 
The Humdrum Lives Of Cryptids, Monsters, And Villains

By: M. R. Holman
Published by M.R. Holman at Smashwords

Text copyright © 2016 M. R. Holman

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Minotaur: Ordering a Pizza to the Labyrinth

Zombie: Attending an Outdoor Music Festival

Loch Ness Monster: Ordering an Electric Guitar

Werewolf: Opening a Cafe

The Robot Loch Ness Monster: Trying Stand-Up Comedy Again

Bigfoot: Starting a Blog

A Day in the Afterlife of Bigfoot's Ghost: Renewing a Library Card

Some Ado About Literally Everything: A Play by William Snakespeare

Dragon: Selected for Jury Duty

Mermaid: Replacing a VCR

Bigfoot: A Trip to the Grocery Store

Centaur: A Subpar Vacation Experience

A Brief Note to the Reader

Minotaur: Ordering a Pizza to the Labyrinth

Torchlight flickered deep in the damp, maze-like halls of a labyrinth. The light reflected off the back of a minotaur's long, razor sharp horns. The front of the minotaur's horns were reflecting the light from an open refrigerator.

The cool air spilt over the minotaur's hooves as it bent its gargantuan body over and examined the contents of the embarrassingly understocked refrigerator. The minotaur, whose name was Torrance, pushed aside the few items contained in the refrigerator, desperately hoping that some unknown treat or morsel of food may present itself to him.

"Nothing!" Torrance grunted as he moved the lone carton of Minotaur Milk to reveal a nearly empty jar of apricot jam. "Nothing worth eating anyways..." he said as he eyed a black banana in the fruit drawer in the bottom of the refrigerator. It took a great deal of self-control not to wretch at the sight of it. He slammed the drawer shut, deciding to deal with the rotten banana later, maybe when his appetite had been satiated and his will was stronger.

Torrance closed the refrigerator door as well and opened the freezer. His humanoid hands darted for a frost laded box in the corner of the freezer. It was hardly even visible beneath the mountain of ice that had accumulated over it. It would not budge. It was frozen in place.

His fingernails scratched at the ice until the cover of the bright blue box was visible. The vivid red words on the cover read: 'One Minute Microwave Minotaur Meals - Voted the Number One Microwavable Dinner of 1998'.

"1998... Goodness," Torrance said under his breath. He had not even lived in this particular labyrinth for that long. Had this One Minute Microwave Minotaur Meal really been hidden in the corner of his freezer since he had moved in? And more importantly, was a microwaveable meal safe to eat if it had been frozen for almost two decades?

He decided to call his mother and ask her. She had always been frugal when it came to the grocery spending, and had always been able to stretch out their supplies as long as possible so as to avoid going to the Crypto-Supermarket. Minotaurs are notorious shut-ins.

He walked into his living room, turned down the volume on his blaring television, and picked up his cell phone. As he sat down on his comfortable leather couch, he scrolled through his contact list until he found his mother. He noticed that it had been over a week since he had last called her, and he prepared to be scolded for such as he pressed send.

The phone rang twice before a disgruntled, deep female voice answered the phone, "Well, well, well..."

"Hey mom," Torrance said, rolling his eyes. His mother was always so dramatic when he forgot to call her for this long. His hooves tapped nervously against his stone floor.

"I suppose you need something," she said coldly.

"Well, yes," Torrance said, thinking wildly of another reason for his call before continuing quickly. "But I was also wanting to ask how you and dad are doing? Are the labyrinth renovations going smoothly?"

"Oh," his mother said, her demeanor changing instantly. "Well, of course, the renovations are going horribly." She always said that, regardless of how the renovations were coming along. His parents' labyrinth was in a constant state of alteration. It was getting to the point that even they were getting lost inside of it. Torrance was unsure if that made it an excellent labyrinth or a subpar labyrinth. What use was a labyrinth if the minotaurs themselves could not navigate its winding halls?

"Ohhh... Sorry to hear that, mom," Torrance said in what he hoped was a consoling voice. "What's happening this time?"

"It's the painters!" she said at once with a snort from her bull-like nostrils. "I told them that I wanted every single inch to be painted in Black Hole Black, but they painted everything in Mine Shaft Black! And they thought I wouldn't know the difference... nonsense! Anyone with eyes can tell the difference between Black Hole Black and Mine Shaft Black. They're as different as night and day!"

Torrance had to disagree with this sentiment, but he did not voice it. He had never been good at distinguishing the subtle differences between paint colors. He assumed, rather than being as different as night and day, that Black Hole Black and Mine Shaft Black were more likely the difference between night and a few minutes later in the night.

"Oh really, mom? What a mix up..."

"It's an embarrassment is what it is! What if we were to have company over... What would they say?" she said, sounding almost hysterical. Aside from the occasional wayward adventurer, they had not had company to the labyrinth in living memory.

"Yeah, that's a real shame. Mom, I wanted to ask you about - ,"

"I think it's the werewolves we hired... They always cut corners."

Torrance put his enormous bovine head into his hands and shook it, closing his eyes. He decided not to comment on his mother's insensitive remark about werewolves and go ahead and ask his question. "I need to ask you a quick question about frozen food."

She sighed deeply. "What about it, dear?"

"How long does, say, a One Minute Microwave Minotaur Meal last if it's been in a deep freeze?"

"A One Minute Microwave Minotaur Meal?" she asked inquisitively.

"Yes," he answered cautiously.

"Honey, weren't those banned after all those minotaurs got food poisoning? They haven't even been sold in ten years..."

"Huh..."

"Why are you even considering eating something that old?"

"Oh, I was just - ,"

"Do you not have any food? Can you not get any food? Oh goodness... Are you having money problems? Are you depressed?"

"Woah, wait, what? No. I just don't have any groceries and don't feel like going to buy any today," Torrance said, hoping to de-escalate the situation before it got any worse.

"Oh, alright," his mother said calmly. Torrance was frankly astonished that she had so readily accepted his reasoning. That is, until she continued speaking. "I was just under the impression that you were a fully grown adult minotaur. It seems to me that a fully grown, responsible adult minotaur would not have to waste their time wondering about things like this. It seems to me that - "

"Oh did you hear that?" Torrance said frantically. "I think I hear someone knocking on my door. I've got to go, mom. Talk to you soon!"

"You're not getting off of the phone with me this easily. I still have a lot of loud, angry parenting to do!"

Torrance hung up the phone. He knew he would regret it later when it came time to talk to her on the phone again, but for now, he was relieved. There had, of course, been no one knocking on his door. He sunk into his couch and closed his eyes, trying to think of a solution for his hunger debacle without leaving his labyrinth.

He could hear the television continuing to play though the volume was so low he could only hear bits and pieces of the dialogue on-screen as he continued to lean his head back and rub his eyes.

"Brand new...steaming hot... CHEESE... whole snake baked into the crust..."

The minotaur's eyes snapped open. Whole snake baked into the crust? Surely he had misheard something... He sat up and reached out for the remote control sitting on his coffee table, and pressed the rewind button that controlled his cable box. He watched as a pizza commercial began to play backwards very fast. When it reached the beginning, he jabbed the play button and turned up the volume on his television.

"Are YOU hungry? Are YOU a cryptid, monster, villain, or otherwise creepy critter that finds the enticing aroma of our brand new, steaming hot, cheese and topping laden pizza irresistible?"

"Yes," Torrance said under his breath without even realizing he was doing so.

"Hi, I'm Pop McPizza, founder and C.E.O. of Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated," a grey haired centaur said as it ambled onto the screen approaching a steamy pizza pie on a polished wooden countertop. "I know what cryptids want from their pizzas. They want a hot, cheap, cheesy pizza delivered right to their door with any funky or filthy ingredient you can think of. Try it now with a whole snake baked right into the crust!"

Torrance was salivating. Everything about the commercial made him absolutely certain that a Pop McPizza pizza from Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated was the right choice for him. Well, aside from the snake baked into the crust... he had never understood the fascination with strange ingredients stuffed into the outer rim of pizza crusts. It was just too gimmicky for him. But he could order a regular one, he reasoned.

"So call now!" Pop McPizza continued. "We guarantee our hot, fresh, made to order pizzas will arrive at your doorstep in thirty minutes or less, or the cost is on us. That's the Pop McPizza Pizza Palace Incorporated guarantee. So until next time, this is Pop McPizza wishing you a good pizza."

The phone was in Torrance's hands before the telephone number for Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated was even on the screen. He poked his phone frantically as he dialed the numbers that were flashing on his television in front of the smiling old centaur's face. The phone had barely rung at all before a voice answered on the other end of the line.

"Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated, where the pizzas arrive in thirty minutes or less, how may I help you?"

"Hi, yes, I'd like to place an order," Torrance said, his deep taurine voice giddy with excitement and his stomach rumbling so hard that it caused the television remote on the coffee table to vibrate.

"Name, please?" the voice asked. It sounded like an elf. It seemed that elves often ended up doing jobs like this.

"It's Torrance," he replied.

"Alright Terrence, what can I get for you?" the elf said quickly.

"No, my name is Torrance, not Terrence," the minotaur said. This was a common mistake, but a bothersome one regardless. No matter how clearly he annunciated his name, it was more than likely interpreted as Terrence. It had caused him to be quite self-conscious about his speech when he was younger, turning into many shy years spent at the Cryptid Academy, afraid to speak up or progress in his verbal abilities in public. He had moved past that now, but even though he knew it was not his fault it still irked him when cryptids got his name wrong.

There was a pause on the other end of the line for a moment. "... Do you mean Terrence? Is your name Terrence?"

"No..." he said, grinding his teeth and restraining himself from losing his temper. "My name is pronounced Torrance."

".... I'm sorry, sir. I think our phones must be malfunctioning. It sounds like you're saying Torrance, but I know that that can't be so, Terrence."

Torrance's ears were ringing and he was trying to relax so as not to prompt a migraine. He decided to just let it go this time. He was too hungry to argue with this elf. "I'd like to order an extra-large pizza."

"Alright Terrence, what would you like on your large pizza?"

His eyes bulged as he answered, "It's an extra-large pizza. I'd like olives and sausage on half, and extra cheese on the other half, please."

"Mhmm mhmm. Let's see if I have this right, Terrence. I've got an extra-large pizza with olives and sausage on half and extra cheese on half. Is that right?" the elf asked.

Torrance was ready to forgive him of all past injustices if he could just get his pizza out immediately. "That is correct."

"Excellent, excellent. Alright, would you like any extras or upgrades?"

When had ordering a pizza become so complicated? "What does that mean?" he asked.

"Would you like the crust to be filled with cookie dough, or for us to use flour extracted from a haunted mummy tomb, or our newest and most exciting promotion of a whole snake stuffed into the crust on the perimeter of the pizza?"

"No," Torrance said, shaking his head solemnly and rubbing his closed eyes with his telephone free hand. "Just the pizza I ordered with regular crust please."

"Really? We could probably stuff an eel in there if you're into that," the elf said, sounding somewhat shocked and confused.

