Category: Fiction Factor

Quercus Mound, Alabama – population one – is the smallest city in the state. In fact, it really isn’t a city at all, just a dusty spot on the side of the road, adorned by a cellphone tower and seven abandoned, yellowish single-wide trailers that once housed residents who have either died or moved.

But the area had gained quite a bit of notoriety over the years because just a few miles away – surrounded by thick, treacherous woods – is Monster Lake. Unlike most of the waterways in the state, Monster Lake is hardly a haven for anglers or water sports enthusiasts. No one visits to wet their hooks, or launch pontoon boats for a lazy day of floating and drinking. In fact, it’s rare to find anyone brave enough to go anywhere near it.

There’s good reason for that.

Monster Lake is so-named  because it’s allegedly home to the Quercus Mound RhinoCuda, which has killed at least 60 people over the past 30 years.

Twenty seven came there to fish, 22 to hunt, and 11 – through either ignorance or arrogance – figured they could get a peek at the monster and live to tell the tale.

They were all very, very wrong.

The creature, which is described as a cross between a rhinoceros and barracuda, lives on the bottom of the brackish lake and comes on land only to feed. It bursts out of the water with brute force and often spears its prey with the sharp, olive green horn on its gray snout. Once the victim is limp, the RhinoCuda shakes the person loose and clamps down with its gaping jaws, making quick work of the meal thanks to razor-sharp teeth.

Or so he says.

And “he” happens to be Lester Grappling, the lone resident of Quercus Mound. Thin, short and leather-brown thanks to years spent in the sun, he is a man who is unafraid of the RhinoCuda he calls “Pearlie Sue.”

Aside from a stint in the Navy, Grappling has lived most of his 53 years in a cabin just a few yards from the banks of Monster Lake. While it’s rustic to be sure – a post and beam home worthy of the cover of Country Living – it has a few high-tech features.

There is satellite dish along with a big-screen TV (“Can’t miss watching my Braves,” Grappling often says), and he makes sure his smart phone is always updated. While he doesn’t talk on it very often, he enjoys taking selfies with Pearlie Sue, although skeptics suggest photoshop is probably one of his greatest talents.

Word had gotten out that Grappling was something of a “monster whisperer,” which sparked speculation by podcasters and resulted in occasional pop-ins from TV reporters, anxious to interview the hermit with an active imagination. All that led to some national exposure, which is why on a muggy, late June day, 10 survivalists from the reality show Man’s Dominion arrived by caravan on the dusty road in the heart of Quercus Mound.

An entire season would be devoted to their latest quest, which was to spend the summer staking out Pearlie Sue – and ultimately capturing and killing her.

Brick Bannington, the show’s host, greeted Grappling as he made his way out of the woods and over to the contestants.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Grappling.”

“Mr. Grappling was my daddy,” Grappling said, extending his hand, “Call me Lester.”

“OK, Lester. Now, I’m guessing this is probably gonna be the biggest crowd you’ve ever seen here in Quercus Mound. Aside from our contestants, we’ve got the camera crew, hospitality and a medical team.”

“And if what we hear is true,” Bannington said with a wink, “we’re definitely gonna need some first aid.”

Grappling smiled politely, giving a once-over to the throng of people gathered by the woods.

“Nah, there won’t be any need for medics, Mr. Bannington,” he said. “Pearlie Sue don’t play. She kills to eat and eats what she kills. Course the law comes out here every time somebody goes missing. When they find what’s left of the bodies, they claim it’s a panther or a gator or something like that. That’s fine with Pearlie Sue … she don’t want credit, she just wants food.”

Grappling didn’t sound like he was joking.

“Well, Lester,” Bannington said, “I gotta admit – I think the authorities might be on to something. I’m not sure I believe all that monster stuff … I’m thinking maybe you got yourselves an oversize, Lake Placid-style croc. Either way, it oughta make for some good TV, especially after we get him.”

“Her,” Grappling said.

“Excuse me?”

“Her … Pearlie Sue’s a female.”

Bannington nodded.

“Sure, sure. Look, we’re gonna spend the next couple of days spreading everybody out and setting up their campsites. We were hoping you could be our guide, show us a few trails, that sort of thing. First though, we’d like to see your cabin … you know, get a shot of the man who lives among the monster.”

Grappling pointed to a dirt path leading into the woods.

“That’s how I come in and out,” Grappling said. “I go to Mobile for supplies about once a month and have made a road. Why don’t ya’ll just follow me in … there’s a huge clearing by the cabin and you can park all your vehicles there.”

Within an hour the convoy had relocated to the area next to Grappling’s abode, and Monster Lake was clearly visible form their makeshift lot. The water was calm and, from a distance, seemed clear.

