I know you are only human, but if you aren't smart enough to click here and familiarize yourself with the previous installment, then I am not to blame if you get lost.
by Jeffrey Hollar
Okay, time to head back inside of Fuzzy’s weird-assed cranium and learn a little bit more about why you are just not equipped to be me. I don’t say that lightly, because most of you sorry bastards would drop dead in a puddle of your own shit before you made it to lunch time in my world. So, just sit back, shut the hell up and don’t interrupt me unless your fondest wish is to be on the receiving end of an ass whuppin’ of truly epic proportions.
As I mentioned the last time around, as enlightening as the introduction of the structured aspects of education and The Library were to me, I had no fuckin’ idea of exactly how far it was possible for my horizons to be expanded. I don’t know exactly when it started, but I slowly began to develop into a VERY different person than I had previously been. I stopped staying up to all hours watching old movies & sitcoms and even began sleeping in my bedroom rather than passing out on the living room couch.
I suppose I should be ashamed to admit it but, prior to this point, I had not even bothered to notice that there was a bed in my room. Like I said, I should be ashamed…but who gives a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut what you worthless fucks think anyway, eh?
But more and more I started waking up in a bed, bathing, and yes, even looking forward to whatever The Library had in store for me on that given day. I don’t know where the manila folders of lessons came from and it was not a topic I felt like bothering Loretta with. As I have attempted to make abundantly clear, she was not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination and that seemed something very unlikely to change. So I trusted to whatever source provided the guidance and, remarkably, did not see a need to question it. That really blows my mind that with as little reason as I had to place my trust in anyone that I could so willingly accept such an arrangement. I suppose that given the unique circumstances of my heritage that I was predisposed to willingly accept what others might question.
Anyway, the lessons covered just about any mundane topic you can imagine and interspersed it with some pretty freaky shit too. On one day, I might be wrapping my head around page after page of complex quadratic equations and the next day reading a treatise on the various types and subtypes of demonic beings. I guess the variety of stuff was intended to prevent me from growing bored or complacent with the whole process, but to say that it constituted a fairly broad range of knowledge would be putting it mildly.
All in all, it was an arrangement that I began to take a liking to and I found that a wee bit distressing. To this point in time, I had been perfectly content to let chaos, inactivity and anarchy be the guiding forces in my life. Now, it seemed, I had started down a new path that no longer allowed me the luxury of being a slacker. So be it I thought.
It was on one such morning in early spring that things progressed to a level of weirdness that I had previously no frame of reference to appreciate. I saw Loretta off to the shop as always and then headed for The Library. There on the lectern was the usual manila folder, but what it contained on that day was something far and away more insidious than I had any reason to expect. In place of the traditional laundry list of subjects and worksheets was a single page of objectives for the day. Deceptively, fiendishly simple instructions that pushed me beyond anything I could have imagined would ever be possible were what that simple, unassuming folder contained that day.
The single sheet contained in the folder held four, seemingly, innocuous objectives for that day: Go out the house’s back door to the back yard. Remain in the back yard for a period of no less than four hours. Record any experiences while in the back yard that seemed noteworthy. Return to The Library and transcribe the field notes taken in to a reportable format for subsequent evaluation. Okay, all things considered, a pretty light day in comparison with the usual fare. I could not have, in my wildest, craziest, weird-shit-ometer peggin’ out in the red dreams, been MORE fuckin’ wrong on that note. And so, with small notebook and pen in hand, I headed toward the back door.
Now, if you have been paying the least bit of attention to what I’ve been relating to this point (And if you haven’t, then why the fuck are you even here?!?) you will recall my disappointing experiences with the house’s front door. You should also remember that I told you that there were no restrictions placed on my access to the back yard. At this point, I need to back track a little to explain some things. If this were one of my beloved 60’s era sitcoms, then this is the point where the image on the screen would get all wavy, signaling the beginning of a flashback sequence. Since this ain’t a flippin’ multimedia Power Point presentation, you can simulate the effect for yourself however you feel most comfy. I’ll give ya a sec to work through that since I’m not in nearly as shitty a mood today as I have, sometimes, been known to be. Easy…easy…and…STOP! Don’t need any of you worthless jackholes puking on your shoes and trying to blame me for it.
While my access to the yard was not limited, to this point in life I had not had any particular desire to indulge myself by taking advantage of it. Yeah, yeah I know. What normal red-blooded American kid has no desire to go outside and play? Well, in case ya ain’t noticed Sparky, little Fuzzy Hanover wasn’t exactly your average kid. Hells bells, I wasn’t even sure, with the demonic DNA, if my blood was even red. For the record, it turns out that it is, but does that really matter at the moment. For the slower-witted readers out there…answer is nope. See? Aren’t I being more accommodating to you stupid sunzabitches? I promised Benny I would make a special effort. Yeah…enough of that.
