Brawl in the hall

The warewolfe was nearly 8 feet tall. It had the build of a 80's action movie hero.  

I was a 5ft8 jackass struggling on a hospital hallway floor tied up in my EKG's wiers in my own Johnny. 

The thing was making a shrill whining noise. It was shaking. Was it choking? could it not breath? It bent over A hissing whistling sound coming from its nose in stuttered tandem with the shaking whine. 

it sounded like someone letting air out of a balloon in  small deliberate bursts. Then It ... It... Slapped its knee? Was this thing fucking laughing?

It was! Apparently it found my desperate painkiller induced finger gun hilarious.

"Are you going to sit there and cackle all day?" I hissed.  

The jacked up hair ball laughed harder 

"Come the fuck on" I barked 

It looked like it was going to Shake Apart.

"WTF"?!?! 

It extended a large hairy hand. I took it and was effortlessly lifted off the ground and with a bit of Thoughtful steadying was flat in my feet. 

"What's this all about" I asked

It Motioned to a meeting room behind us if the nurses hadn't come during the strugle not much chance of them showing up now, but I obliged him all the same.

It spoke.

"I do not want to wake up any sick humans" 

"That's mighty fine of ya but..."

"My name is Boby" he interrupted 

"My name is.." 

"Dynamo Marz" it interrupted again "monster hunter. The tribes call you the Executioner" 

"Yea well..." 

"I saw you from my room. My human form was taken to this hospital when I was found unconscious by the side of the Road. I thought you were here to destroy me but now I see your just sick"

"Heck, what gave it away"

"Please except my apology" he said holding out his hand "I was frightend and ment no harm" 

I took its big fury mitt. My hand looked like a babies in it. 

"Are you hurt" Boby asked suddenly very concerned. 

"Nah" I Lide. I felt a bruise forming on my back.

"Can I help you back to your room?"

"Sure but you better turn back". 

He stiffened with irritation

"This-is- back" he said with a growl. 

"You know what I mean" 

I looked at me I couldn't tell if it was thoughtful you or inquisitively. He was more way more vulnerable in his human form. Was he wondering if this was a trap or pondering how to handle my basic insensitive human comment.

"I'm sorry. I ment no disrespect and I won't hurt ya. I reckon you do owe me a coke" 

"I did tackle you"

"You did" 

He asked me to wait outside and I heard typical gross stretching and could portions shape shifter changeing forms. A naked 50 year old walked into the hall he looked like Chris Christopherson with Arnolds body. 

Boby made an apologetic gesture Towteds his nakid self. it was obvious he didn't know what to say

"S'ok. You ain't the first nudie old timer warewolfe I've seen" 

We started towards my room

"You said they found ya by the side of The road. semi? Hunter?"

Boby shifted his face contorted uncomfortably.

"Turf thing" ?

"I'm almost 200 my body is Turning on me. I must learn I can't enjoy life Lin the same ways I once did"

I looked at him trying to be poilite but my shitty poker face musta betrayed my cluelessness.

" I enjoy sweets. I consumed to much I..I.. Have sugar diseas. Your people call it"

"Diabetes?"

"You have diabetes?" 

Yes

"Ya know Boby I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship" 

Monster hunting class

Of all the monsters werewolves and Lycathrops in general are the most historically in cinematically accurate. There are a few different kinds of classes Class ones are most common. 

Class one Lycathrops are creatures that turn into large bipedal half human half animal hybrids. 

Theses humanoid creatures are the bruisers of the monster community. Huge and savage. Traditionally Class ones lack the finesse of other class one monsters  in different species. 

They tend to be bullies and very in your face. allowing the birste side to overtake the human emotions with primal urges and animal instinct. They don't have the long life spans. 

Class  ones come in every species imaginable. Wolves and dogs every feline species i've even heard of weresharks (nightmares much?)  

They have a severe silver alergy even diluted silver or things that are coated in silver will be highly irritating and potential he dangerous to them.

The older the better. In fact the Sulfur in tarnished or aged silver (see brimstone) it's pretty much a game ender for werethings.

And now ya know and knowing is.. Well knowing. 

F Is for.... Well ya know.

I was dead. 

The thing had me right were it wanted me. 

I had medical equipment warped all around my legs. I was laying on wiers so when I tried to roll over I got stuck 1/2 way. I was a mess.

The werwolf growled. 