Barrington and most of the Man’s Dominion cast followed Grappling as his walked closer to the water.

“Seems almost serene,” Barrington said.

“Oh it is, it is,” Grappling said. “It’s a beautiful spot for Pearlie Sue. And she loves it when I bring her treats – of course with all you people, it’ll be more like a feast.”

Barrington raised his eyebrows.

“Feast?”

“See for yourself.”

Grappling walked to the edge of the lake, cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “PEARLIE SUE! DINNER TIME!”

The water bubbled violently for several seconds before the gigantic creature emerged from the lake and launched a frenzied attack. Barrington was the first victim – speared and devoured in a matter of seconds – and within 10 minutes, the area surrounding Monster Lake was littered with bones and covered in blood.

Everyone was dead.

Everyone except for Lester Grappling.

As birds descended to peck away at the gory remains, Grappling peeked inside the hospitality van and realized there was enough food inside to feed him for six months. He started to carry some inside when Pearlie Sue – all 3,000 pounds of her – snorted, belched and plopped down at his feet.

He reached up and gently rubbed her head.

“Who’s my good girl?” he said in a sing-song voice. “You’re my good girl … yes you are! Eating up all those mean people. Best part of joining the Navy was pulling you out of that drift net in the Pacific, Pearlie Sue.”

Neighbors were already gathering on the sidewalk as the two homicide detectives – Danny Spiro and Maisie Petra – arrived at the split-level ranch-style house on Summerville Avenue.

The pair had only worked together a short time, and Petra, a sinewy former college decathlete, provided quite the contrast to Spiro with his five o’clock shadow and beer gut.

Officer Ben Clampett had been called to do a wellness check on the occupant, Charlie Chandler, after neighbors reported that they hadn’t seen him in the past three days and he didn’t answer his cellphone or door.

Clampett found an unlocked window near the back of the house and crawled through, where he spotted Chandler slumped over in his chair.

He was dead, and had apparently been dead for several hours.

“What do we have here, Ben?” asked Spiro, as he and Petra approached. “Hey, Danny. And Officer Petra, is it? Welcome to the precinct. Yeah, it might be nothing, but I’m not sure Mr. Chandler’s death is just a case of an old man dying of old age. Come inside.”

The trio approached the body as it lay in the hallway. There was no sign of blood or bruises, or anything to indicate a struggle, for that matter. But clutched in Chandler’s right hand was a crumpled piece of notebook paper.

There was a crude drawing of what appeared to be a blueprint of some sort and below that the words, “Havoc Club at large. Activate Violet Femme.”

“I saw that,” Clampett said, “and it just seemed, I dunno … ominous.”

Spiro looked at the corpse and then glanced at Petra, who seemed visibly shaken.

“You OK, partner?”

“Yeah … just never easy to find someone like this.”

Spiro was familiar with Chandler, and assumed since Petra had just transferred in from out of state, she probably wasn’t.

“Charlie was no stranger to the precinct,” he explained. “In fact, he was pretty much a regular. He was quite a character. He was always dressed in yellow and black and claimed to be a crimefighter named Yellowhammer – although he made us promise not to reveal his identity to anyone. Otherwise, the Havoc Club might find him.”

“That’s why I called you guys,” Clampett said. “I know he had an active imagination and all that, but the fact that he had that note makes me wonder if something might have happened to him.”

Petra put on rubber gloves and carefully examined the note.

“So, why did he say he was – what did you call it – the Yellowhammer?”

“Yellowhammer, yeah,” Spiro said. “He started coming to us years ago, saying he had intel about criminal activity and could help us stop it. And the weird thing is, sometimes he did. I mean, he got a lot of information off the police scanner and I guess did some amateur detecting on his own, but he had some really good tips a lot of the time. Not sure how he knew as much as he did. We even looked into him as a suspect from time to time, but he was always clean. Anyway, he said he was Yellowhammer, who was kinda like a dispatcher for people he called ‘better superheroes.’ He liked to say he saved the big stuff for the big guns, but wanted to help us out, too.”

“What do we know about Havoc Club and Violet Femme?”

Spiro chuckled.

“Havoc Club? We don’t know anything about ‘em because they don’t exist,” he said. “They might as well be the League of Shadows or the Sinister Six. And Violet Femme? Maybe he was just a fan of folk punk and didn’t know how to spell Violent Femmes. Look, I don’t mean to joke at a time like this. Charlie was a good guy and whatever happened is worth looking into, for sure. But I don’t think we need to follow comic book leads. Let’s just examine the body and go from there.”

“Still,” Petra asked. “Is it OK if I go over this note a little closer? You know, check for fingerprints, try and see if this blueprint means anything, stuff like that?”