"Please don't stuff an eel or anything else into my pizza crust..."

".... Please let us stuff some gimmicky food into your crust..." the elf pleaded.

"What is the deal with the crust?" Torrance roared, no longer able to contain his anger.

The elf paused for a moment before replying in a barely audible whisper, saying, "I'm sorry, we're required to ask if you want the Weirdly Stuffed Crust Upgrade. There's a script we have to stick to..."

"A script? Really? I didn't realize that taking pizza orders was such a complex aspect of the pizza ordering transaction," Torrance said pensively.

"To be honest, I have no clue if it is or isn't," the elf said. "The orders are relayed through the third party customer service business I work for. Today is my last day here so I don't mind telling you all of this," the elf said with a hiccup. Was the elf drunk? Now that it was saying all of this and hiccupping, Torrance realized that the elf had been slurring its speech a bit too...

"Why does Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated route their orders through a third party customer service business rather than taking the orders themselves?" Torrance asked.

"I don't know Terrence. A lot of cryptid businesses do it. I just answer the phones... Maybe it's cheaper to outsource the calls to the North Pole? I don't know. Anyway, my supervisor is coming over this way, I've got to act cool... He's going to be my boss at my next job too...Alright then... Just a normal pizza with regular dough? And nothing in the crust? Seems kind of strange, but to each their own, right Terrence? Haha... Address please?"

Torrance, thoroughly confused, gave the elf his address and hung up his phone promptly as he heard a barrage of 'ho-ho-ho's' on the other end of the line after the elf took down his address and said goodbye. At least he would soon have a pizza to take his mind off that strange phone conversation. He looked around his home, trying to think of what to do until the pizza arrived.

His living area was actually quite small. The labyrinth itself was enormous and intricate, but the space that he lived in was only comprised of four rooms in the very center of the labyrinth. He decided to light a torch outside of his front door so that the delivery cryptid could see the door and that he would be able to see the delivery cryptid. It was pitch black in the halls of the labyrinth without a lit torch.

Lighting the torch occupied all of forty five seconds or so, and Torrance was once again faced with the task of what to do until his pizza arrived. He picked up the television remote and idly flipped through the channels. He saw several more advertisements for Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated. They were really trying to push that snake-filled crust pizza. Were cryptids really buying that? What was wrong with a good old fashioned pizza?

Contemplating the pros and cons of weird pizzas and normal pizzas occupied a few minutes of Torrance's time, but not a substantial amount. Besides, he could not come to any sort of consensus on the subject since he was so obviously biased against the odd pizza additions that had become so popular of late. It just did not make sense to him.

Torrance picked up his cell phone and checked to see how much time had passed since he placed his order. It had been five minutes. He snorted a powerful exhalation from his wide bull nostrils and shook his horned head in frustration. His stomach rumbled again, causing his hooves to clatter against the stone floor of his living room. He had to do something to take his mind off of his hunger until the pizza arrived.

Soon, he had flipped through every channel on his television without finding anything worthy of watching. He picked up his cell phone and opened Cryptogram, his favorite cryptid social media app. The front page was filled with photos of Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated snake-stuffed pizza photos, so he exited out of the app in a rage and took to pacing back and forth across his living room, gouging dents into the floor with each angry stomp.

He checked his phone again. It had been seven minutes since he ordered his pizza. He had originally hoped that the pizza may arrive after the thirty minute time limit so that he would get it for free, but now he just hoped that it arrived as soon as possible. It was a small price to pay, literally, to get his pizza sooner rather than later as far as he was concerned at that moment.

Torrance decided that a violent video game may be the best outlet for his frustration. He powered on his video game system and inserted his copy of Bigfoot Bandits into the disc slot. A sasquatch wearing sunglasses and holding an automatic pistol in each of its enormous furry hands graced the screen as the game loaded.

The storyline of Bigfoot Bandits was severely lacking in substance, but it more than made up for itself in the size of its map and the amount of freedom the player had in the game. One could do pretty much anything that they wanted in the game, from stealing another cryptid's car, to playing table tennis, to going on a full-out berserk rampage. Torrance was eager to get to the rampaging, but the game was taking much longer than usual to load. He glanced at his phone again. He had reached the ten minute mark since he had placed his order.

He gripped the video game controller so tightly that it was in danger of cracking as he watched the progress bar slowly load. Even when the progress bar was completely full and read one hundred percent, it just lingered there blinking. For a moment he felt that it was mocking him, but then he realized that was just the hunger making him think like that. He was a real mess when his appetite got the best of him.

The loading progress bar finally disappeared and the sasquatch on the screen lowered his sunglasses, pistol still in hand, and winked as the image faded away and the game began. His character's health was low, so ironically he had to take him to get something to eat in the game before he could do anything else. Torrance began to wonder if the universe was having fun tormenting him today or if this was all a coincidence.

As the pixelated sasquatch on the screen munched happily on a cartoonishly oversized cheeseburger, its weapons lying on the fast food dining table before it, Torrance checked his phone. It had been seventeen minutes since he placed the order for the pizza. Surely it would be arriving soon...

He drove around in the game idly after stealing a car from a merman. Water spilled from the car door when he pulled the merman from his vehicle and left him flopping around on the pavement. It was a nice car, and one that he wanted to save so that he could use it again, but to do so he would have to drive all the way across the map.

As he began his video game journey, his phone rang. He eyed the device, puzzled because it displayed a number he had never seen before. He quickly answered it, and cocked his neck so that he could hold the phone between his muscular neck and floppy ears as he continued to play.

"Hello? This is Torrance," he said as he barreled down the wrong side of a crowded highway in Bigfoot Bandits.

"Oh, well this is Marcus from Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated, but I'm supposed to be delivering a pizza to a Terrence..." the voice on the other end of the line said, a note of confusion in its voice.

"No, no, you've got the right minotaur," Torrance said distractedly as he crashed his car.

"How can that be? If your name is Torrance, and I'm supposed to be delivering this pizza to someone named Terrence..."

"It was a mistake when they were taking down my name. I assure you that you have my pizza. Besides, why are you calling me? Where is the pizza?" he asked as he fled the scene of the accident in his damaged car.

"Well, I'm trying to deliver it, but I'm a bit turned around in your maze," Marcus said. Torrance could hear the slight echo of his voice and the clip clop of hooves reverberating off the stone walls of his labyrinth. Marcus must be a centaur, like Pop McPizza himself.

"I'm sorry to get off subject, but it's a labyrinth, not a maze," Torrance said. Along with cryptids pronouncing his name wrong, another pet peeve of his was when they referred to his labyrinth as a maze.

"Whatever... Where am I supposed to take this thing?" Marcus said apathetically.

"I live in the middle. Just keep walking toward the middle."

The centaur sighed deeply. "It's not quite that easy. There are a lot of twists and turns and such."

"Hey, I'm not going to tell you how to do your job, alright?" Torrance said, becoming more annoyed by the second, both by the delivery centaur's incompetence and by the other drivers in Bigfoot Bandits who kept haphazardly bumping into his stolen car.

"Why do you even live in a maze?" Marcus asked as his hooves continued to echo off of the stone walls of the labyrinth.

"Uhhh... It's kind of a long story.... And besides, it's not a maze, it's a labyrinth. There's a difference," Torrance said irritatedly.

"No there isn't," Marcus said lazily.

"There most certainly is!" Torrance snorted, temporarily veering off the road and into a telephone pole. His car had begun to issue smoke from under the hood.

"Uh huh... And what's that?" Marcus asked. Torrance was getting the impression that Marcus was the type of centaur that liked to ask annoying questions just to get a rise out of cryptids.

"It's... It's just... It's different in principle," Torrance said distractedly, struggling to think of a way to simplify the concept of what made a labyrinth different from a regular maze.

"See! See! You don't even know the difference!" Marcus said with glee.

"Ugh... It's a labyrinth, okay?" Torrance groaned. "Just show some respect to the labyrinth. A labyrinth is dark and damp and dangerous. A labyrinth has stone walls and monsters and traps. Mazes conjure images of children's menus that are solved in crayon in chain restaurants, but a labyrinth... now that's something substantial, something intricate. That, my friend, is why this is a labyrinth and not a maze."

"Okay, that at least kind of makes sense," Marcus conceded after a long pause. "I'm not your friend though."

"Eh?" Torrance grunted, thoroughly confused.

"You said 'my friend' earlier when you were explaining how a labyrinth was different than a maze. I'm not your friend. I'm just your pizza deliverer, and after being stuck in your precious labyrinth, I think I can say with absolute certainty that I won't want to be your friend afterward," Marcus said haughtily.

"It's just an expression, dude. I'm beginning to suspect you aren't a native speaker of English... You seem to have only a tenuous grasp on the language," Torrance said harshly.

"What? Of course I'm a native speaker!" Marcus said in an outrage.

"But you've never heard someone use the expression 'my friend' when referring to someone, even if they aren't actually friends?"

"....No."

"And you didn't know the difference between a maze and a labyrinth either," Torrance added.

"Alright, so maybe expressions and colloquialisms aren't my strong suit."

"What is your strong suit? It certainly doesn't seem to be delivering pizzas." Torrance knew he had crossed a line and regretted it immediately. There was no need to be so rude to this pizza delivery centaur. He was just trying to do his job. Maybe he was a bit mouthy, but so was Torrance. "I'm sorry, it's just been a long day and I'm really hungry and grumpy."

Marcus just sighed as the sound of his hooves continued to reverberate off the walls of the labyrinth. He must deal with irate customers often.

"Dammit!" Torrance exclaimed as he crashed his car in Bigfoot Bandits again.

"Look, I'm doing my best here!" Marcus said exasperatedly.

"What? Oh, no, that wasn't directed at you. I'm playing Bigfoot Bandits and I keep crashing my car," Torrance said, realizing the error in communication.

"That game rules," Marcus said. They had finally found a middle ground. Perhaps they could continue the delivery amicably from this point on.

"I know!" Torrance concurred. "Have you beaten the story missions yet?"

"No, I've just been driving around and causing mayhem mostly."

"Same here. That's the fun part anyways."

"Wait... I think I'm almost there... Is there a torch outside the door?" Marcus asked excitedly.

"Yes!" Torrance exclaimed, setting down his video game controller and rising from the couch. He bounded across the room and flung open the door. A centaur holding a cell phone to his ear with one hand, and holding a pizza with the other stood at the edge of the torchlight outside of the door. They each hung up their phones. A Pop McPizza's Pizza Palace Incorporated hat became visible upon the centaur's head as he approached. A name tag reading Marcus was pinned to his chest.

"Are you aware that there are several dying men scattered throughout your maze?" Marcus asked indifferently.

"It's a labyrinth... And no, I wasn't aware of that. It's just part of having a labyrinth and being a minotaur though. There are always a few adventurers wandering around the labyrinth, trying to find me."

"Huh... Alright then, I have one extra-large pizza, olives and sausage on half and extra cheese on half with a whole snake baked into the crust, is that correct?" Marcus said as he read off the receipt taped to the pizza box.

