Short Stories

“A Day in the Life of Dick Burger“

 

All of Richard Burger’s days started the same.

The sun would start to peak through the window he kept forgetting to buy curtains for, illuminating his room in a dusty halo of light. He would choke on a snore, sputter, and roll over, ignoring the day trying to say hello to him before drifting back off.

All of Richard Burger’s days started the same, and no matter how much he tried to ignore it at precisely 11 am the sound of The Descendants would assault his senses, spitting him out of dream land into the real world where he, unfortunately, had to get up for work. He blinked his eyes open disorientedly, trying to figure out where he was and what was happening. He didn’t hit snooze. He never hit snooze. He always just laid there, letting “I’m The One” rattle his skull until it was over. Today was no different. Tomorrow wouldn’t be, either. 

Hauling his body to the bathroom, he flicked on the overhead light, wincing at the obnoxious hum of the fan starting up. Richard’s (Dick to his friends and also to his enemies) body looked like it had seen better days. In truth it had never really seen good days. His limbs were long and thin, disproportionate to his round middle, and as a teenager his pale skin had taken on a pasty, sallow quality that he hadn’t been able to shake off since. He had too much hair growing from his weak excuse of a jaw, and not enough growing from the top of his head. His mom had been nagging him to shave off what was surviving of his limp, overgrown hair. He didn’t like listening to his mom. He grimaced at himself in the mirror and took a piss. 

By 11:30 he was out the door, the ankles of his faded blue jeans dragging along the ground, and his Superman shirt stained in several places he was ignoring and several places he didn’t even know about. He never ate at home. Forgoing having to look in his sad, empty excuse of a fridge meant taking a regular detour to Tim Hortons. A sesame bagel with cream cheese, a BCD, and a large double double. The breakfast of fucking champions. Once he had that skalding hot coffee in his hands he’d be ready to start the day, he was sure of it. 

As per every other day, Dick pulled his rusted white panel van into his parking spot no earlier than 12:01. He had owned Strange Adventures for five years? Six maybe? And not only had he inherited the business from the previous owner, but he had inherited his managerial style as well. Today was a good day. He was almost early. 12:06 - that must’ve been a personal record. Some days he was so late showing up there was almost no point in opening. Other days he wouldn’t even open, he’d just sit in the back room and play Magic the Gathering with a group or regulars he liked enough to unlock the door for. Yesterday had been a MtG day. Today he felt like opening up for the general public. There was only so much alone time he could handle with his regulars before he started to smell like stale pizza, and he didn’t want to live with that again. 

Open was slow. A kid came in to get whatever new issue of Marvel’s current hip-with-the-kids series had just been released. A frantic dad came in wearing a crisp black suit also looking to get whatever new issue of Marvel’s current hip-with-the-kids series had just been released. Whatever. Dick preferred DC. Minutes before 2:30, Dick’s usual close up for lunch time, the bell above the front door jingled. He looked up from the Doom Patrol issue he was reading. Skulking through the front door was Neil, Dick’s least favourite regulars. Dick glared at Neil as much as his emotionally challenged face would let him until he noticed him staring. Neil’s sunkin eyes finally caught Dick’s as he rounded a table.

“Heh. Actually open today Dick?” Neil scratched at a thin wisp of blond hair growing out of his emaciated, pink chin. If Dick’s hair situation was sad, Neil’s was depressing. He’d chopped his hair short a month or so ago, but hadn’t bothered getting it touched up since, and the three hairs that sprouted from the front of his head had started standing straight up like weak little antennas. Neil was a bitch. A major bitch. It was like he was compensating for the fact that his ears took up more space on his face than the rest of his facial features did. 

Dick said nothing. 

Neil shot him a weasley smile and fingered at the hem of his shirt. It was an Avengers shirt with a massive hole in the collar and greying deodorant stains in the armpits. Neil sauntered over to the counter and leaned his long, bony over it, bringing him eye level with Dick. “Still gonna let us play in back?” Neil had that weird stale pizza smell. All the regulars had the smell, but Neil had it the worst. Not even a shower would get rid of it.

Dick shook his head. “No Magic on open days.” 

Neil sighed. “Yeah. Right.” He pushed himself off the counter, knocking over a faded bobblehead of the Misfit’s skull logo from a stack of papers. Dick reached over and picked it up, placing it back on its stack of papers. “You got the new Iron Man comic in?” 

Dick opened up his Doom Patrol comic again. The less he could interact with Neil the better. “Got it yesterday.” 

