Young Writers Society

The Profane Parables and Nihilistic Narrations by a Perverse Pariah

Offering Occasional Observations of Odd Occurrences

And an Astonishingly Annoying Amount and Application of Alliteration

The following contains explicit language, blatant disregard for social cues and expectations, violent and sexual conduct as well as numerous moral ambiguities. It is also sideways-eight-percent true in all aspects. The reader may recognize a seemingly unreliable amount of foresight in some aspects, and therefore doubt the overall validity. Well, if this were a hotline, I’d probably respond to these heretics with something like “Deh cardz dun’t ly!” and immediately hang up after charging you $5.00 per second. For these reasons, it should be ritualistically recited at bedside to small children, to ensure a future generation full of promising politicians, priests and food service employees.

You know how virtually every group of people who have mutual hatred for mutual things (or, “friends”) contain at least one member who tries, and often fails, to be funny? The trying part is often the result of insecurity, the failing part is of delivery and the funny part is of a lack of self-awareness; but nothing that they initially intend to be funny is funny. They may be the type of person to use state-name-themed-pick-up-lines at the local funeral home and not understand why they’re masturbating later that night. Monday was like that guy to the rest of the week. It’s possible that Our Ford In Heaven was blameworthy for this, as he deduced the number of days in the work week and popularized the concept of the weekend. Friday, Saturday and Sunday benefited from this the most (Sunday especially, already being the day people chose to converge inside buildings with sky-stabbing steeples and sing funny songs in commemoration of an ancient zombie who gave Socialistic speeches). Tuesday, also known as Monday Part 2, Wednesday and Thursday were just there as fillers for work. Monday, however, certainly had the most repulsive reputation among them all.

Over time, words like “melancholy,” “moody,” “manic,” “blues,” “gloomy,” “somber,” “I hate,” and “football” became synonymous with Monday. This was reflected throughout the times, such as with T.Bone Walker’s song “Stormy Monday Blues,” or The Mama and the Papa’s song “Monday Monday.” Even indifferent, lasagna-loving, tabby cats didn’t care for the day. Perhaps the root of mankind’s loathing of Mondays comes from the name itself, an Olde English word for “Moon Day.” The moon itself has had negative connotations, since it was said to turn people into feral, London-American Wookies and control the currents of water inside of our skulls. Statistical support of this was seen with spiked crime rates, hospital visits and broken toasters (somehow ruined with bathwater) occurring during the Full Moon. These are, of course, mere myths; no different than Mothman, Manchurian Men, or merefolk.

That’s the usual process of truth, though. It filters through the immediate masses and becomes rumor, and rumor slips through the sands of time and becomes legend. Nine times out of ten, a kernel of truth crowns the mountaintop of any mythos; Area 51 actually exists, extra-dimensional Elder God’s actually do name their cities with unpronounceable vowels, Santa Claus was actually the Patron Saint Nicholas of Prostitution and black cats are actually sometimes anamorphic witches. It is word of mouth, and time, which ruin the truth behind these events, labeling them as "superstitions" or "conspiracies." Then, they contrarily keep them alive, using the very same label of "superstitions" and "conspiracies."

It just happened to be a Monday, and there was I, your Nihilistic Narrator and Perverse Pariah, walking through the Sandspot Cemetery and admiring the tall, grey obelisk (Nothing pays homage to the dead like inearthing them underneath Nimrod’s castrated penis) engraved with the name “ADAM." It was adorned with a skull and crossbones. I was about eleven-years-old at the time, and was accompanied by two other Sandspotters who hated the same things as me. First, there was Jacks, an intensely animated fellow with a penchant for strong opinions and nicknaming people. His parents had fucked in New York whenever he was conceived. Then, there was Wu, a conversational aficionado of limes and solitude. He was also a native Texan. The Chinese name was actually given to him by Jacks, in reference to the sound he made whenever he sneezed. The name didn’t always fit well with his farmer arms, suffix-accentuating accent and obnoxious belt buckles.