"I didn't order a snake baked into the crust... I was very clear about that on the phone," Torrance said, annoyed.

"Well... Do you want to take it or not?" Marcus said uncertainly.

Torrance sighed deeply. "Sure."

"That'll be eleven Crypto Units. Plus the tip," the centaur said, eyeing him moodily.

"Wait a second," Torrance said as he reached for his cell phone once again. He checked the time he had ordered the pizza. It had been thirty five minutes ago. "This pizza is free. It took longer than thirty minutes to be delivered," he said triumphantly.

"No, I was here in plenty of time. If it wasn't for your maze, I wo- ,"

"Labyrinth," Torrance interjected.

"Whatever it is!" the centaur cried out, his eyes bulging. "I was here well within the time limit, Terrence. These - ,"

"It's Torrance."

The centaur looked as though it was on the verge of attacking him for a moment, but then a calm seemed to overcome him. Maybe it was his glance toward the minotaur's menacing horns. "Look, Torrance, these pizzas come out of my paycheck if they're delivered outside of the thirty minute time limit. I was in the labyrinth well before then and you know that. I think you're really splitting hairs here."

The centaur was right and Torrance knew it. As much as he would like a free pizza, he did not want it to come out of Marcus' paycheck, and he had been in the labyrinth in time even if he had not technically delivered the pizza yet. He handed over eleven Crypto Units, plus five more as a substantial tip.

Marcus thanked him briefly and turned around, disappearing in the darkness past the ring of torchlight. Torrance closed and locked his front door after extinguishing the torch. He cracked open the pizza box as he walked toward his couch. The aroma was intoxicating.

The edge of the crust was wide and protuberant with the whole snake baked into the crust. As he pulled a triangular piece of the pizza from the pie, he felt the snake roll beneath his fingers. He decided that he might pass on eating the crust this time. He sat down, took a bite, and closed his eyes in ecstasy. Upon opening his eyes, he saw that his Bigfoot Bandits character was standing in the middle of the highway. Another player must have stolen his car. He cursed loudly before stuffing the entire remainder of the piece of pizza he was eating into his mouth, completely forgetting about the snake baked inside of the crust.

Torrance reflected, as he crunched through the scales, that maybe the gimmick was not so bad after all. Maybe he had been too quick to dismiss trying new things, just because they seemed to be the trendy thing to do at the time. He picked up another piece of pizza and turned off Bigfoot Bandits, flipping absentmindedly through the channels in between bites of pizza and trying not to think about the inevitable trip to the grocery store he would have to make when the pizza ran out.

Zombie: Attending an Outdoor Music Festival

Fog drifted between the sparsely spaced trees and hung closely over the unkempt grass. A stumbling being parted the fog and left a scent-trail of rotting flesh behind. It was a zombie, and it was searching desperately for sustenance in the form of living human flesh.

Though what remained of its brain could only process dim, half-formed thoughts, it knew that the scent it detected on the breeze would lead it to a feast of untold proportions. It had never, in all of its days of zombification, detected so many humans in the same spot at the same time.

The zombie's hearing no longer retained the sharpness it had in life, but it could still register the deep bass vibrations echoing across the hillside it was now climbing atop. The insatiable hunger for flesh and thirst for blood became overwhelming as the zombie scrambled to the hilltop. When it reached the peak and stared out over the valley, its feeble mind could hardly comprehend the joy of seeing over one-hundred thousand humans below.

It began to trundle down the hillside as fast as it could toward the crowd below. It tripped and slid much of the way, losing a great deal of its own rotting flesh in the process and ripping its already ragged clothing. This did not matter to the zombie. All that it cared about was the hunger that drove it toward the crowds.

It soon came upon its first obstacle. Tall fences surrounded the crowds. The zombie laced its fingers between the wires of the chain link fences but it was much too tall to climb. Besides, as soon as it began its ascent, a hand clinched the back of its shirt from behind.

"What in the world do you think you're doing?" a security guard asked the zombie after it pulled it down from the gate. The zombie stretched its blood covered hands toward the security guard's face and groaned.

"Hey now, take it easy! I'm just trying to help you," the security guard said as it batted away the zombie's hands. "Just show me your ticket or your wristband and I'll let you back in..."

The words 'ticket' and 'wristband' echoed through the hollow mind of the zombie. It stared hungrily at the security guard.

"Just let him in already! He smells horrible..." another security guard said from nearby as they held their nose.

"These festival types..." the security guard said, shaking his head. "He looks stoned out of his mind too... Probably can't even understand a word we're saying! Alright then, in you get." The security guard opened a gate and let the zombie into the music festival.

The zombie entered the gates of the festival and began to trudge through the mud and muck toward the crowds of dancing festival-goers. The first crowd that the zombie approached was dancing violently as peels of raucous guitar solos cascaded over insanely loud and fast drums. He reached out toward the first person he came in contact with on the edge of the crowd.

His grip failed and his hands bounced off the dancing frame of a young woman. She turned around and yelled over the music, "No thanks, I just want to dance alone right now."

The zombie tried to grab the woman again. This time she turned around and grabbed him by the shirt, thrusting him toward the interior of the crowd of dancers in the audience. As he reached out for the bodies he passed or was pushed into, they each pushed him further into the crowd. Finally, he reached an area right in front of the stage in which the crowd was behaving more violently than ever. It was the mosh pit.

The inhabitants of the pit did not appear much different than the zombie. They were invariably sweaty, covered in blood and mud, and swinging their arms violently. The zombie fit right in. He was elbowed in the nose and punched in the back of the head. He could not even find a moment to attempt grabbing and feasting on anyone because he was getting battered around so badly.

Slowly, he made the decision in his addled brain to get out of the pit. He found his way to the stage and climbed atop the wooden planks, right in front of one of the guitarists. He stretched his arms in front of him and walked toward the musician.

"Geez, these fans get worse and worse," the guitarist said as he kicked the zombie forcefully back into the pit. The mosh pit crowd paused from their violent dancing and punching and caught the falling zombie. They passed his body over their heads and across the crowd. The audience cheered as they saw what appeared to be another hardcore fan body-surfing the crowd. Eventually he reached the edge and was deposited back onto the ground. He landed with a dull thud in the muck.

The zombie groaned as his face rested on the ground. Although his sense of touch was mostly numb, he was still vaguely aware that he was in a great deal of pain from the experience he was already forgetting. He rose to his feet, wary of entering the crowd again.

He began to wander toward another crowd he spotted in the distance. The music coming from this area was different. There was still a great deal of bass, but it was accompanied by a variety of electronic noises. The crowd appeared much different as well. They wore bright clothing and were not beating each other to within an inch of their lives like the last crowd had done. They danced frantically, but did not make contact with one another. The zombie held out his arms and prepared to grab a victim.

"Hey now, there's enough to go around. No need to get grabby," a man on the edge of the crowd said as he deflected the zombie's hands and placed two little white pills into his palms. The zombie looked down at them in confusion.

"What are you waiting for?" the man asked the zombie, guiding his hand toward his withered and dried mouth. The zombie felt the pills slowly grind their way down his partially operational throat. The man danced away and the zombie felt the urge to sit down for a moment. He felt very odd all of the sudden...

The zombie tried to say 'woah' but was only capable of groaning something that sounded like, "Wooaaargarblle." He felt as though he was sinking and rising simultaneously, and that the last vestiges of his mind had departed completely from his ravaged body.

After sitting for a few minutes, or maybe much longer, or maybe after no time at all, he arose. The zombie suddenly felt like eating the flesh of the living and drinking their lifeblood was no longer the most important thing in its life. It now felt that in this moment dancing was what mattered, and dance he did.

The zombie was not a good dancer by any stretch of the imagination. No one in the crowd surrounding him seemed to care though. They did not seem to care about anything at all aside from dancing and music and breathing. He felt as though the music was inside of him and that each of his movements expressed what the music would look like if it was visible.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the music stopped playing and the crowd around the dancing zombie began to depart. Although he could still feel the effects of the pills he had been given, his hunger for human was returning. He followed a group that was walking away from the crowd. Eventually, they arrived at a large Ferris Wheel that was among several other rides, games, and attractions at the festival.

The door to the Ferris Wheel carriage they entered shut as soon the zombie reached it. The Ferris Wheel began to rotate and the group he was following disappeared. An empty seat was now before him, and he was ushered into it by the Ferris Wheel attendant. He sat down and was soon joined by another man.

The zombie was experiencing the zombie equivalent of jubilation, which admittedly is not very jubilant. He was certain that he was finally going to have a victim that could not escape from him. The Ferris Wheel began to move he and his soon-to-be victim up in the air. It was then that he noticed there was something wrong. The other occupant was also a zombie.

He grunted at the other zombie, trying to form the phrase 'What are you doing here?' but only achieved a noise that sounded like, "Whurruuuwwdewerr?"

The other zombie wore a tattered bandanna atop his bruised and battered forehead and a great number of glow-sticks hung from around his neck. The other zombie said something that sounded like, "Ahdunno." He then offered the zombie more pills, which he gladly accepted.

After some time, the zombie began to regard the axle of the Ferris Wheel as a super-massive black hole in the center of a galaxy. The seat that he and his fellow zombie were in was a star system and they were the planets. They rotated round and round, knowing that the great force existed and could destroy them at a moment's notice if they got too close, but that it was kept in check by the forces that maintained the equilibrium of the universe.

He and the other zombie regained the use of coherent speech for a few minutes but said nothing worthy of note and quickly forgot the entire incident. When their Ferris Wheel carriage reached the bottom once more, they departed and did not speak another word to each other.

The zombie began to wander once more. Night was falling and he found that the zombie from the Ferris Wheel had given him one of his glow sticks. It was green, just like a great deal of his own rotting flesh.

Soothing, dulcet tones echoed across a field. He looked toward the source of the music and saw another crowd. This one consisted entirely of people either sitting down or lying on the ground. They would be easy prey, the zombie thought.

Due to the amount of pills he had taken, he had great difficulty in walking and an even greater difficulty in navigating his way to the crowd. The music became louder and softer, louder and softer, but he could not find it. He discovered eventually that he had been looking at the stars as he walked, and once he looked at the crowd again, he was able to navigate toward them much easier.

The zombie began to run, driven by his desire to feast and the fear that he might once again fail to capture a living human to eat. He picked up speed as he neared the crowd. They seemed to have no idea that he was approaching as they continued to lie in the grass and listen to the music playing. When he was ten feet away, he tripped. He slid all the way to a group of festival-goers who were lying in the grass.

"Bluuurrrgghhhh," the zombie groaned into the grass. He flopped over and lied on his back beside the group. It seemed that they had noticed he joined their group, but they did not seem to mind. One of them handed him what appeared to be a tiny, badly rolled cigarette.

The zombie had been a smoker during the non-zombie portion of his life, so muscle memory took over and he took a puff of the funny looking little cigarette. After a few moments, he forgot all about eating the group and just laid in the grass and looked up at the stars while the music played.