Neil slunk around the tables in the middle of the shop floor and started leafing through a box full of single issues. “You put it out?”

“Nope.” 

Neil stopped rummaging through the box. “Can you get it for me?”

Dick shook his head. “Come back tomorrow.” 

Neil made a face, something between a grimace and a smile and shuffled out the front door, throwing a wave that was more or less the polite equivalent of a “fuck you.”

With that jackass finally out of the store, Dick locked up for a half hour, sticking the “back in 30” sign on the front door. He wanted fried rice, he wanted orange chicken, he wanted an egg roll, and he wanted to not see Neil again for at least twenty-four hours. 

Dick’s phone buzzed where it lay discarded on the shop counter. Pulling his eyes away from the skinhead rummaging through a box he was currently watching wearily he picked up his phone. A single notification lit up his Android screen. 

3:04 pm - check HMW

It was from Omar. Omar’s texts were the only texts Dick got that he really cared about. He would ignore texts from his mom for days, but not Omar’s. Squinting at the skinhead, gauging how much of a headache he could be if left alone, Dick decided he was probably fine and snuck in back to get his laptop. His laptop was a massive old thing, and when he started it up it would make a wheeze loud enough to rival a chainsaw. He peered over his laptop at the skinhead, sizing up his cuffed jeans, button up shirt, and large black boots. He hated when the skinheads came by. He didn’t care if they were the good kind or the shitty kind. Weird fuckin people. 

He pulled up the front page of Hali-Monster Watch, wincing as his laptop heaved and coughed its way through loading up any new posts. Hali-Monster Watch, or HMW was owned by Omar, and it was the one-stop-shop for info and news on monsters in the city. The site wasn’t regularly accessed by many people, but those who knew knew. As far as Dick knew, he was the only regular reader Omar actually talked to, primarily because he was the only one who would go out and investigate the shit instead of just sitting on some half-rotted cum-couch in their parents basement. There were some weeks where half of Omar’s posts were clips and photos from Dick. 

Omar’s most recent headline finally blinked onto the black background of the website. Static clambered through Dick’s spine and into his brain. 

“Wolfman Spotted in Lower Sackville Park”

The article was short and sweet, no bullshitting opinion pushing. Exactly how Dick liked it. Exactly why Dick started following Hali-Monster Watch in the first place. 

Halifax Police have reported that on April 17th at approximately 4 pm a wolf was seen coming out of the waters of First Lake and onto the beach at Kinsmen Park. There were a number of families at the scene who were all, thankfully, unharmed. The police call was made by one of the adults of one of the families, who wishes to remain anonymous. When interviewed, the parent claimed that the “wolf” was standing well over 6 feet, and appeared to be walking on two legs. The parent further claimed that they doubted the police’s explanation that it was “just a wolf.” With the full moon not for another week, chances of this being a Werewolf encounter are highly unlikely. Evidence suggests what took place was actually a Wolfman sighting. 

Dick scratched at his scruffy chin, eyebrows pinched over his eyes. A Wolfman was news. Big news. Werewolves weren’t super common, but they were at least native to Earth, a part of its ecosystem. Hang around long enough and you’d run into your fair share of Werewolves. Wolfmen, on the other hand, had no business being on Earth. They weren’t from Earth. If he remembered correctly there had been one previous Wolfman sighting on Earth that he had read about in one of his books. When whatever monster hunter caught it finally got it home and dissected the body, it’s physiology was completely… maybe the words “wolf” and “man” weren’t entirely accurate indicators of what it actually was, they were just the closest description the monster hunter could think of. 

What concerned Dick the most was that this Wolfman sighting wasn’t remotely the first or only anomaly sighting Omar had posted about in the past month and a half. It felt like every other week he was posting about some strange sighting that went well beyond the usual vampires, zombies, or werewolves. Just last month a Water Dragon egg had washed ashore at Fisherman's cove, and two weeks ago a Pixie had been spotted by some hikers out in the valley. 

After the Pixie sighting, Omar had started theorizing that because Nova Scotia was a peninsula with heavy boat traffic and water travel it was a prime location for cross-world portals. Other people had theorized before that cross-world portals were more likely to open in high travel areas like the sky or highways. If these theories were correct, then Omar’s idea wasn’t unlikely. What neither Omar or Dick could figure out was why now? Why were there suddenly so many portals popping up now? 

