Hunted By Freaks


Something or someone is after me. I don’t know who, I don’t know why, but I know they’re out there in the darkness, just beyond the range of my vision. Waiting.

I hear the scratchings late at night when I can’t sleep, like the sound of a trapped cat pawing at a closed door, trying to get out. When I do sleep, I awake suddenly with that certain dread that someone was just in my room, standing there watching me while I’m unconscious. There are foreign smells in The Compound, weird odors that don’t belong and I’m not just talking about that half-eaten italian sub I left under the pool table in the east wing basement.

The other night I stood naked in the rain at the edge of the woods behind the property with a flare gun and some hedge clippers from 2 a.m. until dawn waiting for something to show itself. Whatever it was stayed just out of sight at the edge of the brush. I heard breathing. I saw the glint of yellow eyes. There were even some amorphous footprints in the mud that I could not identify the next morning but no measure of screaming taunts would draw it out.

I’ve got a connection in black market military surplus who says he can get me some old Vietnamese ordinance that might still be in working order so I’m going to rig the property up right; land mines, trip wires, motion sensitive search lights, deadfalls and covered pits full of sharpened sticks.

Unfortunatley The Valkyries, my all female militia security force, have left me. When I began to suspect one of their member of being compromised and made my suspicions known, they stormed out in protest. They know as well as I do that anyone can be gotten to, though. Anyone can turn when the right situation presents itself. All people have weaknesses, even six foot tall, gun-toting, leggy blonde guerilla warriors.

Even Dave The Bodyguard is unavailable right now after breaking both his ankles in an ill-considered, ill-practiced performance with Cirque Du Soleil last week. It was all for charity, so what can I say, but dammit, Dave, you should know that 300 pound guys are just not built for the aerial cradle.

My phone calls to Darkfaulker have been met with naught but a recorded greeting from Fong Qui Fang saying, “I’m sorry but Doctor Darkfaulker is interdimensionally unavailable right now. Please leave a message or a psychic emanation and he will get back to you.”

In contrast, I’ve been reluctant to call Gonz O’Lager for help because there remains a fifty-fifty chance in my mind that he could be the one responsible for this and I don’t want to play right into his diabolical hands.

So I’m all alone.

And someone or something is hunting me. I’m trying to get ready but it’s not easy without any knowledge of my foes and, as time goes on, I start to lose my edge. Lack of sleep and an overuse of various stimulants are taking their toll on my mind and body. But I need to remain vigilant. I have no idea when the attack might come or what form it will take.

I’ll do what I can but even I have my limits. All the homemade explosives and fireplace tools in the world might not protect me if things go really pear-shaped here. Luckily, if it comes to abandoning my post, I know the woodlands around here like the back of my hairly toes and it wouldn’t be the first time I had to go John Rambo out there.

So what I’m saying is this, motherfuckers.

Bring it.


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4 Responses to “Hunted By Freaks”

  1. Ozzy McGurt Says:

    My guess is it’s Chippy. She seems quite smitten with you Ken. Other than that, I’d have to pass it off as severe paranoia derived from an over-indulgence in narcotics and too many horror movies.

  2. Ken Socrates Says:

    I hadn’t though of that, OZ. I know it’s not you because you make too much noise in the woods. A guy your size, I’d hear you coming somewhere around the Vermont border.

    But Chippy? That’s a possibilty. A) She hasn’t been seen or heard from in about a month. B) I never sent her a check for that last article she wrote. C) I never sent her a check for most of the ones before that. So she might be more than smitten with me, she might be Fatal Attraction level smitten.

    The question, then, is this. Just how good is Chippy at guerilla warfare? I know she’s a terror with a hockey stick in hand or, for that matter, a beer bottle but what happens when you get her in the foothills and forests of the New Hampshire wilderness?

    Now I’m even more scared.

    P.S. “…severe paranoia derived from an over-indulgence in narcotics and too many horror movies.” Heh. Heh heh. Good joke, OZ.

  3. Stalker X Says:

    It ain’t paranoia, bitch.

  4. Chippy McGuinness Says:

    Rest assured, it is not me. If you think I could manage the time in between slashing the tires of my ex-husband and sending letters to his boss in an effort to get him fired from the toiletries department at Target, you’ve got another thing coming. Add to this the bi-weekly headless Barbie dolls covered in pigs blood with a note attached that reads “YOU” I’ve been sending to that fourteen-year-old new wife of his and I’ve barely been able to watch the Flyers, let alone stalk your lame ass, Socrates.

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