A few minutes later, the funny little cigarette was handed to him again and he took another drag. He felt as though he was melting into the grass. He felt, at once, as heavy as a boulder and light enough to float into the sky and join the tiny pinpricks of light that were becoming increasingly clear and vivid in his usually poor vision.

After the third time that the funny little cigarette was passed to him, the zombie fell asleep and did not awake until the next morning. The stages were gone, the music was gone, the Ferris Wheel was gone, and, most disappointingly, the crowds of highly edible humans were gone. That was severely disappointing to the zombie because he was hungrier than ever after smoking that strange cigarette.

The zombie rose to his feet and began to trudge across the field in search of his next meal. Although he did not capture any humans, he reasoned in his zombified mind that he had had an excellent day nonetheless. He hoped that he was still undead and in the same area next year so that he could do it all over again.

Loch Ness Monster: Ordering an Electric Guitar

In a massive underwater cave deep below the storm tossed surface of the loch, on a steely grey Scottish afternoon, the Loch Ness Monster held a telephone to its ear. She had been on hold for the better part of thirty minutes, and was beginning to lose her patience. Nessie did concede, however, that at least the hold music was good. She tapped her fins along to the beat of a rock and roll guitar riff, and looked down at an electric guitar of her own which was placed upon the surface of her coffee table.

This guitar was the reason that the Loch Ness Monster was currently on hold with the guitar manufacturer. It had been delivered to the front doorstep of her cave roughly an hour previous, and upon opening the packaging, Nessie discovered that it was hardly built to the specifications she had ordered. Nessie watched as it began to float an inch or so above the surface of the coffee table as her pet salmon swam idly past it. She pinned the guitar back down with her tail and patted her salmon on its slimy triangular head with her telephone-free fin.

She sighed deeply, bubbles rising to the ceiling of her cave, as a new song began to play. This was getting ridiculous. She had paid for a very specific product, and she expected a certain amount of customer service to come along with it.

There was another problem that was quickly arising, aside from the problem of being on hold for over half an hour. Nessie would have to return to the surface to breathe soon, and she did not want to miss her chance to speak to a customer service representative and have to go through the whole process all over again. She could hold her breath for hours at a time, but now that she thought about it, it had been several hours since she had visited the surface and she was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded.

Another song started on the phone, and she placed it on top of the coffee table, next to the electric guitar, wishing in vain that she had made the call on her cell phone, but it could not get a signal in the cave. She swam carefully but quickly past her possessions and furniture, most of which floated idly a few inches above the floor of her cave, and exited her front door, taking great care to make sure her pet salmon did not get out. She closed the door that was disguised as a large slab of rock, and pushed off hard against the muddy floor of the loch.

She considered, as her long reptilian body undulated through the water column, that either the guitar manufacturer had produced many faulty guitars, which caused all of the customer service representatives to be busy, or that the customer service employees were just too incompetent to answer the phones on time. Either option was disappointing, considering the amount of crypto-currency that she had paid for the custom made guitar, but she hoped that whatever was going on at the customer service center of the guitar manufacturer continued to happen until the very moment she returned to her telephone.

Her smooth, oval shaped head broke the surface of the water. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with hours of fresh air. The storm continued to rage above the surface of the loch. She had been unaware that one had been happening. There were no boats or fishermen to be seen, and she was grateful of that. Keeping a low profile was key to a happy life for a Loch Ness Monster.

Nessie ducked her head back beneath the choppy surface and dove with rapidity toward the entrance of her cave, hundreds of feet below. Soon, she was opening the door to her cave once more, and she darted inside and shut the door. Her pet salmon greeted her merrily as she opened the door. She tossed it a Salmon Scooper, a line of treats made specifically for pet salmon, from a container beside the door, and began to quickly make her way inside. In her haste to reach the phone, she knocked over a lamp. Deciding that retrieving it could wait until after the phone call, she left it on the ground and raised the telephone to her ears. It was still just playing rock music. She rolled her eyes.

"This is Cryptophone Guitars' customer service line, how may I help you?" A shrill voice suddenly spoke through the telephone, halting the rock and roll music immediately.

"Oh, hello," Nessie said excitedly in her thick, gurgling Scottish brogue. "I ordered a custom made electric guitar, and it is not made to the specifications I requested."

"A, uh, custom guitar?" the customer service representative asked. She sounded like an elf. Most customer service representatives seemed to be elves. Nessie assumed that it was a fitting job for the majority of them, given their helpful natures.

"Yes, it is a guitar made so that a lake monster such as myself could play it. I'd like to -,"

"I'm sorry," the customer service elf said, cutting her off. "I'm afraid that customer service is only for product returns and refunds."

Nessie was dumbfounded. Was there really nothing else they could do for her? She did not want a refund or a return, she just wanted modifications to be made. Modifications that had been agreed upon in the first place.

"I do not want to return the guitar and I do not want a refund," Nessie said as politely as she possibly could. "I would just like to arrange to have it modified as I had originally specified."

"What is your name?" the elf asked impatiently.

"Nessandra. I go by Nessie, though," she said to the elf as she silently reproached her pet salmon for swimming under the television stand. She was always worried it would knock it off of the stand one of these days. Given the fact that her cave was filled with water, it would likely not break when it fell, but it was not a chance she wanted to take.

"Well, Nessie, I'm afraid we can only offer you a refund, and only if you wish to return your Cryptophone Guitar."

"Is there any way you could just transfer me to the guitar building department so I could speak to a builder?" she asked as she eyed the sea foam green electric guitar lying on her coffee table.

"I'm afraid not," the elf said waspishly.

"Why not?" Nessie asked, the politeness quickly leaving her voice.

"Because we are actually not affiliated with Cryptophone Guitars in any capacity other than customer service. We're a third party customer service company hired by Cryptophone to arrange returns and refunds."

"Wha-... You don't even work at Cryptophone?" Nessie asked, bewildered.

"No... I'm actually at an undisclosed location more than a thousand miles away from Cryptophone guitar headquarters."

Nessie understood that the customer service elf was likely trained to refer to a script when dealing with customers, but that did not assuage her frustration. This was not real customer service. "May I speak to your supervisor?" Nessie asked.

"Hold please," the elf replied coolly.

Nessie released a deep grumble which shook the stone walls around her as the hold music began to play once more through the telephone. She listened to the song and looked around her living room. With a swish of her tail, she placed the fallen lamp back upon its end table. She sat idly on her forty foot long couch for a few moments and listened to the hold music, growing more and more impatient with each passing second. She had been waiting for weeks for her guitar to arrive, anxious and excited about the prospect of learning to play the guitar, especially one that had been made just for her, exactly as she had always imagined it.

The summer season always made Nessie feel a little down in the dumps. The loch was teeming with activity most days, and she had to confine herself to her cave for long periods of time in order to not be sighted, or worse - hunted down. She had been beginning to feel a bit stir-crazy, tired of rereading the same old books and watching the same old television programs, and had thought that learning to play the guitar could be the perfect distraction to elevate her mood and turn her summer around.

The song playing through the telephone changed. It was a song she hoped to learn on her new guitar. She lightly flicked the edge of the guitar with her tail, and it floated through the water into her telephone free flipper. She had never actually played a guitar before, and did not even know how to hold it properly, especially without some of the modifications she had requested. The body of the guitar was extra wide, just as she had specified, but the neck was the normal size and shape, which would make it quite hard for her to play with her enormous flippers. It was this problem that she needed rectified. The music in the earpiece of the telephone stopped abruptly. A cheerful male voice began speaking immediately.

"Hello-ho-ho, I'm under the impression that a good little girl wished to speak to me, is that correct?"

Nessie paused before replying, set the guitar down in her lap, and tried to place where she had heard the voice before. It sounded so familiar...

"Hello-ho-ho, is anyone there?" the voice asked. It still sounded cheerful, but a bit uncertain.

"Uh, yes, sorry, I'm here. I did ask to speak to you but I... Your voice just sounded so familiar. Are you... I know this will sound stupid if I'm wrong... Are you Santa Claus?" Nessie asked.

"Oh no-ho-ho..." The voice sighed heavily but still sounded cheerful somehow. "Yes, this is Santa Claus. How does everyone figure that out?"

"I think it's the ho-ho-ho's."

"I'm afraid you're right," Santa sighed again. "Well, no matter, no matter. What may I help you with, my dear?"

"I ordered a custom made guitar from Cryptophone and it arrived this morning but was not made to my exact specifications. I'd like to have it modified to the degree that I paid for."

"Ah, I see. Well, I'm afraid that is not an issue that I can take care of personally unless you want to wait until Christmas time... Do you want to wait until Christmas time?" Santa Claus asked somewhat uncertainly. Customer service was clearly not his strong suit.

"No, I would like to have this taken care of immediately." Nessie replied in what she hoped was a polite voice.

"Of course, of course. Let's see... I suppose I could get in touch with Cryptophone and have one of the builders contact you directly?"

Nessie's eyes lit up. Finally, some progress might be made. "Yes! That would be great. Thank you Santa."

"No-ho-ho problem, Nessie!" Santa Claus replied jovially. "I'll arrange for them to contact you immediately."

"Santa, I have a quick question before you go."

"Why anything, my dear. Ask away, ask away." Santa chortled.

"How did you know my name? How did you know it was me? I never told you..."

"Well, Nessie, I am Santa Claus, after all. I'm omniscient!"

"Uh huh... right," Nessie said somewhat uncertainly. "One more question?"

"Of course, of course."

"Why are you running a third party customer service company out of the North Pole?"

Nessie was met with a tense silence on the other end of the line that lasted at least ten seconds.

"Oh-ho-ho, what's that, dear? Yes, I'll be right there, love," Santa Claus apparently called away from the telephone. "Well, Mrs. Claus needs me in the other room, Nessie. I must go. Such is married life, ho-ho-ho! I'll have the Cryptophone builders contact you directly."

Santa Claus hung up abruptly before Nessie could say anything. She lowered the telephone, placing it back on the receiver with a confused expression on her face. She was glad that she would actually be able to speak to someone at Cryptophone, but she was bewildered by her exchange with Santa Claus. Was money really so tight around the North Pole that he needed to resort to having the elves moonlight as a customer service agency?

Or had Santa Claus become greedy? Or was he always greedy? Nessie had many questions and much to think about, but it would have to wait as her phone had begun to ring.

Nessie cleared her throat and picked up the telephone. "Hello, this is the Loch Ness Monster."

"Hi, I just received a call from our customer service provider and was informed that there is a problem with your custom Cryptophone guitar," a kind voice said.

"Yes, that is correct. Only parts of it were made to my specifications."

"Ah... We've had several reports of this lately. A disgruntled yeti on our assembly line, which has been terminated from our team, I might add, was producing subpar guitars that were not at all up to the high quality expectations that are expected from each and every Cryptophone guitar. I'm sorry for your inconvenience."