I did the only thing I could do 

The only thing that came to mind 

I pointed my finger like a gun and said "pow" 

Then the Thing Coked it head opend it's mouth and made the craziest sound I ever heard.  

W(are wolf) T (rouble) F (ight)

Palm strike Jab jab Eye poke

The Classic Dynamo separation technique. The type of stuff muscle memory kicks in. The Type of stuff that Will give you'd some space no matter what species is invading your personal territory.

I was up in a flash. 

The beast fusght back a growl but it took his whole body keep in. 

Show down time.

Rewind time.

My brain was back to Dynamo speed but my body was not cooperateing. 

In my head I was up and ready to fight in real life I was in my back with a hole in my neck tangled in medical equipment 

Fuck  

Doctor Doctor told me the newz

I got a little bit of sleep at woke up to a doctor in my room around 11AM giving me the 411.  They wanted to move me to the university campus, to which to my delusional poisoned state, I told them the university campus could go pleasure a syphilis ridden donkey. 

Either because they were afraid or relived that I really didn’t want to go back, they started to make arraingements to do the procecdure there.  The cyst in my throat I had spoken about in a prior installment had become infected and caused an abcess.  They swelling in my neck was a big ball of poison which according to the test had slowly started to leak and left me poisoned. 

The first part of the procedure consisted of essentially slitting my throat, tearing it open, and letting as much poison as they possibly could drain out.  Then, I would have a few weeks of recuperation with my neck as open as my fly generally is; healing open so all the poison could leak out.  It was fairly scary but not quite as scary part 2, which consisted of re-opening my throat after it healed and cleaned up, and cutting the cyst off of my voice box.  Even if this went perfect, they still had to move a lot of stuff I need to use to do what I do to get at my voice box-things like my tongue and my vocal chords.  And while they were confident that I would bounce back, after I healed and had a few months of therapy, I didn’t share their confidence. 

I felt like fate was trying to send me a message.  The Lucky Dog closed, our recent financial woes, and the clone debacle that left me ill and immune compromised and was beyond the shadow of a doubt the reason I found myself in the situation I was in. 

Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I am stubborn.  I’d never call it quits on my own accord.  But if I couldn’t sing, wasn’t well enough to move, couldn’t afford to set up a show, and didn’t have a place to play, I really didn’t have a choice.  I tried to push those thoughts of out my head, but it didn’t work.  I tried to think of all of the people that would be hurt, both as a fan and a potential victim that hunt the night, if the Twilight Society packed up and called it quits.  That didn’t work either.  I thought of all the people who were going to be excited about it, my enemies, my detractors, people who just didn’t like me.  People who had a reason to not like me, and people who didn’t like me because they were just on the wrong side of our brand of right.  And there was a spark.  Like the fluttering erection of a 90 year old man remembering his past pornographic preferences, something small and weak stirred in me when I thought of how many people would be happy if I left this hospital for the crypt. 

After thinking about it for a few minutes, I was up and pacing the halls of the hospital, dragging about 300lbs of medical equipment on that crazy medical coat rack that beeped and buzzed.  It’s amazing that anyone slept in the hospital.  I was going to fight like hell.  Maybe my motives were backwards, but never let it be said that Mrs. Mars’ Elvis boy wouldn’t go to great lengths to irritate people.

Dance of the dead

As I wanderd the hospital halls I was in some strange painkiller indused euphoria.

I wanted to stand upright and shout to the mountaintops but I knew that would bring the nurseSTAPO down on me but I couldn't be there to let this moment of extensional victory go celebrationless, so I did the best Charlston my Week  body could muster.

I sat there under the unforgiving fluorescent lights with my ass hanging out the back of my Johnny dancing! My Charlston  turned into a jitterbug and Iwhispered  the only appropriate song I knew for such for such bombastic moves. I was in second verse of the Chattanooga choo-choo when I heard a strange scraping noise behind me.

I turned just in time to get sacked by a werewolf.

The End of an era part 1

The Deadites have been having their Halloween Extravaganza for about 12 or 15 years (my memory ain’t so good).  Without going into a lot of details that aren’t mine to give, Lucky Dog Owner, former rival, and now dear friend Erik Godin had decided to sell the place.  There was the possibility at one point that the Halloween Extravaganza was going to be the last show under Old Man Godin’s management.  A little further down the line, I was told that we might the first big grand opening show under the new management regime.  I was a little nervous about that all along.