The cemetery was a shortcut to reach the woods quicker. We were investigating the local urban legend of a man named Chauchy Malone (A.K.A. Chauchy No Face, B.K.A. Green Guy). He was said to be a mentally-discommoded, faceless man with glowing green skin, and a fondness for murdering hares with a katana. Supposedly, he survived off the grid in a ramshackle shack. He also had Inquisitional traps set for those who’d "tread too far." Appropriately, this particular area of the forest was dubbed “Dead Man’s Hollow.” For some reason, I envisioned him with a gangly beard, ripped clothing and a soccer ball. The soccer ball had a smiley face crudely sketched onto it with blood.

During our pre-investigative investigation, we learned many potential origins pertaining Green Guy. Some Sandspotters believed he was a former electrician who was dreadfully disfigured following a providential power-pole accident. The green skin was the result of being electrocuted, and his personality changed shortly afterwards. The one-time Christian electrician and family man became an ordained Bishop of the Bar (he never drank prior, except once whenever Orson Welles reported to him and many others that aliens were waging war with the world) and grew increasingly prone to fits of rage. If he wore purple shorts and was a deaf bodybuilder, he’d slightly resemble the Incredible Hulk. During one of these fits, he returned home and fatally stabbed both his wife and child nine times, using the decorative family katana. A neighbor called in a domestic dispute, but by the time dispatchers arrived, Green Guy was a whole mile away, hiding in the woods. Even though he left a remorseful note, telling them where he was, the police decided that it was too far. Besides, The Forbesburgh Phantoms were playing that night. The police chief was sure the situation would resolve itself.

An alternative theory suggested that Green Guy wasn’t a guy at all. During 1999, The Dingling Brothers Family Circus came to Sandspot. That year, one of their major attractions was The Komodo Dragon Exhibit. One night, after closing the tent and herding the animals back to their cages, the Ringmaster overlooked a monstrous mistake. The Komodo Dragon was locked in with a Chimpanzee, and Barry White’s The Message Is Love album was left playing over the loudspeaker. The following morning, the Chimpanzee had an unnaturally large belly bulge and the Komodo Dragon was craving a sandwich. The usually scholarly carnies were perplexed as the Chimpanzee went into labor. One poor soul who tried to assist the Mothering Chimp had his face ripped off and had to change his position from “Rides Operator” to “Freakshow Exhibit.” After about six hours, the Chimp gave birth to an abominable, hairy-reptilian-humanoid thing with green fur. Legend continues to say that the creature leapt out of the womb and lunged onto the Sword-Swallower, who dropped one sword and fatally choked on another. The Komodo Monkey picked up the sword during the resulting frenzy and fled. It was last seen lurking into Dead Man’s Hollow.

A final more mild and believable theory involves Sandspot’s personal care home, SnowsHaven. One account claimed told of a Mr. Chauchey Malone. He was said to be one of the more eccentric and unrestrainable residents. The man put everything from leftover food to Bible pages to toy cars inside of Mason Jars to “help them stay preserved.” He was also a martial-arts enthusiast with no kinetic ability, although he owned a katana-esque dagger. It was small enough to be stored in a Mason Jar. When Prozac time came, he’d often panic, flee the orderlies and hide in the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink. One particularly panicked night, when the habitual cabinet was opened, he wasn’t there. The curtains moved with a draft, revealing the open window. Dead Man’s Hollow was far away, but in view.

These theories were speculative and directly from the public. And, as we learned, the public turns truth into rumor and rumor into legend. Jacks, Wu and I were more hands-and-eyes-on kind of people. To us, feeling and seeing were the only kind of believing. We had just reached the end of the cemetery, and started to ascend the summit of Dead Man’s Hollow. It was a steep, winding dirt hill. The Hollow itself was roughly twelve to thirteen bends away.

I lit a cigarette, because looking cool, grown up and being short of breath makes long hills more tolerable. Wu was in the middle of explaining the dangers associated with waking up a sleepwalker, when Jacks interjected with, “Squints, What time is it?”

“Nine twenty-one,” I replied as my eyes squinted to adjust to the dark, “This might’ve been better to do during the daytime.”

“Naw, his hunting pattern is exclusively nocturneel,” Wu said, Texanly. “He sniffs out the sleepin’ nests and snuffs ‘em. It’s more efficient for a survivalis’.”

“I dunno. He’d need feline eyes or something to hunt up here during the night,” your Perverse Pariah said, still squinting. The blood-painted soccer ball face suddenly developed yellow eyes.

