Son of BigFoot
Sometimes I have really fucked up dreams that keep me thinking for much of the next morning. A few months back I dreamed I was having a heart attack and I woke up with my chest tighter than the asshole of a tightrope walker. I had a really hard time catching my breath. I sat up and put my hands behind my head like you see runners doing when they're trying to cool off. After a few minutes, the tightness began to ease and my breaths grew deeper.
I went to the doctor a few days later. It's like a two hour drive for me, because I live way out in the mountains. Doctor said it could have been a mild heart, but most likely a panic attack. “What the hell do I have to panic about, Doc?”
He shrugged. “Having a heart attack, maybe?”
I didn't tell him about my dreams, because then he'd go fucking around with my medications again, or he'd have me sit down and talk with someone about my feelings. I don't like talking about feelings, because I think they're mostly bullshit.
Last night I dreamed of BigFoot. The name BigFoot was never actually used, but after a while it went without saying that it was big harry bastards running around the ranches around my home. If we want to be technical it could have been whatever Chewbacca was supposed to be in the StarWars films. It just now hit me that Chewy was likely some form of subliminal advertising for the tabacco industry and I hadn't previously made that connection. Keep in mind the franchise started back in the 1970s when people weren't quite so touchy about chemicals known to the state of California to cause lung cancer.
I spent most of my time talking with BigFoot's son who was adolescent in Foot Years. We sat on the fence behind my house and looked out at the cattle. I had my suspicious that Foot Junior was Species Queer, TransSpecies, or some shit. He seemed so much more than just willing to get along with the humans and their livestock; he seemed like he was actually trying to be human. He'd wear human clothes for one thing. A huge T-shirt like 6-X that he must've found at an online shop for fat people. A backwards baseball cap. He secretly learned to speak English, but refused to utter a word of it in front of his father.
“Dad would cut my balls off if he heard me speaking English,” he said.
“Why?” Because that's the kind of shit you ask when someone is threatened with castration as punishment for speaking a language.
“Because he hates humans. He wants to kill them all.”
Junior kept asking me shit about my feelings, which you already know I don't like to talk about. At first, I was suspicious because I felt like he was trying to infiltrate me by secretly spying for his father. He kept giving me all kinds of scenarios. What would I do? How would I feel? And after a while it seemed more like he was trying to figure out what makes humans tick, so he could become more human. When I told him about my dog who died of old age and how I buried in her in the middle of the night on New Year's Eve, he had this glassy look in his eyes, like he was holding back real tears.
There was a strange silence between us. I was half a mind to leave anyway, because Junior was getting all weird. I thought he might try to grab my dick or some shit. And I'm not about to go playing dick grab with anyone, especially not a BigFoot. But then, out of no where, he launched to his feet and sniffed the air.
“My dad's coming! He'll kill you!”
“Because he's that racist?”
“Just fucking go, man! I'll cover your scent.”
And I was “sure, man, whatever...”
And went inside and the phone was ringing. I answered it, all “hello” and shit.
Some sort of scientist from the university introduced himself. Oscar VonDinkelheim, or something German like that. Is Oscar German? Anyway, this guy spoke with an accent like he was German. He kept asking me all sorts of random questions about livestock and rainfall.
“Are you doing some sort of agricultural study?”
“Not exactly.” All evasive. He didn't like it when I asked him questions.
And somehow I just started talking about a Junior. He didn't act like it was weird or anything, or like he didn't believe me. He seemed really interested and he kept asking me to be more specific.
“Ya know, Oscar, I think everyone has the wrong idea. You people keep talking like they're super orangutans and they're not. They're not a missing branch in human evolution; they're from another planet.”
“And how do you think they got here?”
“Their eggs were frozen in a comet that broke apart when it entered orbit.”
We talked for nearly a hour, then Oscar said he'd like to send a team up to do some research.
“Sure, man, whatever...”
And did the nice-talking-to-ya, see-ya-later, blah, blah, blah.
I hung up the phone and the cows were groaning. I looked out my window and there must've been fifty Black Angus pressed up against the fence. I stepped out my back door and made it about halfway to the fence when I felt something buck me from behind. If you'ever been bucked by a goat, it kind of felt like that. I went flying to one side and this big brown blur zoomed by me.
“I thought I told ya to hide.” I recognized Junior's voice, but I couldn't see him.
I never realized that Foots could move so quickly. You always see footage of them lumbering along like a half-retarded bears and that just goes to show you how racist filmmakers can be. Foots are not only smart they can move with wicked Vampire speed.
I sat there on my ass as Father Foot blurred into the south 40. They both stopped dicking around and stood still, staring each other down.
“I won't let you kill them, Dad!”
“Why would I kill them, son?” Father Foot asked in a pretty clear English.
And Junior stood there with his mouth open. “English, Dad? What the hell?”
And Father Foot leaned against a fence post and talked about how he dated this chick from WNBA. He fell for her hard and wanted to have half-breed children with her. She promised to marry him and he promised to learn to play basketball with the kids.
“What happened, Dad?”
“Some French skiier dude came along and she fell for him.”
“And you let her leave with him?”
“Aw, hell, no son. I killed his ass and smoked him into jerky.”
“What about the woman?”
“She tried to tell all of this shit to the police and they thought she was crazy. I think that bitch is still in treatment.”
“And that's why you don't talk to strangers about your feelings,” we said in unison.
That was about the time I woke up.
Last edited by spshane; 05-21-2018 at 04:42 PM..