As promoters, Myra and I have had a couple of options; wait and find out what happens, which possibly leaves us without a place to play for Halloween if things go pear shaped.  Or try to shop the show to another club which in reality was probably the smart play.  We are worth a lot more as a fairly reliable band that is leaving its current home base under their own volition.  As opposed to a band that scrambling to find a new place to hold their most important show of the year.  Despite Myra’s opinion to the contrary my loyalty (see: fucking idiot).  I decided to wait and see what happened with the Lucky Dog.  The main problem was that between money exchanged, contracts being signed and licenses being distubted, there was a chance the club would not be re-opened in time to have the show.  All I asked for was a call or a text the moment it became mathematically impossible for the club to be open in time.  At 1am as I lay in the UMASS emergency room, I got a text that said “it’s mathematically impossible.  The club will not be open in time.”

Take me To The hospital

By 9pm I felt about as bad as I’ve ever felt, and that’s saying something.  I walked into UMASS University Campus and was excited to see the emergency room was mostly empty.  I sat down in front of a grumpy old lady who barely stopped condescending and barking orders at the younger lady she was training to take my information.  After she took my info she said matter of factly, like it’s the type of thing you say to someone in the emergency room that has swallowed a football, “Ok.  It’s about a three hour wait.” 

I kindly told her that I could sit at home for three hours.  And, no offense to her, there is a hot lawyer with a hint of a British accent.  If it was going to be three hours, I would rather just be home.  She informed me that my insurance would be charged all the same because she took my information. 

This both angered and confused me.  A) it’s ridiculous that you charge someone for just having them recite your name and address to them.  B)  I had not the slightest idea I had insurance.  What kind of god damned maniac would insure the kind of job that I had?  At the time, I couldn’t imagine what smooth operate conned some insurance company to make that happen.  In retrospect, I think I know who it was.  So remind me to thank that lawyer I was talking about earlier.

Before I could protest any more, she stood up and started pointing at each person in turn and telling me how long they had been there like she was pantomiming a massacre.  “And you’ve only been here for five minutes,” she said, ending on me.  I realize now with what I do for a job and how she looked and was acting if I had driven a steak in her heart right there and then not only would nobody had blamed me, but I probably would have got away with it.

I decided to go to the hospital down the street in the not quite as good part of town.  It turned out to be the right play.  I was admitted into the emergency room and into a screening room before my special lady friend could park the car.  That’s when the news got even more lousy.

By 10:30 I had a bunch of blood tests, a CAT scan, and impressive amount of pain killers and had proposed to my attending nurse around 11 times.  I slept for a little while and was woken up around 5am to the news that I was being admitted.

There was a cyst that a lot of people get in their throat.  It’s in a spot in between your tongue and your voice box and people can live their whole lives with it unless it gets infected.  And mine got infected. 

Fixing it would be easy enough in theory.  The doctor made an off-handed joke, “you will be good to go in a couple of days and it won’t affect you at all, unless you’re a radio deejay or a singer.”  Everything he said after that was pretty much pops and buzzes.  They moved me to my room shortly after and I sat up all night contemplating if it was even worth not being sick.

Monster hunting School: Class 1 Zombies

I interrupt this exciting tale of my imminent and exaggerated demise to give you a little bit of book learning.  There are eight sub classes of what people commonly know as zombies.  The most common one is Class Ones, AKA shamblers.  Shamblers are generally resurrected by some sort of chemical accident or scientific misadventure.  For a pop culture point of reference, George Romero zombies and the zombies in that TV show you are all so crazy about are shamblers.  They are not very dangerous unless you encounter a bunch of them.  Even then someone with a bit of combat training has a pretty good chance of making it out of a jam if they are careful. 

Much like in the movies you dispose of Class Ones by destroying the brain.  Either blunt force trauma or a good old bullet to the head will put one down lickety split.  So now you know.  And knowing is half the battle, except for the 100 years of training experience and knowledge.  Now that I think of it, knowing probably won’t help you so much at all.

#LongWeekalmostend

I spoke with the nice detective for about an hour.  I felt a lump and a tightness in my throat.  I had assumed the tightness was just a nerve thing.  He had just dropped an atomic bomb on my life that made me question and doubt everything I had believed in.  I thought I had put this nightmare behind me, but he had enough evidence to prove that I had not.  In fact, he had enough evidence to give me a brand new bunch of nightmares.