We steadfastly stepped past the thirteenth bend. Dead Man’s Hollow was now finally, officially under our feet. In contrast to its negative name, the Hollow was unimposing. There were normal, natural things in it; rocks, trees, mud, tall grass and the calls of thousands of creatures desperately trying to get laid. A cliff towards the east revealed a scenic panorama of Sandspot, but if you weren’t a painter, off-roader, hunter, squirrel or local urban legend, you’d have no reason to be here. We each turned on our flashlights (which were simultaneously our Swiss-Army Knives, compasses, fire-starting kits, water canteens, calculators, calendars, cameras, camcorders, web browsers, text-message senders and phone-call callers. I suppose “cell phones” would of sufficed) and split up in search of Green Guy.

We thoroughly scanned the surroundings for an entire nine minutes before deciding to deem the Green Guy case closed. Final verdict: non-existent.

“I guess Chauchy ‘Gangrene Gay’ Malone was just a legend after all,” Jacks said looking over the cliff at Sandspot.

“Looks like it,” Wu replied between sips from a pint Spinners Lime Tea.

Suddenly, Jacks wildly gesticulated with flapping arms and a twist of the torso. This was normally dismissed as him just being bored, and usually followed with random vowel annunciations, but this time was different. He descended into the dirt and totally disappeared. It happened in less than a second.

“What the fuck?!” the words echoed from underneath us.

Wu and I looked down. Jacks was about five feet into the Earth, laying upon a pile of leaves and basket-woven branches. It had been an apparent pit-trap, camouflaged with night and leaves. It was also unnaturally moist and boggy. Thankfully, Wu had a lasso handy (he was a Texan), and we lowered it down to Jacks.

“Put the lotion in the fucking basket!” Wu said as Jacks grabbed the rope.

“What kind of trap is this anyways? There’s no spike or anything to maim, let alone kill,” I pondered out loud.

“Maybe Green Bay Gay Guy is just a stupid ass,” Jacks said pulling himself out to safety, although still damp and angry.

Something about this explanation didn’t settle with me, and I, your Perverse Pariah, jumped into the pit.

“I’m not lowering the lasso until it rubs the lotion on its skin! It does as it is told!” came from above.

I examined the walls of the pit, hoping to find something inordinate. My discouraged hands only met disintegrating soil. I was just about to apply the Aveeno and request the lasso, but I noticed a peculiarity. Made visible from the moon light, the floor of the pit was a combination of mud, leaves, broken branches and water. Strangely, there was a surprising amount of sand. But it in was Sandspot, a town with little to no sand!  It couldn’t have been indigenous, since the walls were dirt and clay. 

Closer examination revealed the impacted contour of a man, jagged, white shards and a smeared, slimy substance which separated itself from the sand and water. They were eggshells and embryos!

“What the fuck is that?” I heard from above.

“Wha- Woah! I don’t wanna find out!”

“Sorry Texan, I’m out!”

“I drove!”

You know that noise from rifle shots in old Western movies? “The Windhelm Whizz,” later used in Saturday-morning cartoons whenever somebody comedically sprinted from scary situation? I heard that from above. Twice.

Abandoned, ankle deep in unidentified embryos, and aware that something absolutely awful was approaching; I suddenly understood why Monday’s sucked. Monday wasn’t totally at fault, though. Whenever you personally go knocking on troubles door, it’ll see you on the porch while returning home from the grocery store, and suckerpunch you from behind while you’re expecting the door to open in front. 

I looked into the sky, the moon mocking me, and anxiously awaited the Abomination’s appearance.

A hazy green light became increasingly visible from above, until it was eventually showering me with its phosphorescent heat. Through squinted eyes I raised my eyes for cover, and the silhouette of a tall, rangy, humanoid became visible. The light was glowing out of his chest. I covered my eyes with my hands to protect them from the radiation, even though I felt it beginning to boil my brain and blood. Searing my skull. My chest tightened as I held my breath and thought about looking cool and grown up one last time. 

I reached for a cigarette, but didn’t want to chance the lighter causing an explosion. “But what difference would it make? I can feel myself dying!” my fading consciousness echoed back. It also mentioned that I wasn’t lead shielding my testicles (which was a win/lose; win considering that the massive Gamma Ray exposure cured all of my STDs, lose considering the massive Gamma Ray exposure probably destroyed every other cell in the sack). And wasn’t there a katana coming? Nine stabs? Where will they be? I hope it’s not in the stomach, I like having intestines. Do it to the testicles, they’re dead weight anyways. If I die in this hole, will Jacks and Wu remember to commemorate me by putting Nimrod’s castrated penis here?