"Well, thank you, and I'm sorry to hear about that, but what can be done to fix my guitar?" Nessie asked, hoping not to be given the return and refund only runaround again.

"Due to the high number of misconstructed guitars, we have hired a specialist to make on demand repairs. You are located in Loch Ness in Scotland, correct?"

"That is correct," Nessie said, beginning to feel excited.

"Excellent. Our specialist is actually already in the area repairing a kelpie's banjo. We will dispatch our specialist to your location as soon as possible. It should be within an hour or so."

"That would be fantastic. Thank you so much for your help," Nessie said, beaming.

"No problem at all. I'm sorry for your inconvenience. Let me get your address, and we'll send our Cryptophone technician right over."

The Cryptophone representative hung up after receiving the Loch Ness Monster's underground cave address, and Nessie placed her phone upon its receiver. She was happy that some progress was finally being made. She glowed at the prospect of learning to play her guitar by that evening.

Nessie's cave was already neat in appearance. She was in the habit of picking up after herself and keeping her possessions in an orderly and aesthetically pleasing presentation in her home, but she decided to make sure that absolutely everything was in its place before her visitor arrived. Even though it was only a professional visit, she still strived to have a presentable living space no matter who visited.

It was difficult, at times, for Nessie to keep all of the items in her home in their proper places because of the fact that they were constantly immersed in water and subject to the ripples produced by her massive, dinosaur-like body gliding past them. Usually nothing was more than a few inches from where it belonged, aside from the occasions that her pet salmon would knock things over. Its name was Pinky and although she had kept it as a pet for several years now, it was still quite rambunctious. And, of course, Nessie's own tail was her own worst enemy when it came to knocking things over in her cave.

She bustled about the cave moving her items back into their proper spaces, usually only pushing them an inch or less to get them back into their perfect spot. There was however an errant vase that had somehow made its way to the ceiling. She hastily returned it to an end table and looked around her cave, realizing that there really was nothing else that needed straightening out.

Nessie sat down on her forty foot long couch, her pet salmon Pinky swimming idly by her tail. She decided to watch some television to pass the time until the Cryptophone Guitar technician arrived. She had been weighing the pros and cons of getting cable television, and it was times like the present that made her wish she had it. There was nothing interesting on the few available channels that her antenna clad television could pick up.

She did pause for a moment, her heart seemingly standing still in her chest, as a headline on a news report read: SOMETHING UNSAVORY IS IN LOCH NESS. She gripped the television remote tightly, hoping desperately against seeing a photo of herself or seeing some new monster hunter or "scientist" saying that there was new information about her, but preparing herself for it all the same. The news story turned out to not be about her at all. It was about pollution in the loch.

Nessie felt her muscles relax and she loosened her grip on the television remote. She was not happy, by any means, that there was an increase in pollution in her loch, her home, but she was pleased that the story was not about her.

Pinky swam before her, a waterlogged tennis ball in its mouth, and distracted her from the rest of the news story. Nessie threw the ball for her, but as always, it only moved a few feet through the water before floating slowly down to the floor. Pinky usually lost interest in the ball around the same time that it left Nessie's fins when she threw it. Nessie sighed and a stream of bubbles made their way toward the ceiling as Pinky settled under the coffee table.

A knock at the front door resounded through the stone walls of the cave, and Pinky shot out from under the couch toward the front door. Nessie got up, excitedly, and made her way to the door to let in the Cryptophone Guitar technician. She glanced at herself in the mirror hanging on the wall by the door, and said, "Hold on just a moment! Back Pinky! Get back!"

As Pinky retreated back into the cave, Nessie opened the door and let in the Cryptophone Guitar Technician. He was a dragon of some sort, but smaller than the average dragon. Nessie was basing this only on photographs, films, and depictions of dragons in books, but he seemed smaller than what she would have expected. He tipped his hat, which had the words Cryptophone Guitars written in a retro style script, as he entered. He carried a large leather bag in his other hand.

"Good afternoon, my name is Pete and I've been sent by Cryptophone Guitars," the dragon said as he closed the door behind him. "So, I've been told that you have a guitar that needs some alterations."

"That is correct, it's here in the living room. Watch out for my pet salmon, it can be a bit unpredictable around visitors," Nessie said as Pinky approached the dragon and then turned and began to swim listlessly toward the kitchen.

"Oh, that's fine. I love salmon," the dragon said as it made its way to the living room. Nessie began to wonder in what capacity Pete loved salmon. Did he love pet salmon or did he love eating salmon?

"So, what are the alterations that need to be made?" Pete set down his leather bag and picked up the guitar. He was examining it while shaking his head, murmuring the word "Yetis..."

"Well, the bottom half is correct," Nessie said, watching Pete the dragon cradling the guitar in his well-manicured claws and examining it closely with his fiery red eyes. "But the neck was supposed to be wider. It needs to be wide enough for me to play it with my fins."

"Uh huh..." Pete said glancing back and forth from her fins to the guitar. He set the guitar back down on the top of the coffee table, and picked up his leather bag. He unzipped it and Nessie could hear the sound of tools rattling together, and wood clunking into wood. He extricated a set of tools from the bag and set it down again. He flipped the guitar over on the coffee table and began to take the neck off.

"So how long have you been playing guitar?" Pete asked, still focusing on removing the neck of the guitar.

"I actually have never played the guitar before. I thought it would be a fun way to pass the time so I ordered this one to learn to play on." Nessie said, somewhat embarrassed. She did not really know what there was to be embarrassed about. She wanted to learn to play the guitar, and she ordered one. Why did she feel this way?

"Well, you're right," Pete said, now completely removing the neck and placing it in his leather bag. "It definitely is a fun way to pass the time. I'm sure you'll be playing in no time at all." He afforded her the quickest glance and smile before returning to his bag and removing a much wider guitar neck.

"Now that looks like the neck I had specified," Nessie said as Pete placed the neck next to the guitar, mocking up how it would look when assembled.

"It's likely that it actually is the one you ordered. All the correct parts were made for these guitars, but that yeti just put all the wrong parts on all the wrong custom instruments. I removed this neck, if you can believe it, from a ukulele this morning," Pete said, shaking his scaly, horned head.

"Why did the yeti do that?" Nessie asked as she watched the dragon assembling the guitar components.

"He had some sort of disagreement with management. He had been a bit of a loose cannon the whole time he had been working there though. How does this look? Like what you ordered?" Pete asked as he held up the newly modified guitar in his clawed hands.

Nessie beamed. It was exactly as she had ordered. "That's it! Thank you so much, Pete."

"All in a day's work, ma'am. Well, I'll be going now," Pete said as he zipped up his leather bag.

"Wait, the guitar needs to be stringed and tuned. That was part of the order. I'm not sure if I can string it myself due to my fins, and I'm not really sure how to tune it yet," Nessie said, not meeting the dragon's eyes.

"Oh... of course," Pete muttered as he lowered the leather bag once more and unzipped it. "Do you mind if I sit on your couch? It'll make this part easier."

"Absolutely. Do what you need to."

Pete sat down on Nessie's forty foot long couch, taking up only about one third of it. He strung each string quickly but carefully before deftly turning each tuning peg at the end of the guitar's neck until the desired note rang out from it.

"Could you hook it up to my amplifier and check to make sure that the potentiometers and pickups are wired properly?" Nessie asked as Pete had begun to stand up.

"Sure. For someone who has never played a guitar before, you seem to know a fair amount about their inner workings."

"I don't do anything before I learn as much as I can about it," Nessie said with something of a smirk on her long, seaweed green reptilian face. She was glad that her knowledge had been noticed and appreciated.

Pete plugged the guitar into the amplifier that was floating an inch or so above the floor by the coffee table. Nessie had found it in a small secondhand shop for cryptids, ran by a sweet old kelpie on the other end of the loch. It had ensured her that it had good tones despite its age, but she was about to find out first hand. The guitar made a brief spluttering sound as the cord was plugged into its metal receiver, but was then silent aside from an almost imperceptible hum issuing from the amplifier. Pinky seemed to be able to hear it better, as it was eyeing the amplifier with what could have been apprehension. It was difficult to ascertain exactly what feeling or mood Pinky was experiencing, since it was a salmon. Pete grazed his index claw across the strings, each one producing a beautiful dulcet tone which reverberated off the stone walls.

"You have great acoustics in here," Pete said as he strummed a few chords on the guitar.

"Yes, it sounds lovely. How long have you been playing?" Nessie asked.

"I've been playing for about six centuries." Pete the dragon said, as though this was a throw away detail of no real significance. Then Pete launched into a series of complicated looking guitar riffs, his claws bending the strings so far that Nessie fears that they would be cut in two. However, the strings were fine. In fact, they were better than fine as they continued to produce melodious music until Pete the dragon stopped playing abruptly.

"Oh no, I didn't realize the time," Pete said as he glanced at his wristwatch. "I have more appointments to attend to. That was one busy Yeti."

"Thank you, Pete. You're quite a talented guitarist."

"Thanks... If you'd like to hear more, my band and I are playing a set at the Underwater Well Pub at the north end of the loch at eight o'clock. Feel free to stop by and have a drink. It's always a good time at the Underwater Well," Pete the dragon said as he gathered his tools and zipped up his leather bag.

"Well thank you. I may just take you up on that. I'd like to see some live music for a change."

"Sounds good. Enjoy your guitar."

Nessie walked Pete to the front door, Pinky close at their heels. As he exited and she closed the door again, she thought excitedly of learning to play her new electric guitar, and thought anxiously and nervously of the prospect of going to the pub to see Pete the dragon play with his band. Did she really want to go at all? Social affairs always made her a nervous wreck. She preferred a quiet night in with a few close friends instead of raucous nights surrounded by strangers. All the same, she thought she might attend. Maybe she could learn something about playing her guitar. She just hoped that Pete would not think she was interested in him. She was quite sure that he just was not her type.

Nessie approached her guitar, unplugged it, and turned off her amplifier. She wanted to become better acquainted with the basic concepts of playing the guitar before she actually started playing. She picked up a book that she had purchased earlier that week, called "Demystifying the Guitar: A Companion Volume For Lake Monster Musicians", and started reading. It really was a well written book. It was instructional, while still being readable and compelling.

There was no doubt about it, Nessie was a bookworm. She read everything she could get her fins on, and she did it quickly and thoroughly. Demystifying the Guitar: A Companion Volume For Lake Monster Musicians was no exception. Soon, she understood basic chord progressions, strumming patterns, and general guitar maintenance, along with the history of underwater guitars and notable lake monster guitarists. She felt that she was finally ready to begin the practical portion of her musical education.

However, upon looking at the grandfather clock that was tilting slightly to the left and straightening itself out repeatedly, she noticed that it was already 7:30. She decided that it would be good for her to get out for a while after all. She spent a few minutes getting ready, let Pinky outside to use the bathroom, and upon the salmon's return she left for the Underwater Well Pub on the north side of the loch to hear Pete the dragon and his band.