The sound of a throat clearing dragged Dick out of his thoughts and he peered up from the laptop screen. The Skinhead was standing over him at the counter, comic book in hand. He smelled like cigarettes. He was getting cigarette smell all over the copy of V for Vendetta he was holding. Dick slammed his laptop shut, knocking over the Misfits bobblehead. He sighed and righted the bobblehead. “We’re closed.” 

The skinhead slapped the comic onto the counter. “Huh?”

“We. Are. Closed.” Dick said slowly, monotone. He wanted this asshole out of his store. He had more important things to take care of. 

“But your sign says-” 

“Yeah. We’re closing early. Now. Come back tomorrow.” 

The skinhead scoffed, glaring at Dick. “What the hell man.” He slunk out of the store, tugging at his suspenders. “Bitch.” And then he was gone, the cigarette smell leaving with him. The cigarette smell was almost better than the stale pizza smell. Almost. 

Dick stretched, his ratty shirt riding up over his hairy stomach. He had important shit to get done. 

The air at Kinsmen Park hung thick and cold, a soupy mist hanging low over the grass. Dick pulled his Black Flag hoodie tighter around his chest and stared out into the lake, watching the water lick at a small patch of rocky grey sand in front of him. The rather dismal beach was devoid of visitors, left only with the remnants of children playing on nicer days - a hole had been dug in the middle of the sand about half a foot deep and discarded by the tide was a small plastic truck, sandwich bags and energy bar wrappers were strewn around haphazardly. 

Something felt off. Dick was no more than an amateur magic user, but he knew his shit. He was tuned in, and he could feel something was off. It was like electricity was hanging down, sparking and sizzling in spots it shouldn’t be. He felt like he was caught in the moment right before a sneeze, but the sneeze wasn’t going to come. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his hoodie sleeve. Whatever portal had opened up must have left behind some sort of energetic residue, and it was still hanging around. Dick didn’t like it. He pulled out his phone and made a small note. If portals were leaving energetic residue behind, there might be some way to track when or where they might crop up next. He’d text Omar about it later. 

Wandering out onto the sand, the feeling encroaching on Dick’s skull grew stronger, leaving smudged aura spots in his vision. He wasn’t going to be able to stick around for long. Shuffling closer to the water he noticed a trail of paw prints. They were starting to fade with the mist, but even with their edges starting to disappear Dick could tell they were massive, surpassing the size of any large dog. Following them with his eyes they led to the shoreline, seeming to rise out of the water. The tide was lapping up the remnants of the few remaining on the wet sand. Taking his phone back out he approached the paw prints cautiously and took a few quick photos. The trail led all the way up the beach where it stopped at the grass a few feet off from where Dick had been standing. From there they disappeared. If he was lucky, and he hoped he was, the Wolfman would be long gone by now, having wandered off into the surrounding wooded areas. He had come equipped with his loaded, ratty backpack just in case (he never went investigating without a loaded tranquilizer gun, a pocket knife, and a spell book), but this creature seemed massive, beyond something he could handle. 

Dick sneezed. The energetic residue was turning the air syrupy and pressure was starting to build behind his sunken eyes. The energetic migraine was starting to throb, making his stomach twist uncomfortably. He sneezed again and hauled his damp and cold body over to a gravel path turning off into a mass of dripping green trees. He had parked his van a few minutes down the path at the parking lot of a high school. He figured the further away he was parked from the park the better, the more inconspicuous. In reality his beat up old panel van parked at a high school was probably the most suspicious thing he could have done. Oh fuckin well.

The further along the path he got the more the headache started to fade, crawling back into the recesses of his sinuses. It was only 4pm. If he wanted he could drive back to the store and open it up for a couple hours. Fuck that, he knew that wasn’t happening. He walked up a short, steep side path and emerged finally clear headed into the parking lot. He unlocked his precious van, chucked his backpack in the back, and piled into the driver's seat. He grabbed his phone from his pants pocket and quickly texted Omar the pictures he had taken with a short text. 

4:10 pm - portal left behind some energy. feels like shit. whole beach area seems affected. 

He pulled out of the parking lot and into a back road that ran parallel to the wooded path he had just been stumbling around on. He truly did not want to be back near the path, but it was going to save him the time of getting stuck at least one of the stop lights as rush hour traffic began. As he got closer to being back by the beach the headache started to itch at his temples again. He tasted metal, and the roof of his mouth had started tingling. Pushing his foot down on the gas he pinched the bridge of his nose just below his glasses. He couldn’t get out of the park fast enough. 

