Behold Awesomenicity to the Nth: Miss Renfield Stoker-Belle
An awesomemost author should enter the page after she’s been introduced by a statement similar in purpose to the music heralding a professional wrestler. Instead of approaching the page accompanied by a noise in the key of Lowest Common Denominator, however, the awesomemost author should materialize beneath a hella descriptive bold font header, like that shown above. From here on out please consider what stands atop this opening paragraph as my calling card. I put a lot of energy into the creation of my identifying verbal riff, which shall ever more precede whatever addle-minded gibberish Ms. Allison has to offer under the Feeble Fable flag. Although I have forbidden Allison to feed me any more lines in which peculiar twists of “awesome” are featured, the ban does not extend to the awesomenistic literature I produce.
With all that said, you will see that it’s a sin against awesomenicity whenever Allison forces me to explain a bottom feeder Spirit, as I must today. Lippybytes, Shogs, Oraclespectors, Tintintinabulators and such are top shelf Spirits worthy of my time and erudition. But having to detail the sub moronic ways of guys like the Tippleganger, Footfallfollower and today’s spector, the Sapguile, piss me off. But as they used to say in the Fictional Character neighborhood where I grew up “Life ain’t all hookers and happy meals.” Nobody knows what that means, and yet it seems to apply to the current situation.
Like the mysterious and almighty MirrorGlimmer, there is only one Sapguile. This is a hideous coincidence comparable to there being only one Lincoln and a sole Trump, or just one Hamlet as well as a single Howard the Duck (enforced viewing of the latter was considered the worst of the worst at Gitmo Bay). Alas, we supernaturalists cannot always choose our subjects. The only way out is to spew the information with an attitude consistent with the desire to vomit as to terminate the bed spins.
Get it over with…
The Sapguile is a phony tree which gathers-to on the grounds of New Town Cemetery and in yards in the nearby vicinity, at the town of Charleston, Washington, U.S.A. (Only in America, baby; only in America.) It’s purpose is to tempt squirrels into an early demise.
It goes like this: Imagine you are a squirrel just chilling in the boneyard, tracking nuts and such–Right? And all of a sudden a fucking cat pops out of a rhododendron bush, and he’s sprinting your way. You know that he isn’t coming to spread the Good News. So you light out for the closest knothole. There’s a stunted, alien-looking tree up ahead. It’s about five feet high, and, by jingle, there are apples and peaches and pears and something that appears to be the largest acorn in all history growing from its spidery branches, as well as a perfectly located knothole just your size but too small for that goddam fat-assed cat to squeeze through (the “acorn” is actually a coconut, but since you are a North American squirrel you know nothing about coconuts). It’s a choice between that funny looking tree you don’t recall ever seeing before or a familiar maple to the left, which is a little farther away.
Even though your pursuer is an overfed asshole you can easily run into the ground, your instincts advise taking refuge in the queer little tree until the bastard’s “mum mum” calls him home for supper. And you almost do that until you remember something your mother told you back when you were a squirelling: ”Beware the Sapguile,” Mom said. So you blow off your instincts and leap into the maple, thus exiting this story forever. I’m certain that the squirrel you will live happily ever after from here on, for in the short time we’ve been together I have arrived at the opinion that you’d be the kind of squirrel who believes in happy-happy horseshit. And since we’re handing out happy endings like stimulus checks, I’m sure that everything will be all spiffy-like for the cat as well.
As for the “tree,” however, it zapped into nothingness the instant you turned away from it. This happened because the Sapguile only gathers-to to tease chased squirrels with a safe place that the Sap immediately withdraws the instant the squirrel either turns away (as most good mother-heeding tree rats do) or leaps toward the tree. It’s a puerile and idiotic and dangerous practical joke, which, thankfully, has yet to turn out tragically for the cemetery squirrels. Since this only known Sapguile refuses to explain why he never teases any other creature for whom a tree might come in handy, this supernaturalist must conclude that the Sapguile was a squirrelaphobic subhuman sort of person in life, and should be scientifically classified as homo fuckious faceious. (Maaan, docs redlined the hell out of that one. Guess docs also lives in a happy-happy, fuck face free realm. Right?)
Anyhoo (wait a second, docs didn’t redline “anyhoo.” Let me attempt an experiment: The phone rang. Billy Bob answered it. “Yell-oh?” Docs didn’t object to any of that, either. Ah, here’s the trouble: goddam program is set on “hillbilly”), that’s the utterly lame and useless Sapguile gig. I do hope that Allison will grow up a little before she sends me another Feeble Fable Spirit to define. Trying to describe some of these fools is as futile as channeling the wit of Oscar Wilde through a whoopie cushion, furthermore…
Brilliant news! Blessed Readers! Allison has just sent me a note. It sez: “If you’re so so so damnity hot hot hot then why not not not you do the sonofabitchin’ thing yourself.” No typos there, Blessed Reader. It is apparent that our Chief Pen Name is in no condition to conjugate. Of course I’ll fill in. And no time better to start than in the next paragraph. I’ve begun considering myself the Vice Pen Name around here anyway. Just one dead brain cell away from the scepter, Right?
