Finding Home – Mutant 750

Finding Home

Phil Eisenberg stared at the street outside the airport. He hadn’t seen anything larger than a deer path in 23 years.

After being accidentally discovered by Seal Team 6 in Borneo, and in return saving a Seal Team member from a witchdoctor named, [Censored: Homeland Security], Phil thought publishers might purchase the rights to his story. Sadly, this wasn’t the case.

As Phil walked through the streets of New Jersey, staring open-mouthed at the tall buildings, he might’ve looked like a tourist. Again, this wasn’t so. In fact, people generally avoided him. Perhaps his long red hair on the right side and his very short hair with a 3-foot long braid on his left, offended.

In any case, a most unusual man wandered alone, unsure where to call a home.

That is, until he passed a particular alley.

A gravelly voice with a heavy Jersey accent spoke from beside a dumpster. “Hey! Mack. C’mere.”

Phil looked for the voice, but all he saw was a racoon. “Where are you?” said Phil.

“I’m right here.”

“All I see is a racoon.”

The racoon spun about and looked down the alley. “I don’t see one.” It looked back at Phil. “You sure?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Phil. “The racoon is you.”

The racoon grimaced and growled, “What?”

Phil relaxed, having solved the mystery. Phil wasn’t like most people, and was completely unfazed by the notion of a talking racoon (he’d seen some serious shit in Borneo). “I didn’t realize a racoon was talking. Now I do.”

“You’re tellin’ me you think I’m a racoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit! You’re the first one.”

“First one, what?”

“Look, Mack. You buy me a drink and boy have I got a story for you!”

After four beers and three plates of Fish & Chips, Jake wiped his mouth. “And that’s the truth!”

“Amazing!” said Phil. “So nobody sees a racoon when they look at you?”

“Nobody, ‘ceptin’ you of course.”

“I’ve got a story to tell too.” Phil launched into the tale he’d been itching to tell anyone. It started after a plane crash into the wild jungles of Borneo. A lost tribe discovered him and began training him. He rose quickly in status among the sorcerers of the Imhati’Talu tribe. Eventually he became “Aginhala Maginisu’Hava GanGan.” This loosely translates to “Dines with Gods, as an Equal.”

“Amazin’,” said Jake.

“Thank you. I never expected it. I had just finished developing the first warp drive for spaceships at Boeing. Then the plane crash over Borneo changed my life.”

“Wow. So what’s your plan now?”

“Well, demon-hunting is kinda my thing lately.”

“Ey! Ey!” said the bartender, rushing up to them. “We don’t use the D-word here.”

“What? Demon?” snickered Jake.

“Yeah, ’cause…” He looked to a table. “Crap. Too late.”

Phil and Jake turned to see it forming from the smoke of a candle. Four-foot wide, scaly shoulders gained solidity. Even wider horns formed from the demon’s snarling goat’s head. “Demon-hunter, eh,” it chuckled in a voice like swords scraping against bones. “I’ve heard such claims before. Always it’s been pissed pants, prayers to an absent God, screams for mercy, crunching bones. What say YOU, demon-hunter?”

The bar’s patrons quickly dashed out the back door…except for about six. One remained sitting at the bar and muttered, “Not again. Jimmy! Another whiskey sour, por favor!”

Phil stopped to sip his pink cosmopolitan. “Nice asyndeton,” he said. “Here’s mine. “Sis, boom, bah.” He reached into his satchel, yawned, and threw orange dust into the demon’s face. He began moving one hand (the other held his drink steady) in complex patterns that would dislocate most people’s fingers. He finished by pointing two fingers at the floor.

The demon’s eyes bulged. “What? It can’t be! No one’s used the Kariva’Fel’Narivo for thousands of years!”

A pool of swirling clouds formed in the floor where Phil pointed. Fires raged within them. The demon’s body leached into it as it screamed like ten thousand air raid sirens imploding at once. In seconds the demon disappeared.

Jimmy the bartender rushed over to Phil and Jake. “You guys are incredible!”

Jake lit a cigar and puffed. “Don’t mention it.”

Phil sipped his drink “No worries. Always happy to run pest control.”

“Pest Control? That monster has driven bar owners insane for generations!”

Phil shrugged. “That was just a little one. They’re kinda like roaches.”

Jimmy poured drinks of ultra-high-quality-Oh-My-Freaking-God-that’s-incredible Laphroaig Whiskey for the pair. “You guys drink for free…for life!”

Grinning, Jake raised his glass. “Phil. Welcome home!”
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Author’s Notes:

Before anyone asks, I’d like to point out this story was imagined without the use of any illegal drugs. Yes! You too can come up with mad, twisted ideas without traveling any further than your local liquor store. Just buy the good stuff.

Laphroaig Scotch: https://www.masterofmalt.com/whiskies/laphroaig-18-year-old-whisky/

Written for Grammar Ghoul Press’ Mutant 750 writing challenge. This week, the prompts were a pic of a racoon and the word, “Asyndeton.” Not only should the word be used, but the literary device (When the author deliberately leaves out conjunctions in a sentence, e.g., “They came, they saw, they conquered”) should be employed as well. Incidentally, this word is so obscure the automatic spell-checker thinks it’s a misspell. Good one! Look here to see how others answered the prompts: http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/gg-writing-challenge-43/#more-1930