Up ahead of him, almost unnoticeable, the trees separating the path from the road began to rustle. It could’ve been a trick of the fog, or it could’ve been the headache. He pulled his hand away from his face and slowed the car to a crawl, slowed it until he was barely moving, slowed it until the engine was nothing more than a dull rumble. And then he saw it. 

Fuck this. 

Absolutely fuck this. 

It emerged from the trees, its hulking, furry body hunched at its broad, solid shoulders. It was fucking huge, bigger than any human, any werewolf Dick had encountered. Its grey snout was pulled back into a wrinkled, drooling snarl, its pointed ears flattened against the back of its wide, flat head. As Dick’s brain started to boot up into fight or flight he noticed the creature was naked, and a large penis was hanging between its massive legs, like a small, hairy tree trunk. 

“What the fuck.”

And then it was charging at the van. The van shuttered with each of its loping, heavy steps, the doors rattling on their hinges. It was going to crash right through the fucking windshield. 

Dick felt every nerve and muscle in his body kick into gear - neurons firing and limbs twitching into terrified action. He needed to get out of the van now. He slammed the drivers side door open and dove out of the car seconds before the Wolfman’s hulking body collided with the van. The front bumper folded inward, crumbling like paper, and the windshield shattered, showering the surrounding nature with shards of class. The whole vehicle skidded backward at least a foot if not more, tipping backwards and teetering for a moment before slamming back down. The Wolfman was tangled in the wreckage, limbs sticking out on the remains of the windshield at odd angles. Its body heaved, massive clawed fingers grasping at glass shards and metal.

Dick scrambled to his feet, feeling somewhere distant in his body a raw sharpness in his knees, shins, and hands. Wet gravel and foliage coated his jeans and sweater. 

He ran. 

He ran down the road and towards the park. His tranquilizer gun and pocket knife were long gone in whatever was left of his crumpled van, and no matter how hard he pushed his body he knew outrunning the Wolfman was impossible. If he got lucky he’d be able to cut through the park into the suburbs where hopefully the Wolfman wouldn’t follow. Rounding the corner into the park he tried desperately to ignore the muscles burning in his legs. Every breath he took was coming out in a shuttering wheeze. He was fucked. Pounding stomps had started up behind him and they were getting louder, the shake of the earth was getting closer. Dick hit the beach and skidded to a clumsy stop, his arms flailing for balance. He turned, trying to catch what he could of his breath as he stared at the Wolfman charging toward him. He knew spells. He knew that he knew at least five. He could only think of bonfire. Bonfire was useless. The smell of wet, bloody fur and stinking saliva hit his nose as the Wolfman closed in on him. Bonfire would have to do. 

The plastic truck to Dick’s left erupted into flames.

He sprinted to the side at the very last minute, leaving the Wolfman to stomp into the water, giant splashes shooting up around it. Dick had at least twenty seconds while the Wolfman reoriented itself. He tried bonfire again, trying to will himself to concentrate. This time the spell hit its target. The tips of the Wolfman’s ears sparked and smoked, and it yelped, swatting at the small tufts of fire. 

Dick didn’t know where to turn. His lungs ached and his legs ached and the pounding migraine was starting to blot out his vision. He turned, and with what strength he had left he made a dash for the suburbs at the very top of the park. He just had to cut through the grass and pass the abandoned yellow playground. He could make it. 

As he hit the grass the migraine split across his face and into his jaw. His vision shot white and he stumbled, collapsing into the ground. This is where he died. He felt the Chinese food he had for lunch climb up his throat and out his mouth as the ground rushed up to meet him. His knees hit first, slamming against the earth, followed by his pelvis, and then his face. Pain spread across his body, and he could feel his glasses crumble underneath his cheek. He panted, waiting for the Wolfman to rip his limbs apart. But it didn’t. The ground wasn’t vibrating, and the sound of the heavy footsteps was gone. He laid still for maybe an hour, maybe twenty minutes. The taste of vomit soured in his mouth. Sitting up finally, he spit into the grass and picked up what was left of his glasses. Fuck. He rubbed the dirt and glass shards off his cheek, feeling a tender spot firming up under his eye. It was quiet. Oddly quiet. He looked into the sunny sky and squinted. 

Last time he had checked, Earth didn’t have a purple planet visible in the sky during the day. 

He felt his lunch start to rise in his throat again. A portal had opened up. He had fallen through a portal. 

Where the fuck was he?

