The Hanover Papers
by Jeffrey Hollar
I would like to start off by acknowledging that I have no idea who may be reading this or, for that matter why, but it’s my story and you’re welcome to come along for the ride. Please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times and for safety’s sake, best not to feed any of the animals you see along the way. To be perfectly honest with you, I’m not exactly sure why I’m writing this myself. Maybe it’s so that the next time that it’s in the wee hours of the night and my Weird Shit-o-Meter is pegging in the red, then I can comfort myself with the sure and certain knowledge that somebody, somewhere has a slightly better understanding of how things work in my freaky little corner of the universe.
I am hardly what one might call much of a writer or skilled, in any way, in things literary so I consulted with a colleague of mine, Benny, who informed me that I should employ something called the “expository process” at this juncture. As near as I was able to understand, that means that this is the part where I draw your attention by telling you about me. Okay, seems simple enough I suppose. But, as time and patience will show you, ain’t jack shit that is simple in MY world.
So, here goes nothing. My name, gentle readers, is Fuzzy…Fuzzy Hanover. There you go see! It’s a simple declaratory statement that, I’ll wager, already has some of you confused. So, let’s take this slowly and see where we wind up. Read it again…again…good. Did you notice that I didn’t say, “People call me Fuzzy” or “I go by the nickname Fuzzy”?? Right, see? I said that my name IS Fuzzy. This is when most of you will be wondering what kind of goofy-assed set of breeders saddles a kid with a name like Fuzzy? The simple answer is this: I was named, not by the agreement of two parents, but solely by my mother. Throughout the course of this project, we will speak often, and at great lengths, of my mother but, for now, I will give you just a brief glimpse of her and then move on to matters more germane.
As a very young boy, I posed the same question to my mother as you have. Why Fuzzy? Since I’m not (fuzzy that is). In the typical fashion that I would become accustomed to over my formative years, she looked me square in the eye and informed me that it simply WAS my name. If I had any issues or concerns with the name, she said, those should have been brought up, by me, and addressed when the name was given. She maintained that, by virtue of my not having said anything at that point in time, that I had affirmed my agreement with her choice and ‘nuff said. That’s my mom!
As regards my dad, things get a bit more complicated. I will pause here for a second to let those of you who are reading this who think that things are already complicated catch your breath. There…feeling better? Well, not inclined to wait on you all day, so onward we go. I never met my father. Again, at an early age, I queried mom regarding his whereabouts and she again, in her unique manner, fielded my questions. She began by reminding me that, in spite of the fact that we shared a close personal relationship and had some history together, it was really NOT my place to be mucking about in her private life. She assured me that while she was quite fond of me that I should NOT assume that said fondness gave me any special access to her entire life’s history. After securing my sincere apology for my temerity, she proceeded to inform me that my father was a demon. THIS is that way cool moment when I get to yell “So there!!” to you previously-mentioned folks who mistakenly believed that things were already complicated. Face it, I gotcha! Yes, you read it right…a demon.
Details beyond the fact that dad was a demon are, sadly, more than a bit sketchy. Mom only told the story once and, to be fair to her, I really wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been to what she was saying. The whole “Your dad is a demon” thing kinda stripped my gears you know. She spoke of being on Spring Break (odd since mom never attended college). She spoke of young love and of her initial discomfort upon discovering that her hunky guy was, in point of fact, an infernal being. She waxed nostalgic as she recalled their torrid, albeit brief, period of intimacy and finally ended the tale with dad’s decision to return home to work in the family business. She wept, recalling her first realization that she was pregnant, her feelings of loneliness and well, yes, her eventual realization that she was carrying demon spawn inside of her. Drying her eyes, she told me that, apart from the occasional postcard, she had only had contact with my father one time since my birth.
