Small Town Monsters. Craig Nybo

like the Viet Cong, not even a breath. Then I seen him. He was nothing less than nine foot tall and covered with mats of filthy bark-colored shag. He was camouflaged, but I couldn’t miss him. My eyes were as big as apples and I can’t remember much except hopin’ that big thing in the trees wouldn’t smell me. I was upwind and I count myself lucky for that.”

      “A bear,” Kurt said.

      “Sasquatch, damn it.”

      “Cripes,” Buck said and rolled his eyes.

      “You don’t know nothin’; you wasn’t there,” Larry scolded Buck.

      “Did you mention the part about you was too high on Jack to see straight?” Buck said.

      “I wasn’t drunk,” Larry protested.

      “You’re always drunk when we go hunting. It’s amazing we let you carry that old 30-ought-6 and bullets to boot.”

      “What happened?” Kurt asked, trying not to smile.

      “I waited—must have been twenty minutes or better. I took aim three times, but I couldn’t get a clear shot through the brambles. He was smart. I think he might have know’d I was there. After waiting a spell, he finally just sauntered off and I never seen him again after that.”

      “That’s some story,” Kurt said.

      “Yea, some story; now are we going to bowl or keep yakin’?” Arthur shot his words over his shoulder from the scoring desk.

      Kurt chuckled as he walked to the line. He shot with his

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      house ball and knocked seven pins down in two shots; better than usual.

      “It ain’t just me sayin’ Sasquatch exists,” Larry went on after Kurt sat back down. “There’s lots of evidence and enough witnesses to prove he’s real in the court of law. They got plaster molds of his prints, they got pictures, and one guy, Mr. Paterson was his name, even caught him on super-8, walkin’ across a creek; I’ve seen it.”

      “We’ve all seen it,” Buck said.

      “I haven’t seen it,” Kurt said.

      “Well, you can come over some time; I got it on tape,” Larry said.

      “I think I’ll do that,” Kurt said. “You have a good story there; but what I saw on Buren’s ranch was nothing more than wolves.”

      “Don’t be so sure,” Larry said, tapping his temple with one finger.

      “I’m sure,” Kurt said.

      “You know, if you’re up against Sasquatch, you’re going to need some help. What do you say I round up a bunch of boys and we go hunting?” Larry asked.

      Kurt winced. “Now Larry, you know I can’t let you do that.”

      “Why not? We’s all good shots,” Larry stared over at Buck.

      “It’s my job on the line,” Kurt said, trying to play delicately. “You pay me to keep order.”

      “Aw, come on; it’d be fun,” Larry said.

      Kurt chuckled. “As your friend, I have no doubt it would be a kick in the shorts. But I’m also the law and sometimes being the law has to come before being your friend. I can’t have you boys stomping through the woods with bottles of Jack and firearms. You need to let me handle this.”

      “Well, as they say: the law is as the law does,” Larry said.

      Kurt’s smile faded away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      Larry’s eyes rested on Kurt’s for a moment. Then his face pealed into a beaming grin. “Hell, Kurt, it don’t mean nothin’. I’m just messing with you.”

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      Arthur broke the uncomfortable silence. “Stay in the game, guys; we’re getting our tails whooped. You’re up, Kurt.”

      Kurt bowled and he bowled badly. All of his teammates moaned in unison as he shot a six. Kurt sat back down in his seat and stayed quiet the rest of the game.

      Kurt and the rest of the blue-jays—their team name—played out the remainder of the league match; they got their tails whooped.

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      Chapter 8

      Lucy’s father still hadn’t fixed the door to her room; it canted to one side, the top hinge torn out of the threshold, the bottom one barely hanging on. She sat on her bed, a picture of her mother stared into the room from atop the headboard behind her, a little out of focus, but the only photo Lucy had ever seen of her.

      A math textbook sat open on the bed in front of her. She sat cross-legged, working the problems one by one in a spiral bound notepad. Lucy insisted on nothing less than A’s, especially during her senior year. When she graduated, nobody would stop her from getting out of DePalma Beach, not her friends, not her cousins, especially not her asshole dad.

      She wore headphones. They thumped on her skull, cranked up to a roar.

      The chorus of one of her favorite angsty songs came on strong, backed by a thumping, electronic groove. She sang along.

      Don’t say I’m nothing,

      Because I’m nothing to you.

      Cause nothing turns to nothing,

      When it comes down to you.

      Concerning:

      Lucy Cadano

      Marty Cadano

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      Lucy grossly belted out the lyrics, off tune and way too loud under the influence of her headphones. She stopped working her math for a moment so she could pour everything she had into her singing.

      I’m moving on and I don’t need,

      Your nothing anymore more.

      And the next girl to come along,

      Will learn how nothing you are.

      The mattress shifted as someone sat on the bed next to her. Startled, she took in a frightened breath and glanced up from her homework. Her dad looked back at her, the swollen capillaries in his nose blanching his skin and giving him that I-don’t-give-a-shit look Lucy most feared.

      Marty smiled at her. He’d been standing at the door, watching her sing, braying like an animal, from the broken door for half a minute, leaning against the jamb, his arms crossed, his mouth twisted up into an easy smile.

      Marty delicately removed Lucy’s headphones. She recoiled under his touch and looked away.

      “You’re home, early,” Lucy said. She glanced at her watch: 11:00 PM. She’d hoped to go to sleep before he came back from Pearlman’s where he hung out with his creepy friends who sometimes came over with their nasty jokes and crawling eyes.

      “You shouldn’t listen to your music so loud, sweetie; you’re going to blow out those pretty ears of yours.”

      Lucy shrugged.

      Marty looked at the headphones, trying to make out music from the rhythmic sizzle that came from them. “What is this stuff anyways? Ain’t real music. You should try some Zeppelin or something.”

      “I like it,” Lucy said and went back to her homework.

      Her father sat there on the bed, looking at her for a long moment as she worked out the problems. The usual electricity built between them. Lucy became less able to keep her mind

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