“This Side of Growing Up“

Getting punched in the face doesn’t hurt immediately. What strikes you first is the impact; your head snapping back, unfamiliar localized pressure, the dissociated notion of “oh I’ve been hit.” You try to find your footing and suddenly you taste metal and salt and “oh fuck I’ve been hit” and some ancient survival instinct tells you to get out. Now. 

And then it starts to hurt. 

You clutch a hand over your mouth as the stinging catches up. One of your lip piercings clatters against your bottom teeth and under your tongue. That’s not where it should be. By the time your friend grabs your arm and drags you through masses of blurred thrashing faces and strobing lights, the stud is no longer in your mouth. You don’t know where it went. You don’t know if you care. 

You hit the stairs and lean against the wall, hobbling your way down - too fast, not fast enough, you just have to stay upright. You pull a hand away from your mouth, blink at your fingerless gloves. Blood. You show your friend. You’re breathing heavy. Heavier than you need to be. You’ve forgotten how else to breathe. Adrenaline and cortisol has hit your body but your gin soaked brain hasn’t caught up yet. 

“You’re ok. You’re ok.” Your friend says.

You are decidedly not ok. 

Your lip fucking kills. It’s tight, suddenly taking up too much of your face, and what’s left of your second lip stud has wedged into puffy, raw skin. Strips of flesh are catching on your bottom teeth. 

“Let’s get you to a bathroom.”

You nod. You stumble down the hallway, trembling legs moving quicker than your feet, and flounder into the crowded bathroom. Your friend doesn’t follow. The bathrooms aren’t gendered, there’s no signs on the doors. But they kind of are. This one has the urinals and drunk men and the overbearing smell of dehydrated piss. You lean against the damp sink and spit. Red against the stark white sliding down the drain. You stare into a smudged mirror, not quite able to focus on your face. You have to look in your mouth. Your fuzzed out brain reminds you that germs. Germs exist. Don’t stick your germy hands in your mouth. 

“Hey man, you ok?” A guy siddles up beside you. He’s short, your height. Maybe shorter. Sleeveless shirt. Goggles on his forehead. A mullet. His eyes are dark and clear. 

You shrug. You’re starting to breathe heavy again. You keep pumping the soap dispenser but it won’t dispense any soap. Your piercing is gone. You’re bleeding. You’ve never been punched before. You’ve been punched. Fuck. “I got punched.”

The guy gently grabs your arm and pulls it away from the soap dispenser. “Hey. You’re ok. Let me take a look.” 

You peel back your bottom lip, ignoring the part of your brain slurring about the germs. The germs. The guy looks, wincing in his eyes.

“I’m gonna be honest, it doesn't look too good. 

You spit into the sink again. More blood. Fuck. 

“My fuckin’ piercing is gone.” You say. It doesn’t solve anything. 

“That fuckin’ sucks.” The guy replies. It also doesn’t solve anything. He stares at your lip again and you pull it back down. “Get that second one taken out. It’ll be fine for a day, but not much longer.”

Yeah. Yeah. That’s smart. 

“Here.” He pulls some paper towel from the dispenser and runs it under cold water. Streaks of your blood swirls its way around and down the drain, gone. “Wipe yourself up and keep it on your lip for pressure. It looks rough, but you’ll be fine once the bleeding stops.”

You do what the guy tells you. He’s short and has cool goggles. He’s gentle. You like him. He asks your name, you ask his. It’s hard to talk with paper towel hanging out of your mouth. You shake hands. He gives your shoulder a squeeze, tells you he’s heading back upstairs, tells you to get your friends to walk you home, tells you you’ll be ok. 

And then it’s you, staring at your face in the mirror. You can hear the squeal of guitars and pounding of bass coming through the ceiling. You spit in the sink. Less blood. Mostly saliva. At least you've still got all your teeth. Some plastered jock pisses at the urinal, barely keeping upright. He leaves without washing his hands. 

Your friends walk you home. As you leave the venue in a haze of second hand cigarette smoke you see the hot goth guy you’ve been eyeing since New Years Eve. Riding a high of adrenaline, pain, and gin you tell him you think he’s hot. He blows you a kiss, cigarette hanging between his fingers. Two months later you drunkenly ask him out over text. Two months later you drunkenly find out he has a girlfriend. Two months later you respond politely and slip your phone back into your pocket and take a sip of your gin and tonic because you don’t care, not the way you would have three months ago. A year ago. Maybe you should get punched more often.