She said he had appeared at her bedside at the stroke of midnight (hackneyed cliché I know) on the night of my birth. He cradled me in his hot, scaly embrace and used one of his claws to inscribe three mystic symbols on the back of my neck before vanishing in a sulfurous billow of smoke. In a rare showing of her largesse, mom confided that one of the postcards she had received was a brief apology on dad’s part for having vanished before handing me back to her. She assured me that it was the consensus of several physicians that I had suffered no permanent cranial damage as a result of the fall and that she was, justifiably, proud of her little man’s demonstrated ability to take a good shot to the head. So there, friends and others, is a brief exposure to my folks.
I’m sure the more adventurous of you are asking, at this point, what exactly does it mean for a guy to be Demonborn? For what it’s worth, I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn whether any of you are asking that or not. It is, so Benny has informed me, what is called a “plot device”. Now, in my experience, a plot device is most commonly a shovel but I have learned to trust Benny on matters of esoteric eggheaded-ness.
To explain what it means to be Demonborn necessitates starting off bass ackwards and clarifying what it does NOT mean to be Demonborn. Firstly, one (meaning YOU) needs to toss all of that Hollywood/TV bullshit right on out the window. If you can, somehow, manage to toss it out the window into the deepest fucking gorge ever known to man, that would be even better. What those celluloid jackasses known about things demonic is exactly this…nothing! I do NOT have weirdly-colored skin and spend all of my time either sharpening or hand-sanding my horns. My skin tone does tend to stay a golden tan and I do have about half a mile of forehead but nothing to make people aware I am of demonic origin. I do NOT eat (or have any interest in eating) babies or children. My diet consists mainly of malt liquor and various microwaveable delicacies. Side bar here peoples, this goes out to the pinheads responsible for those TV networks devoted to trying to spoon feed useless information to others: the single most wondrous accomplishment of the 20th century was NOT electricity or some such shit. It was, quite simply, the invention of tasty microwaveable food items. Well, and as an extension of that, the microwave itself. And to those of you about to point out that without electricity…fuck off! It’s my story and I make the rules. There’s plenty more to what it does NOT mean to be Demonborn but it will all make it in here, in some form, eventually and since it pisses me off to dwell on it, I won’t.
Okay, what it DOES mean to be Demonborn is really kinda fuckin’ cool. It means that, although I most closely resemble a scruffy bowling ball with feet , I am about twice as strong as any two guys you ever knew. It means that I am agile enough to leap over a 12-foot high brick wall or dodge a 98 mph fast ball without much effort. It means being able to summon rats and other vermin to your aid if you need them. Trust me, sometimes you need them.
It means that I spend most of my time wearing sunglasses regardless of the weather or time of day. Demonic Sight ROCKS if you wanna know what’s on the other side of a wall with no doors or windows handy. Demonic Sight RULES if you need to know if someone is lying to you since you can see whether their heart is beating faster. Possibly the sweetest part of having Demonic Sight is that you never need a flashlight, or light bulbs for that matter, ever. A big down side to Demonic Sight is that on the other side of the aforementioned wall, fat ugly people may be fucking. Add this one too kiddies: while seeing a beating heart is kinda neat, getting to see a necrotic liver is way not. Now if I were fully demon I would be able to control the flow to make sure what I don’t wanna see isn’t seen but such is the price of being only half demon. So, while sunglasses don’t control the Sight, they help moderate the effects of unwanted sights. As around the bend as I get about what being Demonborn is not, I could go on endlessly about what it does mean. So, enough is enough of both sides of that coin. If this project of mine continues the course you will have ample opportunities to experience it all. If you are, however prissy or a wussburger then you won’t want your senses offended anymore by me, so don’t let the door hit ya on the way out ya worthless fucks!! By the by, some have suggested I have anger issues. The preceding words may have led you to believe similarly. If that is the case, I should apologize profusely. Yeah, like THAT’S gonna fuckin’ happen. Peace out folks, I need a coupla burritos and a 40 before I can stand any more of this writing stuff.
I suppose if you want to read more...Benny says you might, you could find it here, that is if I choose to continue.
copyright 2011 Jeffrey Hollar. All rights reserved.