“Knock yourself out, partner,” Spiro said. “Tell you what, we’ll get this place dusted and I’ll wait on the medical examiner, so you can knock off for the night. I know it’s been a tough day. Let’s regroup and get back at it first thing in the morning. I’ll ride back with Ben … you can take the car.”

“Nah,” she said. “I need to walk and clear my head. Besides, it’s just a few blocks from the subway. See you tomorrow, Danny. And thanks.”

Petra swiftly walked away from the crime scene and turned right at the end of the street. Finding Yellowhammer dead was shocking, to say the least, but she had no choice but to keep her grief in check.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, black, cylindrical device, and punched the red button in the center.

“Yellowhammer is gone, I just confirmed it,” she said. “He was murdered, and it’s got Havoc Club’s fingerprints all over it. He did leave us a blueprint, though. Sending a picture of it now … get it to Clue Monger and have him figure out if this is their base. If it is, I need to suit up and get there as soon as possible. “Violet Femme signing off … I’ll report back when I know more.”

While puttering down the Industrial Highway in his vintage 2030 Continental Roadster, it suddenly occurred to Clint that he had gotten Ranger, his mutt, exactly eight years ago on this very day. It was June 11, 2058, when he spotted the trembling animal on the side of the road, yet another innocent victim of the AmeriTech War.

The dog was wheezing, it appeared to be suffering from conjunctivitis, and its hair was matted and dirty.

Clint could relate.

He tended to wheeze and his eyes were constantly itchy, too. Plus, what hair he had left was wiry and unruly, and at 72 his old man aches and pains were, well, extremely achy and quite painful. But the dog needed a home, Clint had one to share, and the two bonded quickly.

Some TLC – and a special ointment courtesy of a  veterinarian friend – took care of the doggo’s eye issues, and a warm bath in an oversized tub (along with slow, careful combing) revealed a relatively healthy, brown coat.

While drying off the furball, Clint came up with the name “Ranger,” mainly because it reminded him of an ice hockey team he cheered for during the bygone era of professional sports. And besides, “Ranger” is just a damn good dog name.

Man and beast became inseparable, and Clint wanted to make sure Ranger was happy. Over the first few years, there was nothing the critter enjoyed more than a furious, flared-nostril run through a grassy field, followed by a half can of wet food. More recently, though, it was a leisurely ride in  a wheeled transport that made him the happiest.

It was especially enjoyable these days because the war was over, the Mammonicans had been driven from power, and Clint no longer had to worry about being stopped by renegade patrols demanding passage tax.

And there was no one to make him present his Animal Ownership License and submit Ranger to a painful distemper shot.

Many of the old houses and office buildings had been destroyed in the decades-long conflict, but the skies were again clear and the countryside greener – and showing signs of new growth. Better yet, while much had changed throughout the years, a dog hanging its head out of the window and smiling into the wind was not one of them.

It was good for the dog’s health and good for the old man’s soul.

But Clint was now 80, and he had no idea how old Ranger was. The dog had turned white around the eyes and mouth, and Clint liked to think he and his best friend were roughly the same age, body-wise.

Clint had noticed over the past year that both his and Ranger’s naps were longer, and each day it seemed more difficult to rise from the comfort of a well-worn bed. He just wasn’t sure how much longer he could take care of his buddy.

Sadly, he realized their time together was coming to a close.

It never seemed fair, ending a friendship with an IV injection. Sometimes it seemed like the right thing to do, and the humane choice. But then moments later he’d find himself throwing a ragged old toy at Ranger, who’d grab it, shake it vigorously, and sometimes even bring it back to Clint in hopes of another throw-and-catch.

Earlier that morning, however, Clint packed the toys away in a wicker storage bin and loaded them into the Continental Roadster.

The ride would be their last together, and as Clint pulled into the parking spot, he leaned over, gave Ranger a big kiss on the head and said, “I love you, buddy.”

He lifted the bin out of the back seat and placed it on the sidewalk next to the car. Moments later, a vehicle pulled up next to him.

“You must be Clint,” said the slightly built woman. “I’m Sarah … you called about Ranger.”

“Oh, yes,” Clint said, forcing a weak smile. “I have all his papers and toys in this box. He’s a good dog … a real good dog.”

Sarah opened the door, put a leash around Ranger’s neck, and gently rubbed his head.

“Hey there, buddy,” she said. “We’re gonna go to your new home now.”

Clint was caught off guard as the woman – now teary-eyed – gave him a hug.

“You gave him a great life,” she said. “And I’ll give him one, too. I want you know that.”

Clint nodded.

“I know you will,” he said. “And he deserves it, because he made my life great, too. Anyway, goodbye Sarah … and take care of my boy.”

Clint gave his dog one last look, and then headed toward the entrance of the Kevorkian/Quill Clinic.