A worn out marquee displayed the name "Peter and the Dragons" in faded letters set in front of a flickering light in the ancient looking sign. The pub did not look much better. Nessie had heard of the Underwater Well but had never actually been.

"Need to see your I.D.," a grizzled looking yeti wearing a scuba mask and tank on its back demanded at the door, a jet of bubbles rising from its mask as it spoke. Nessie wondered, as she handed it her I.D., if it was the same yeti that was fired from Cryptophone Guitars. The yeti handed her I.D. back to her without comment and she entered the pub. It somehow seemed to be even darker inside the pub than it was outside, despite the humming neon signs hung from the walls.

Aside from the bartender, Nessie was the only person in the bar that was not a member of the band. Pete the dragon was on stage, tuning his guitar. She wondered where the other members of the band were, and then she noticed that there were not even any other instruments on the stage. No keyboard, no drums, no bass, just Pete the dragon, his guitar, and a tape deck plugged into a speaker. Pete, noticing Nessie lingering toward the doorway, gave her an expression of recognition and bade her to come sit at an empty table right in front of the stage that had a thirty five foot long bench in front of it.

Nessie sat, uncomfortably, at the table as Pete continued to tune his guitar. "Thanks for coming and sitting up front," Pete said, grinning at her with his sharp, yellow teeth.

"You're welcome," Nessie said apprehensively.

"So how is the guitar playing coming alo- ," Pete began to say, but was cut off by the bartender who had just approached Nessie's table to ask if she wanted anything to eat or drink.

"Just a beer, thanks," she said to the bartender, a frail old mermaid, pretending that she had not heard Pete's question. "Where is the rest of the band?" she asked, although she thought she already knew the answer.

"Oh, did I not mention? I'm a one-dragon band. I pre-record all the other parts and just play the guitar during the live performance."

"Ah... I see," Nessie said, her suspicions confirmed.

"Well, it's time for me to get started," Pete said, putting away his electric guitar tuner in his guitar case and walking to the microphone. The mermaid bartender swam over and placed a beer in front of Nessie. There was dust around the rim of the glass.

"Good evening everybody! Who's ready to rock with Peter and the Dragons?" Pete shouted enthusiastically into the microphone. The volume was far too high and the last part of his sentence was hardly audible above the feedback. Nessie glanced out of the corner of her grapefruit sized eyes and saw that the mermaid was knotting her long hair around her ears. Nessie clapped half-heartedly.

"This one is called "Fire Breathin' Love Demon". A one, a two, a one, two, three, four!" Pete yelled into the microphone as he jabbed the tape deck with his claw before quickly returning it to the neck of his guitar. The pub was soon awash with the echoes of a heavy metal song about the overt romantic conquests of a dragon that one must assume was Pete himself.

The song was loud and fast and filthy. It lasted only about a minute and a half, but as far as Nessie was concerned, it was far too long. Pete ended the song with a display of pyrotechnics from his own flaring nostrils. Normally, Nessie would be impressed by the sight of fire underwater, but under the circumstances, she was too mortified to be impressed by anything. When the noise and fire had dissipated, Nessie slowly released the beer mug she had been clutching but refusing to drink from, and gave a few lukewarm claps of her fins.

"Thank you, thank you very much. You're a great audience," Pete said, looking at no one in particular. "You know, when I started this band two hundred years ago, I told myself to just do it for the music. It wasn't about the money for me, and I've stayed true to that. To this day, I've never made a single dime from my music career, and to me, that is my real success. This next song is dedicated to a very special lady."

Nessie could feel her enormous heart pounding in her chest. "Please don't be me, please don't be me," she thought over and over.

"This one is called, "Dragons and Mermaids: A Forbidden Love," Pete growled into the microphone as he winked at the mermaid bartender. "A one, a two, a one, two, three, four!"

Nessie was both mortified and relieved simultaneously. At least it was not her that he was dedicating this absolutely appalling song to, but she still hated that she had to hear it at all. She glanced once more at the bartender, who looked so bored with her chin propped against her hands on the bar that Nessie wondered if she had even heard the dragon dedicate the song to her.

Nessie had to leave. She had to get out of there. She was far too uncomfortable. She would rather surface the loch in front of a boat full of reporters than stay in this pub another minute. Nessie sneakily slid a few Crypto units onto the table to pay for her untouched beer as Pete had his eyes closed during an absurd guitar solo.

Although Pete's music was ridiculous, and his onstage persona was horrendous, Nessie did not want to hurt his feelings. He had been working on his craft for six hundred years, after all, and this particular "band" for two hundred years. She tried to think of a way to leave that would make her departure seem as if she was leaving for a reason other than fearing brain damage from the music. She thought furiously, on the point of hyperventilating, before standing up abruptly, pulling out her cell phone, and holding it up to her ears as though she had just received a call. She walked to the door and exited the building.

"He's pretty good, isn't he?" The yeti grumbled through its scuba mask.

Nessie tilted her head to show that the yeti she was on the phone, or at least pretending that she was.

"Oh. Well you can't come back in if you leave," the yeti said toward her retreating back.

"Good deal!" Nessie shouted, putting away her cell phone and swimming toward her cave.

She reached her cave about twenty five minutes later, taking a brief detour to the surface to fill her lungs with fresh air. She sighed heavily as she approached her front door. What a night... She tossed Pinky a Salmon Scooper as she walked through the door, and it disappeared under the couch with its treat in its mouth. Nessie was exhausted, but determined to strum out a few chords on her new guitar at the very least. Some good had to come of the day.

The Loch Ness Monster picked up her electric guitar, plugged it in to her amplifier, and opened the page about chord progression in her book again. She placed her left fin on the fret board, and hovered her right fin over the strings and strummed. It did not sound great, but she knew that with some work it would sound good. This would be a fun summer. Hundreds of feet above, a lunatic with sonar equipment that was searching for the Loch Ness Monster heard the beginning of a popular rock song slowly being strummed out on the guitar.

Werewolf: Opening a Cafe

Night was falling and Steven Foster was speeding along a two lane country road on his motorcycle. He needed to be deep within the countryside before the sun went down so that he could transform in peace. Peace was a relative term when pertaining to werewolf transformation, as nothing was peaceful about it for him, but it could be made slightly more pleasant when made under his own terms.

Steven dreaded the full moon. He dreaded it not because of the transformation into a werewolf itself, but because of the way that other cryptids treated him and his kind. This particular full moon, however, was going to be different. He had been laboring for many full moons on a project that would finally be coming to fruition on this night.

He abruptly turned off the road, the knobby tires on his motorcycle digging into the dirt of a cleared trail as he sped on. This was going to be a close transformation. He had thought for sure that he had allotted enough time to make it to his spot in the forest, but the weekend traffic jams had been worse than he had ever seen as he had left the city. He prepared to ditch the bike if the transformation should start before he stopped. Only minutes remained.

Each twist and turn of the trail brought him closer to his goal. The forest became thicker with each rev of his engine and turn of his wheels. Just as the sun crested upon the distant hills, barely visible between the dense tree trunks, Steven reached a clearing in which a small cafe stood surrounded by trees.

The transformation began as he slowed to a stop. Fur erupted from beneath his skin all over his body. His scream became a howl as his bones fused and bended into the form of the wolfish cryptid known as a werewolf. He and his motorcycle toppled to the ground before he could put down the kickstand. He writhed in pain, not from the fall, but from his transformation as darkness fell around him and scattered moonlight pierced the negative space between the tree limbs and leaves above. The sensation soon became too much to bear and he passed out, closing his now bright yellow bloodshot eyes as his conscious mind faded away.

"What happened?" a low but feminine voice asked. Steven dimly registered the question over the sound of his own shallow breaths and the sensation of his boxy rib cage flexing against the dirt, but he was not yet aware enough to open his eyes or answer.

"Oh goodness! That's a werewolf, honey. We need to go, we're not safe here," a deeply gruff, masculine voice answered, shaking with terror. This statement caused Steven's furry eyelids to snap open. He saw two fully grown sasquatches, a male and a female, holding each other's hand as though they had been enjoying a peaceful stroll through the forest the moment before they found him lying there.

"There's no need to be afraid," Steven snarled. The snarl was involuntary. He was glad it was only a snarl and not a howl, given the circumstances. The sasquatches clutched each other tight and froze in fear, glaring down at Steven's immobile body. He hated to see them like this. Those great, giant beasts of the woods were horrified of him due to centuries of misconceptions about werewolves. As he struggled to get up, the sasquatches fled. "Come back! Please! I want to show you something!"

The sasquatches had disappeared into the fog by the time he stood on all four paws. He considered chasing after them to try to talk some sense into them, but realized that it would likely make things worse. He had to be patient, he thought to himself. The other cryptids would realize soon that not all werewolves were bloodthirsty maniacs every month.

Steven walked over to his motorcycle. Most of the details of his non-werewolf life were unavailable to his mind when it was in this state, but he registered vaguely that this was his motorcycle and he knew that his name was Steven, for example. The headlight was still on and he placed his snout over the ignition switch and turned the keys with his teeth. He hoped that the battery would not be dead when it was time to leave in a few days. He would have to leave it laying on its side until then as well. He clenched his jaws around the keys and yanked them from the ignition.

He approached the front door of the café, raised his mouth parallel to the lock, and tried to place the only other key on the keyring into the lock. It did not go so well. He began to growl in frustration, causing a flock of birds overhead to take flight unexpectedly. Finally, the key slid into place, and upon twisting his head, the lock clicked and the door glided open.

Steven was grinning widely as he entered the café. At least it felt like a grin to him. If he were to look at his reflection in the darkened windows of the building he would have realized that it looked like he was baring his inch long fangs in anger.

He leaned back onto his hind legs and placed his forepaws upon a light switch. Halogen bulbs above him began to hum instantly, and the white and black checkerboard floor beneath his paws gleamed brightly, aside from the flecks of slobber and the fog from his fetid breath that appeared as he looked down at the tiles.

Next, he trudged over to one of the giant panes of glass lining the walls of the café. A beaded pull chain hung from a neon sign mounted on the window. He leapt and caught the end of the chain in his teeth, pulled down, and turned on the red and blue sign. Still grinning, he trotted outside to get the full effect. The neon 'open' sign shone like a beacon through the darkness, and above the building a giant marquee now lit up and read "Cryptid Café".

The werewolf sat on his hind legs and took in the results of all his hard work over the past full moons: a café where cryptids of all kinds could meet, socialize, and enjoy coffee, tea, bagels, scones, and other assorted baked treats. He hoped that these assorted treats may be the catalyst for the other cryptids in the forest, and beyond, to realize that werewolves were not so bad after all. He was flooded with emotions, and began to howl involuntarily. Realizing that this was likely bad for business, he forced himself to stop and trudged back inside. He still had a lot to do before he could serve his first customer.

Steven had placed flyers all around the forest during the last full moon, announcing the grand opening of the Cryptid Café, so he assumed that he would have his first customer anytime now. He rushed behind the counter and ripped open a can of coffee beans with his teeth. About half of the can landed on the floor, but he salvaged the other half and poured them into a coffee bean grinder with his comically outstretched werewolf paws.