So there it was, a perfectly mundane, average-looking backyard. So what? I had my TV, my munchies and no other freakin’ kids to play with, so why bother? I did occupy some of my time staring out the kitchen window. That was mostly during commercial breaks and seldom lasted for very long. I knew the entire yard was surrounded by some very dense-looking hedges that were about eight feet tall and growing over, what appeared to be, some rather substantial wrought iron fencing. I knew that the hedges appeared to be neatly trimmed and that the yard was a lush-looking carpet of emerald green grass. Since this was still in my pre-Library days, it never occurred to me to care how the yard maintained such an idyllic look without any obvious maintenance. I find it encouraging that I did notice that, unlike the yards viewed on my various TV shows, our yard contained no squirrels, birds or any other obvious fauna.
I suppose, in retrospect, that I figured that if the interior of the house cared for itself by means that I was unaware or indifferent to, the yard must have behaved much the same. It is worthwhile to again note that while I never observed Loretta performing any domestic tasks, they were always somehow done. While I took no special care where various bowls, cups, plates, wrappers and such fell within the house, it was always spotlessly clean in the time between when I stumbled up the stairs to begin another day and when I came back down for breakfast. Not a bad deal all in all.
Astute readers, or even half-witted crack addicts, will note that I have speculated before on whether the house was, in some manner, sentient and that I have never arrived at a suitable conclusion to that line of speculation. The same would have to apply to the yard as well. If you find that unsatisfying then just get over it. Sooner or later you people will come to understand that not everything in this wide world can be explained to a degree you find comfort with. The sooner that you can make peace with that concept, the more likely it is that your sphincter will unpucker and you can live out the reminder of your reasonably bleak existence with less drama. Try it. You just might surprise yourselves. I’m betting that most of you are simply constitutionally unsuited to achieve success with that. I’m sorry. I really do try to give you people the benefit of the doubt but you just keep proving that the majority of you are too fucking stupid to make that a viable option.
So, it’s enough already. Let’s forge onward and perhaps eventually arrive somewhere meaningful. I believe where we were headed was that I had no expectation that there might be anything in the yard that would prove harmful to me, I was simply too fucking lazy to care what attractions it might offer when compared to a day of lazing about on the sofa, watching endless televised drivel and consuming a never-ending supply of unhealthy snacks. So, sue me. No really, I dare you. I double dog dare you. No takers? Well, then there may be hope for you yet.
With the new-found sense of curiosity that The Library had awakened in me, it seemed that I was, finally, going to overcome my ennui and venture out into the yard to see what wonders it might offer that I had not previously cared to discover. My hand grasped the cool brass of the door knob and slowly turned it. To my surprise, it did turn with no resistance whatsoever. My heart racing with excitement, I pulled on the door and it opened. My senses were immediately assaulted with a gamut of sensations I had no frame of reference to process. I felt the warm outside air against my skin. I smelled the scents of the grass, the trees, the towering hedges and innumerable other things that I could only begin to imagine what they might be. I stood under the small gabled roof that protected the back stairs from the elements and gaped in wonder. Surprisingly, I heard very little to indicate that there was a vast unknown world outside the house. With television as my only frame of reference, I suppose I had expected to hear traffic sounds, bird song…anything to provide aural confirmation of the world’s existence.
I would venture to say that some of the bolder of you out there are confused right about now. You’re gonna want to go back and read again to insure that, yes, I did lead you to believe that exceptionally unsettling weird stuff was to be associated with my very first exposure to the outside world. Lest you begin to doubt me, let me remind you that while you feel that you are reading this from a faraway, protected safe place…you aren’t.
Your smug beliefs along those lines make you really quite vulnerable. They make you so vulnerable that, on one fine day, there will come a knock at your door and your mistaken sense of safety will lead you to open that door with nary a thought of glancing out the peephole first to see who might be there.
It is at that exact moment when you open the door that you are most likely to understand just how wrong you were. For it is at that precise moment in time that you will be intercepting a very hard Demonborn fist with your face. That fist will be attached to the rest of the body of a Demonborn male who is fondly known as Fuzzy Hanover. He will be punching you in the face for the following sins: doubting him and rushing him. So while these might seem like small matters of little import now, there will come a day of reckoning. I am a busy fellow with plenty being piled on my plate daily, but I will make the time to reach out to you and replace your doubts with my knuckles. I thought I had made it quite clear that this is not a group effort or an audience participation exercise. I will tell you my story in my own time and at my own pace. For those of you that might take affront to that, I offer this parting bit of advice. Always check that little peephole before opening your door unless you LIKE the idea of spending exorbitant amounts of your previously-free time undergoing reconstructive facial surgery. Thus endeth the lesson kiddies. See ya around (unless you see me first right?). That ain’t gonna happen so just don’t waste the time considering the possibility. You’re liable to strain those last few brain cells that are controlling your autonomic responses and where would be the fun in that?
copyright© 2011 Jeffrey Hollar. All rights reserved