We parted ways.  I went to Boston the next afternoon to clear out a shambler infestation inside and around one of the prestigious hospitals of the area.  By the time I got back to my hotel room, my throat hurt. 

I went home and stopped in our medical unit.  Doctor Light ran all the tests and come to the conclusion that my pre-existing situation had somehow damaged my thyroid.  By Friday night, my throat was pretty uncomfortable.  It didn’t necessarily hurt; but it was so swollen and uncomfortable that I began to spray it with spray ice. 

The next day was the trick or treat radio cookout.  I had a wonderful day full of great food, amazing people, and lots of booze-for everyone but me anyway.  I was outrageously uncomfortable. 

Sunday me and Tiny dealt with a small pocket of berserker vampires.  I was almost vampire chow.  I was so completely distracted and off my game that I probably almost shot Tiny as many times as I hit a vampire.  I went home and with the help of a bunch of Ativan and a little bit of rum, slept through the rest of the day.

I don’t even remember what Monday consisted of.  I left long enough to ride shotgun with Round Trip Jones in a case that he was working on, but I think I slept most of the time.  By the time we pulled into the garage, I knew I had to go to the hospital.  My throat looked awful and felt worse.  I was light headed. 

That’s when I got my second surprise of the weekend-I arrived home to find someone had horribly vandalized my apartment.  They destroyed hundreds of dollars of blu rays, both of my lap tops and a special collection of comics I had been collecting over the last few years.  But most terribly still whoever these monsters were, they tried to kill my fish.  The tank looked like it was full of milk.  Whatever they had dumped in there was reacting horribly with the sustaining chemicals in the water.  It smelled like vodka.  I ended up doing what I needed to do to make sure Frankenstein the betta was ok (ok as I could any way).  I didn’t want to leave; anyone that knows me knows that I was more concerned with my little buddy’s well-being my own.  My special lady friend pretty much forced me to go, and it’s a good thing for the minority of people who like me, a bad thing for the majority of people who don’t (and I’m undecided).  I had no idea how sick I was.

Wake up its time to (wish you had) Die(d)

I had been down for the better part of the day and woke to a real life Texas Ranger in my room.

"You are"?  I asked putting on my best snooty dignitary voice. I don't know why I was feeling so damn chipper; I was just given a death sentence. I had been poisoned by an insane lunatic super fan. The poison had been tricky. It was an ugly mix of arcane alchemy and state of the art biology and jet black magic. Silica and Oracle put their collective smarts together and created a treatment that involved many incantations and simultaneously removing and replacing all the blood in this lump of shit I call a body. Strangely is exactly what the bad guy had anticipated. The poison was introduced into my blood stream via laced bayonet. It got into my bloodstream and knock the shit out of my immune system. When the blood was removed the crafty little phantom assassin leached into my bones, my organs and my husk. It was in every inch of me. Worst still the more I'd did the worse it got. Even my diet was potentially feeding it. If eating a bowl of cereal was going to knock me out fighting a werewolf would put me in a coma.

I passed out at the pig farm and woke up in the lab. The big brains ran a battery of tests on me. Once they knew "it" was still living in me it was easy enough to pick out analyze and and figure out it's MO. Unfortunately isolating and removing it was another problem altogether. When today, tomorrow and yesterdays smartest man around tells you " The science is way beyond him" your brain automatically translates it to terms that directly apply to you as "you're fucked, kid" and I was.

Stasis was the best idea he had beyond that. They could analyze it and I couldn't do less than suspended animation. If it fed off of my and my energy then maybe we could starve it out. I thought about it. I really did, but I'd rather be out fighting the good fight letting this thing eat away at me than to kick it Walt Disney style wile my friends are out fighting for the night. But now that I say that out Loud..... I wonder if I am a idiot.

They broke my quality-of-life  in addition to training me. It was also raising up all the stuff that I didn't want: high blood-pressure, my glucose etc. etc. etc..

Things I can do for any length of time without getting tired: nothing

Things I can eat without putting myself in danger of diabetic stroke, plain ol' regular stroke or heart attack: nothing

Amount of wiggle room I have to get an infection and not get killed by a common cold or have my limbs amputated due to infection: zero

The man in my room stood quiet for minute after my cinematic rant. He looked confused, not scared, but confused. He held out his hand and introduced him self as " detective Dale Palmer" I remembered who he was right away. I got a message from him a little bit before we left for the pig farm. He said he was returning my call. Only only problem is I didn't and don't remember why I called him or calling him at all. Directly after I got poisoned there were some blank spots I'd wake up from my coma get up do you a whole episode of Trick or Treat Radio and go lay down like nothing happened and having zero memory of anything happening. I'm guessing I called him sometime during that time, but why?