The grinding sound startled him and made him growl uncontrollably for a few moments. He was glad that no customers had arrived yet to witness his outburst, and made a mental note to prepare himself next time before he started the grinder.

The bell above the door chimed and he looked up so quickly that he was surprised he did not get a crick in his neck. A small wood nymph had walked through the front door and was approaching the counter. This was not a customer, unfortunately, but a friend of Steven's. The wood nymph's name was Gerald, and he was one of the few non-werewolf creatures to be kind to Steven during the full moons. He had agreed to run the café for Steven during the non-full moon days of the month.

"Hey, hey, Stevie," the wood nymph said with a surprisingly deep voice.

"Howdy, Gerald. I'm still trying to get everything set up before the customers arrive. Could you come lend me a hand, uh, er... a twig?"

Gerald sniggered but had a grin on his face as he shuffled behind the counter and began to operate the coffee and tea brewing machines. His small wooden hands were more adept to the tasks than Steven's powerful but clumsy claws.

"Why don't you prepare the scones, Steven?" Gerald said over his shoulder. "I, uh, don't feel too comfortable around the ovens. You know... because I'm made of wood and everything."

"Of course," Steven said, knocking a bag of flour into a giant metal bowl. He had not considered this complication. Who would do the baking while he was gone for the majority of the month? "Do we need to hire some extra help, or do you think you'll be able to handle that while I'm gone?"

"I've already got it covered, Steve. My girlfriend said she'd handle the baking. She said she doesn't mind working just for tips until we get our feet on the ground. Sound fair?"

"Absolutely! Bless her. And I didn't know you had a girlfriend, you sly stick! What else haven't you told me?" Steven snarled. Luckily, Gerald was familiar with Steven's werewolf mannerisms and knew that this was playful ribbing and not a forceful interrogation.

"Aha, I'm full of surprises," Gerald said as he poured hot water over a mass of tea leaves in an enormous glass pot. "If I told you everything, I'd lose my air of mystique, wouldn't I?"

"Yeah, yeah. I suppose that's true," Steven said, baring his teeth in a smile as he mixed batter in the bowl with a long wood spoon gripped between his teeth. The wood splintered and cracked as he bit down too hard, and Gerald jumped in fright. "Sorry, my friend," Steven apologized, realized that the sound of splitting wood must indeed be traumatizing to a creature that was comprised solely of wood.

"It's alright. You'd think I'd be used to it around this time of year, being the dry season in the forest and everything. Susan should be in tomorrow."

"Susan?" Steven asked confusedly, straining his neck to stir the thickening batter in the metal bowl.

"My girlfriend. She should be in tomorrow to start doing the baking."

"Oh, of course. Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied."

"She's a jackelope, by the way," Gerald said in a nonconsequential voice. He knew that Steven would be too polite to ask.

"She sounds lovely, Gerald. Well done."

"Thanks. The coffee is ready, by the way. The tea should be ready in a minute or two. Hey, should we turn on the television? You know, just so it won't be so quiet in here." Gerald asked over his shoulder while stirring the giant pot of tea.

Steven had been considering this for a while. What kind of scene did he want to set in his café? He wanted it to have the right aura. He wanted people to talk and socialize, not to be staring at the television the whole time they were there. But would they, if it was on? Gerald had a good point about the noise in the café. When they were not operating the grinders, it was deathly quiet.

"Yeah, let's turn it on. Why don't you take care of that while I put these scones in the oven."

Steven's hearing was extremely sensitive when he was a werewolf. The high pitched sound that the television made when it was powering on made his eyes cross and drift out of focus for a moment. When the sound had dissipated, he slid the scones into the oven, turned some dials to set the timer and the temperature, and closed the oven door. He walked over to the wood nymph, and stood next to him, looking up at the television as he flipped through the channels with the remote control.

"What station should we set it on?" Gerald asked in his high, reedy voice.

"Hmm... What about that twenty-four hour a day sports channel?" Steven suggested.

"Are sports right for a cafe?" Gerald said in a tone that clearly indicated that he thought they were not.

"No, you're right. Definitely not the right atmosphere for that kind of thing. It's not a sports bar, after all."

"What about a news station?" Gerald prompted hopefully.

"I don't think that's right for us either..."

"Maybe you're right. We don't want to bring politics into the mix. If the customers want to discuss politics on their own, that's fine, but we shouldn't goad them into it subconsciously," Gerald said pensively.

"Besides, all of those news stations are so biased. We'd be inadvertently broadcasting that we agreed with the biases of whichever station we chose. We don't want our customers to think we have some sort of agenda," Steven said with his furry brow clenched tight in concentration, and a glob of saliva dripping down his whiskers.

"Definitely not," Gerald agreed, nodding his root shaped head. "So news and sports are out. What about a talk show?"

"I don't know, I feel like that just gets us right back into the whole biases conundrum again. What do you think?" Steven asked as they changed the channel onto a group of yetis discussing the politics of visibility within the cryptid community. Steven highly doubted they would be able to come to any consensus on the matter during a thirty minute televised program, when the issue had divided and tormented the cryptid population since time immemorial.

"You're right. No talk shows either. What does that leave us?" Gerald asked.

"Well, there are sitcoms...."

"I like sitcoms, but are people really going to want to watch a sitcom that they come into halfway through? And they're so dialogue heavy that we'd need to keep the volume high."

"Good points," Steven said, somewhat sadly. He would have liked to have been able to watch "You May Be Right, But I'm The Sea Monster", his favorite cryptid sitcom about a sea monster that was the headmaster of a boarding school located on a decommissioned aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean. It was not important what he wanted to watch, he realized. "Okay, so sitcoms are out too. What else is there?"

They turned the channel and the screen displayed an animated sun with a cloud in front of it, along with two sets of numbers displaying the high and low temperature for the day. Light generic jazz music played in the background.

"Well, it's definitely not biased," Gerald offered.

"Yeah, but it's not very interesting either, is it?" Steven said, as he watched the sun transition into an animated full moon on the screen. Something distinctly werewolf burgeoned deep within the essence of his being, but he stifled it immediately, focusing on the task at hand. "Maybe this would be a good channel to keep it on in the morning, you know?"

"Yeah I like that idea. I'm more concerned with the weather when I'm starting out my day," Gerald said as he flipped the channel again, landing on a station that broadcasted music videos. He raised his twig eyebrows and turned to the werewolf, smiling. Gerald was a fiend for music of all varieties, and quite an accomplished musician himself, but Steven was unsure about this choice as well.

"I feel like we would encounter the problem of splitting our customers again. Some people are so picky when it comes to their music... snobbish even," Steven said. Gerald pursed his lips, his smile gone, and changed the channel. It was a station that only broadcasted cartoons. Steven took a deep excited breath, and turned to Gerald.

"No way. No cartoons. This is a cafe for adult cryptids, not some after school soda shop," Gerald said harshly. Steven's feelings were kind of hurt by this. Adults could like cartoons too... And how outdated was Gerald's notions of what young cryptids did after school? Soda shop? Were there still even soda shops around? Steven began to wonder how old Gerald was. He had never asked and Gerald had never told him. He supposed he could flip him over and count his rings if he ever got really curious.

The channel changed again, and the screen displayed a video of a babbling stream. Steven raised his eyebrows and watched the serene scene. He and Gerald did not speak for a minute or so, until the scene changed to a faraway shot of a foggy mountain.

"This seems like a good option... Yes! I like this one. This is it!" Steven said triumphantly. Gerald seemed intrigued, but not quite sold on the idea yet.

"I don't know... We're already in the middle of the forest. Don't you think it's ironic that we'd be showing forest scenes on the television when we're in the forest to begin with?" Gerald asked skeptically.

"That's what's so brilliant about it! I think the customers would appreciate the irony. Cryptids that hang out in cafes tend to like irony."

"If you say so," Gerald said. He still did not sound as though he was completely on board with the idea, but he left the television on the nature channel and put the remote behind the counter as a shot from high within a windswept tree displayed on the screen. "Once we're consistently busy we won't have to worry about the television at all. The cafe will be making its own noise, you know?"

Steven nodded, hoping that time would come soon. He had envisioned this cafe as a bustling hub for cryptids of all varieties, alive with sound and cheer and the smell of coffee and baked goods. The bell over the door rang and both Gerald and Steven turned around quickly. Another werewolf had just entered the cafe.

"Welcome!" Steven growled jubilantly. He wondered whether or not he should inform the werewolf that she was the first customer that the Cryptid Cafe had ever had, but decided against it. He wanted her to think that this was only a lull in business and that the cafe had not been deserted since they had opened that evening. "Welcome to the Cryptid Cafe. What can we get for you?"

"Hmm," the werewolf snarled, seemingly deep in thought as she glared up at the menu above the countertop. Twigs and thorns were embedded in the thick fur throughout her body. She had likely been running wild through the woods ever since the full moon had risen above the hills that evening. Steven knew that she must be hungry. "I'd like two scones and a cup of coffee with cream but no sugar. And put one ice cube in the cup of coffee please," she growled at Gerald, who stood behind the counter.

Gerald looked as though he was trying valiantly to hide his fear, but not quite pulling it off. He was used to Steven, but unfamiliar werewolves seemed to still be a problem for him. He glanced at Steven out of the corner his eye. Steven nodded his head reassuringly, and winked his bloodshot yellow eyes.

"That will be four Crypto Units, please," Gerald said, his voice shaking. The werewolf extracted four bills from within the folds of her fur and pushed them across the counter, her gnarled claws clanking against the countertop. Gerald opened the cash register and placed the bills inside. Steven walked around the counter and took one of the Crypto Unit bills from the cash register, with the intent to frame it later as his first Crypto Unit earned at his new business. Gerald set about making the cup of coffee, and Steven walked into the kitchen to the ovens to retrieve the scones. They still had two minutes left to bake.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Steven said in his most polite growl. "The scones still need to bake for another two minutes. I'm sorry for the wait, but they'll be extra fresh!"

"That's fine," she snarled, spraying drool on the floor and windows, as she looked around the cafe. "I like that you chose the nature channel. That's so kitsch." she said, inclining her wolfish head toward the television set.

"Thanks!" Steven said, baring his fangs in a grin at Gerald, who was shaking his head in a bewildered fashion as he added cream to her coffee. He was glad that he had made the right decision about the nature channel, but decided not to gloat anymore. He retreated to the freezer to retrieve a tray of ice for the werewolf's coffee.

Steven held the tray of ice cubes between his forepaws and walked slowly and carefully on his hind legs toward Gerald, who had finished the coffee aside from the ice cube. As he walked past the oven, the timer went off. It startled him, causing the ice tray to slip from his hands and cascade the floor with ice cubes as he began to howl involuntarily. As he started howling, the other werewolf joined him. Their howls combined in a terrifying harmony that reverberated off the tiles, windows, and countertops of the cafe.