My fatal, feral stream of consciousness was interrupted when the light turned off.

“Oi! What de fuck are ye doin’ in me egg nist?” A foreign accent inquired.

My eyes readjusted. Surprisingly, I still had binocular vision. No extra eyes or limbs manifested on me. My Corpus Callosum was still best described as “semi-functional,” and my testicles hadn’t been microwaved in a death pit of now-symbolically broken eggs. I, your Perverse Pariah and Nihilistic Narrator, had never been so happy to have Herpes in all of my young life (I was about nine-years-old during this time).

The man’s details, meanwhile, came into focus. I was accurate with the gangly beard and ripped clothing, although there was no Wilson-brand soccer ball painted with blood. Instead, grasped in his right hand, the source of the radioactive light revealed itself in the form of a lantern. Yes, a Green Lantern (copyright infringement intended).

“Egg nest?” I immediately replied, playing dumb (Two paragraphs worth of thoughts usually took about 0.21 seconds back then), “What kind of eggs? Are you Green Guy?”

“Wha? No I’m nawt Grein Eggs end Hem! What de fuck are ye doin’ in me egg nist? Get out, ye thievin’ scum! Awe, ye’ve killed em! Ye wors’ than a thief ye be! Get out!” He lowered his non-lantern arm.

“I’m getting mixed signals, are you trying to help me climb out or punch me?”

“GET DE FUCK OUT OF ME EGG NIST!” he shouted as I grabbed his arm.

He pulled me out with one immaculate, fluid motion. I brushed off the eggshells, embryos and gamma rays covering me and thanked the man, offering a handshake. He declined Instead reaching for his belt.

“The Katana!” my consciousness suddenly remembered

I prepared to run, but restrained myself when I realized he was reaching for a self-rolled cigarette.

“Oi, laddie, ye ruined me eggs. I was gunna to raise de turtles, I was.” He lit it, and looked cooler and more grown up.

“Turtle Eggs?” I reached for pesticide-impregnated, mass-produced cigarette.

“Aye, that’s what I sed, are ye deaf? Now what’ll I do?”

“Why did you hide your eggs in a death ditch?” I lit mine and looked cool and grown up.

“I sell em, I do. Meeka pretty penny sellin de turtle eggs, I do. Gawt plenty mor’ down da path.”

I offered my assistances to this profile-fitting, yet somehow ass-backwards, mythological figure. We walked across Dead Man’s Hollow (assisted by the Green Lantern ((copyright infringement intended))), until reaching a crumbling cobblestone cottage, façaded with various vines and mosses. It was about two steps above being a ramshackle shack. We had much to discuss.

Anti-climatically, the only kernel of truth crowning the mountainous mythos of Green Guy was the name Chauchy Malone. Born on Monday, September 21st 1950, Malone was raised in a stable Irish home and had no apparent mental or physical deformities. When he turned nineteen, he moved to Sandspot in pursuit of the Almighty Dollar, but instead was greeted with panhandling and chronic alcoholism. Following multiple arrests for vagrancy, as well as other social disparities, he exiled himself into the forest. Hardly the homicidal result of an electrical shock, and even farther from being a katana wielding Komodo Draganzee, Chauchy Malone was a degenerative recluse who understood that he had nothing to contribute to society. He was okay with it too, since he disliked people more than Mondays.

Other elements, specifically the nighttime wanderings and the Green Lantern (copyright infringement intended), were explainable. Turtles are cold-blooded amphibians, even during the embryonic stage. Although Dead Man’s Hollow had near perfect conditions for them, excluding sand and water. Nighttime presented the threat of life-threatening temperature drops. The lantern was for warmth, and the green lenses were simply night vision.

Every other aspect was hogwash, hysterically and hypnotically rehashed throughout the ages. The hermit was harmless to Sandspot and the surrounding Forbesburgh area. He was just a misunderstood misanthrope who did no wrong outside of the realm of survival (turns out in his case, snaring hares isn’t murder, its hunting) excluding tax evasion. The conversation proved that we even hated some mutual things.

The End.