Without any more small talk he handed me a small manila file and like the idiot I am I opened it.  My heart jumped into my throat and dropped into my stomach like the weight on one of those carnival strong man games. The skinny peewee that had become my soul could swing the hammer as hard as he could to try to make my heart jump where belongs but instead it just sat in my nauseated stomach bobbing around like a severed booey in the ocean.

These pictures were a message. Confirmation of the fact that my past was not going to let me ride off into the great unknown quietly and in peace. My past was going to try to rush me into the grave as fast and as best it could and whether did it by stress or tearing me limb from limb was a detail it was entirely indifferent to.

On Sun, Aug 30, 2015 at 3:46 PM, Mike Mars <michaelmarsjr@gmail.com> wrote:

monday, August 31 blog

I have been down for the better part of the day And awoken to a real life Texas Ranger in my room.

"You are"?  I asked putting on my best sooty dignitary voice. I don't know why I was feeling so damn chipper I was just given a death sentence. I had been poisoned by a Insane lunatic super fan. the poison had been tricky. It was a ugly mix of arcane alchemy and state of the art biology and jet black magic. Silica and Orical put their collective smarts together and Created a treatment that involved many incantations and simultaneously removing and replacing all the blood in this lump of shit I call a body. Strangely is exactly what The bad guy had anticipated. The Poison was introduced into my blood stream via laced bayonet. Got into my breads bloodstream and knock the shit out of my immune system. When the blood was removed the crafty little phantom assassin leached onto my bones my organs my bones my husk. It was in every inch of me. Worst still the more I'd did the worst it got. Even my diet was potentially feeding it. If eating a bowl of cereal was going to knock me out fighting a warwolf would put me in a comma.

I passed out at the pig farm and woke up in the lab. the big brains ran A battery of tests on me. Once they new "it" was still living in me it was easy enough to pick out analyze and and figure out it's MO. Unfortunately isolating and removing it was another problem altogether. When today tomorrow and yesterdays smartest man around tells you " The science is way beyond him" your brain automatically translates it to terms to  that directly apply to you "you're fucked kid" and I was.

Stasis was the best idea he had beyond that. They could analyze it and I couldn't do less then suspended animation of it fed off my and my energy then maybe we could starve it out. I thought about it, I really did but I'd rather be out fighting the good fight letting this thing eat away at me then let kick it Walt Disney style wile my friends are out fighting for the night. But now that I say that out Loud..... I wonder if I am a idiot.

They broke my quality-of-life of life in addition to training me it was also raising up all the stuff that I didn't want high. I blood-pressure my glucose etc. etc. etc..

Things I can do for any length of time without getting tired:  nothing

things I can eat without putting myself in danger of diabetic stroke Plano ol regular stroke heart attack: nothing

Amount of wiggle room I have to get an infection and not get killed by a common cold or have my limbs amputated due to infection: zero

The man in my room stood quiet for minute after my cinematic rant. He looked confused not scared but but confused. He held out his hand and introduced him self as " detective Dale Palmer" I remember who he was right away. I got a message from him A little bit before we left for the pig farm. He said he was returning my call,  Only only problem is I didn't and don't remember why I called him or calling him at all. Directly after I got poisoned there were some blank spots I'd wake up from my coma get up do you a whole episode of trick or treat  radio and go laydown like nothing happened having zero memory of anything happen. I'm guessing I called him sometime during that time but why?

Without any more Smalltalk hr handed me a small manila file and like the Idiot I am I opened it.  My heart jumped into my throat and dropped into my stomach like the weight on one of those carnival strong man games strongman Man games. The skinny peewee that have become my soul swing the hammer as hard as you could to try to make my heart jumped where belongs but instead of just sat in my nausea stomach probably around like a severed bowie in the ocean.

These pictures what a message. Confirmation of the fact that my past was not going to let me ride off into the great unknown quietly and in peace. My Past was going to try to rush me into the grave fast and best it could and whether did it by stress or Tearing me limb from limb was a detail it was entirely indifferent to.