Heisenberg and the Sapguile: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical
By Miss Renfield Stoker-Belle
In these tiresome “be kind” times, accurate descriptions of dachshund/Chihuahua mixes are frowned upon. Gotta call him cute or else. If you go with “or else” be sure to take it all the way. You see, the kind people who administer punishment for acts of or elseing do not distinguish between light and heavy crimes. Thus there’s nothing to be gained from sugarcoating the bitter truth before you dispense it. Be brave, and never describe a weenie dog/Chihuahua conglomeration as “cuteness challenged” if “he’s a weird looking little fucker” is what you mean to say.
With that in mind, there’s this dachshund/Chihuahua mix named Heisenberg. And he, without doubt, is a weird looking little fucker. Heisenberg’s three litter mates were born evenly blended. They come off as either miniature dachshunds or longer than normal Chihuahuas; it all depends on how you look at things. Heisenberg, however, didn’t come out mixed in the least. His body, legs, neck and ears are distinctly schnitzel, whilst his face, tail and feet are obviously Canus Latino. Even the general description of the dude is a two part thing. “Weird looking” covers Heisenberg’s shape; “little fucker” nails his attitude.
Heisenberg isn’t an “ankle biter.” Nope. The weird looking little fucker goes right for the achilles whenever someone offends him, which happens often. Putting on shoes doesn’t help because he’ll just change his method of displaying displeasure by taking a leak wherever.
Surprise! Heisenberg’s owner is one of those holistic new age jackoffs who speaks only modern cosmic buzzwords and cliches. “Be kind”; “Be respectful”; “#Alone-together”; “We’ve got this”–Lo! This dude is a useless twat indeed. And ain’t it funny how the people who aim to tell you how to live show neither the ability nor desire to control their kids and critters?
Heisenberg terrorizes a home across the street from New Town Cemetery. His owner often puts the pint sized thug in “time out.” Heisenberg spends plenty of time out in his yard, which is secured by a two foot picket fence. The mail deliverer knows about the time outs, and often says “So, I see your weird looking ass is in time out again, eh little fucker?” To which Heisenberg lunges for the achilles and readies his unlimited bladder.
Creatures like Heisenberg tend to live a long long long long long long time. And the little fucks never forget an instant of it, nor any insult, for that matter. Yet every once in a great while, something interesting will happen in Heisenberg’s domain.
One day, after Mr. H. was passively eighty-sixed from the house on account of the typical run of his personality, a squirrel who lives in the cemetery across the street (not the squirrel you essayed in the introduction, another guy) decided to come over and rattle the litte fucker’s cage. The squirrel hopped the short fence and played chicken with our antihero.
The squirrel dashed from here to there and got Heisenberg in a tizzy. Although he hadn’t been asked for, the Sapguile also crossed the street and gathered-to in the yard. This squirrel had been fooled by the phantom twice in the past, and if you can imagine a squirrel flipping off a stunted tree containing various fruit and one coconut, then you have an accurate grasp on the situation.
For the sheer hell of it, however, the squirrel feigned a leap at the Sapguile anyway, just to see how Heisenberg might react. Sure enough, the Sap winked out as the squirrel veered off and leapt atop the fence. This didn’t confuse Heisenberg as much as it enraged him. He went ballistic, snapping and yipping and lifting and lowering his hind leg at the spot the tree had stood. This reaction must have appealed to the Sapguile, for he kept materializing all around the yard and subsequently winked out the second Heisenberg reached him.
Squirrels are compassionate animals. Eventually, that is. And as he sat there on the fence watching the little half-and-half, who’d never asked to be born the way he was, go crazy with frustration, he got angry with the bullying Sapguile. The squirrel “whistled” and flung himself at the Sapguile. He turned three somersaults in the air and flew through the apparition. This startled the phony tree and caused him to forget to wink out before Heisenberg squirted at least a pint of pee all over the Sap’s trunk.
Although Spirits are no longer physical objects, the images they create are. Like all visual ghosts, the Sapguile’s visible manifestation is culled from dust particles, reflections and such, while it is energized by a goodish charge of electricity gleaned from sunlight (they can save it like a battery, as to be seen at night). For whatever reason the charged particles do not react to other objects that pass through them (like a somersaulting squirrel, for instance), but they hella react to extremely toxic liquids. And there is no more hazardous fluid in the universe than small dog pee.
Heisenberg once urinated into a space heater. The stench was abominable. Although the Sapguile suffered no lasting damage, and would soon be back at his stupid vocation soon enough, the image of him that Heisenberg whizzed on went up like a 1960s Halloween costume. And the smell. Ye gods the stink…
The sweet light of victory shone in Heisenberg’s eyes, and for the first time ever he wagged his tail. The squirrel bounded over and sat down beside the little dog. If you can imagine two such creatures exchanging a high five, then you already know what happened.
Moral: Though it is Better to be Pissed Off than Pissed On, it’s Even Awesomer to Piss Upon He Who Pissed You Off