and that all demanding of death are content.
Next George finds himself in his bed asleep, events lingering as if spirits slow to wane. In his slumber, George feels his dog lick his face, slowly causing him to stir, and at last awaken.
He sits upright, his eyes darting about the room, the events of his dream stirring fear deep within him.
His bedding is drenched with perspiration. Peering at his sleeping wife with widened eyes George feels for a moment uncertain where he is, or what is real. Kathy lay sleeping, her innocent slumber reassuring. Only a dream, George concludes. Just a dream, is all.
George draws his feet from under the blanket and places them on the cool, hardwood floor. Bending over, he searches beneath the bed for his slippers, hands fumbling blindly.
George freezes as muddy paw prints reveal themselves on the floor. The tracks lead back and forth to his bedroom door.
The door is closed.