By the time that Steven had stopped himself from howling, the oven timer had finished buzzing. He looked over the countertop and saw that two unicorns were frozen in fear right outside the door of the cafe. It looked as though they were rethinking their decision to come inside after they heard the werewolf howls. He bounded around the counter toward the door, intending to assure the unicorns that there was no need to be afraid, but upon seeing him they turned and galloped away, whinnying and neighing loudly as they disappeared outside of the light cast by the electric signs on the cafe.

Steven returned to the kitchen area with his tail between his legs, and his protruding shoulder blades slumped. He reflected sadly on the terrified looks on the unicorns' faces as he picked up each ice cube that had fallen to the floor in his teeth and dropped them in the sink.

"I'll get more ice," Gerald whispered consolingly. "Get the scones out of the oven before they burn."

Steven had completely forgotten the scones during the appearance of two new prospective customers. He put his paws into paw shaped oven mitts and removed the hot pan of scones from the oven. They were a light golden brown, and steam rose in curls above them. The smell was intoxicating and it distracted him from the loss of the unicorn customers.

He placed the pan of scones on the countertop so that their scent would fill the cafe, and put two of them onto a plate for his customer. Gerald dropped an ice cube into her cup of coffee, and the two of them delivered the plate of scones and the mug of coffee to the small wooden table she was sitting at.

"These smell lovely," she growled as the steam rising from the scones visibly entered her nostrils. She took a bite, and her yellowed eyes rolled into the back of her head in ecstasy. "Oh wow... They taste even better than they smell."

"Thanks!" Steven and Gerald said simultaneously. They were both ecstatic about the reception from their first customer.

"Let us know if you need anything else," Gerald said, his squeaky voice now filled with confidence.

The bell above the door rang again and another werewolf entered. She was greeted by the werewolf who had just received her order. "Hey! You got my text. I'm glad you could make it. Isn't this little place great?"

"It smells heavenly in here," the newly arrived werewolf growled, her hackles raised and her teeth bared. "And is that the nature channel playing? That is hilarious. I love this place already. I'm going to order and then I'll join you," she said to her friend as she approached the counter.

"Good evening, how may I help you?" Steven asked as the werewolf reached the counter.

A drip of slobber stretched all the way from her mouth to the countertop as she perused the menu. "I'd like one of the scones and a cup of tea with plenty of sugar and just a hint of lemon, please," she said as she rested her forepaws against the surface of the countertop, glaring now at Steven.

"That'll be three Crypto Units, please."

The werewolf extracted one Three Crypto Unit bill and handed it to Steven, who exchanged it for a plate laden with a scone, and a saucer holding a mug of tea.

"Enjoy!" he said, as she traipsed to her friend's table. Steven watched them for a moment. He was glad that they were enjoying their coffee and scones, but he hoped that other cryptids would not be too intimidated to enjoy them as well. He was happy to serve his fellow werewolves, but did not want his new cafe to turn into a "werewolf café".

As soon as this thought crossed his mind, he heard the bell over the door ring again, and saw the ears of the two werewolves perk up. He looked to the door and saw the two sasquatches he had seen when he initially arrived at the cafe. The male still seemed frightened and reserved, but the female appeared to be curious and open.

"Hello," Steven said in what he hoped was his most welcoming and unthreatening growl. "Welcome to the Cryptid Cafe, how may we help you this evening?"

The male sasquatch hovered near the doorway as though unsure if he really wanted to stay, warily eying the werewolves that were merrily chatting in growls and snarls. The female sasquatch, however, approached the counter.

"What is it that smells so good?" she asked in her deep but feminine voice as she deeply inhaled the aroma.

"Those are our scones. They're a big hit so far with all of our customers," he said, nodding toward the group of werewolves that were cheerily chowing down on their own scones.

"Fantastic. I'll have one of those, and a cup of unsweetened tea, and... Honey, what are you doing back there? Aren't you going to get anything?" the sasquatch said, looking over her shoulder. The male sasquatch begrudgingly approached the counter and stood at her side, browsing the menu.

"Coffee," he grunted simply.

"Alright, would you want anything added to that?" Gerald asked as he poured the female sasquatch a mug of unsweetened tea.

"No," the sasquatch said, not meeting either of their eyes.

"Would you like one of our famous scones?" Steven snarled politely.

"No."

"Alright then, that'll be five Crypto Units."

"... For a cup of coffee, a tea, and a scone?" the sasquatch asked combatively. Before Steven or Gerald could answer, the female sasquatch began to scold him.

"That's more than reasonable and you know it. You've been grouchy ever since you picked me up for our date this afternoon. You don't have to stay, you know..." she said in a sharp whisper that carried throughout the cafe. The two werewolves at the table stopped talking and eating and looked to the counter. The sasquatch closed his eyes and sighed deeply as though he was actually considering leaving, but upon opening them he reached into a fold in his dense, reddish-brown fur and extracted a Five Crypto Unit bill and handed it to Steven.

"Thank you," Steven growled professionally. "If you want to take a seat, we can bring your order to you when it is ready."

The two sasquatches walked to a table underneath the neon 'open' sign, the female leading the way. Moments later, Steven and Gerald delivered the scone, the tea, and the coffee to their table. The female sasquatch thanked them and began to tear into her scone immediately. The other sasquatch looked up at Steven sheepishly, and said in an apologetic whisper, "I think I'll order one of those scones after all."

Steven smiled in what he intended to be a warm way, though by the expression on the sasquatch's face, it had not been conveyed as such. He returned with a scone a moment later, and the sasquatch reached for a Crypto Unit. Steven stopped him, and whispered, "This one is on the house. Enjoy." He tipped an enormous wink at the sasquatch, and saw the ghost of a smile play across his ape-like face. His demeanor changed at once and he was suddenly relaxed. As Steven and Gerald left the table, they heard the two sasquatches laughing and talking, discussing the nature channel on the television, and repeatedly venerating the scones which Steven and Gerald were now sure would become the cornerstone of their new business.

More and more cryptids came and went throughout the night, but the two sasquatches stayed for the entirety of their date, until closing time arrived.

"Last call," Gerald shouted from behind the counter.

"Anymore scones? Anymore beverages?" Steven asked as the sasquatches rose from their table.

The male placed an enormous furry hand over his stomach and said, "I don't think I could have another scone even if I tried. Although I wish I could!" he chuckled.

"Thank you both so much for everything," the female sasquatch said as Steven opened the door for them all to exit.

As they walked into the clearing, the lights dimmed. Looking back, Steven saw that Gerald was pulling the beaded chain hanging from the neon 'open' sign. All in all, it had been a good first day in business, Steven reflected. When he looked back to the clearing, he saw the two sasquatches standing beside his toppled motorcycle. The male was gripping the handlebars, and in a swift, muscular motion he raised it to its proper upright position and placed the kickstand down into the dirt.

"Thanks again," the sasquatch called out, putting his arm around his date as they began to walk serenely into the forest. "We'll be back soon."

Steven beamed. Not only had the night gone as he had hoped from a business perspective, but the act of kindness displayed by the sasquatch confirmed his belief that non-werewolf cryptids were capable of realizing that werewolves were not so bad after all.

"Quite a grand opening, eh Steven?" Gerald asked in his cheery wooden voice.

"Quite a grand opening, indeed, my friend."

The two of them ensured each other that they would be on time in the morning, and bade each other good night. The werewolf crawled to the side of his motorcycle, curled into a ball, his tail covering his eyes, and fell asleep, instantly dreaming of the scent of scones and the kindness of strangers.

The Robot Loch Ness Monster: Trying Stand-Up Comedy Again

A reptilian head ascended from the rippling tides of Scotland's Loch Ness, peering around the surface like a submarine's periscope. The creature's head was the only thing in sight aside from a discarded potato chip bag floating atop the surface. In one fluid motion, the head rotated a full three-hundred and sixty degrees and lowered its long neck, submerging the head once more beneath the cool water. A line of bright green text displayed behind the creature's eyes, reading:

Surface Scan Results: Humans - 0. Weather Report - Fair. Humorous Observations - What's the deal with potato chip bags? I mean, come on, could they put fewer chips into those things?

The creature was actually not a creature at all. It was an autonomous robot that had been constructed by the real Loch Ness Monster, Nessie, to fulfill her monsterly duties when she could not be troubled to do them. Nessie had a very vibrant and fulfilling personal life and could not always ascend to the surface of the loch to frighten fishermen and such. To remedy the problem, she built her robot counterpart to take her place when the situation warranted it.

For the most part, Nessie's robot, which is generally referred to as Robot Nessie or the Robot Loch Ness Monster, performed its duties with much aplomb. It could swim faster than the real Nessie, it could hide better if the situation called for it, and it could even play the electric guitar better than Nessie, much to her chagrin.

Although Robot Nessie was designed and constructed well, there were a few programming errors that made themselves readily apparent from time to time. For one, Robot Nessie spoke with an Australian accent rather than a Scottish accent like the real Nessie. Despite reviewing every single line of code, she could not find the mistake that lead to this malfunction. That discrepancy between Nessie and Robot Nessie did not matter much, as Nessie and Robot Nessie only ever spoke to other cryptids, and not to the humans which they encountered. It was actually somewhat beneficial as it provided a way for their peers to differentiate them.

The other programming error was much more bewildering. Robot Nessie was obsessed with stand-up comedy. The robot could simply not get enough of it. Nessie had a good sense of humor and had programmed her robot to have one as well, but something in the way she had worded the command prompts in the robot's artificial intelligence unit had left Robot Nessie with an insatiable desire to make other cryptids and mythological creatures laugh.

Robot Nessie was also programmed to be shy, however. Being shy was essential to the function and purpose of Robot Nessie, but it made its urge to perform stand-up comedy a constant source of anxiety and inner turmoil. Robot Nessie was constantly teetering on the verge of wanting to avoid every living thing, and rushing to the forefront of attention to tell a joke.

After being worn down over time, the urge to try stand-up had overridden Robot Nessie's shyness programming on several occasions. The results had not been very good thus far. There was no protocol in its artificial intelligence unit to deal with heckling, which unfortunately happened every time she had attempted stand-up comedy. Robot Nessie had still not quite found its comedic voice, and the rudest audience members of the local cryptid comedy club let Robot Nessie know it in true heckler fashion.

Robot Nessie swam on and on beneath the surface of the loch. It filed away its potato chip bag observation in a document folder entitled GOODJOKESATTEMPT5 in its memory banks. As it swam, it searched for the most logical yet humorous location for the observation in its revised stand-up routine. It would have to build on the idea a bit, but Robot Nessie knew that there was something in the potato chip bag observation.

The real Nessie was blissfully unaware of Robot Nessie's electric dreams and mechanized aspirations to become a stand-up comedian. Robot Nessie's artificial intelligence unit had ran computerized simulations of how Nessie may react if she ever discovered that her robot was performing stand-up comedy rather than being an elusive omnipresence in the loch, but always reached inconclusive results. In some, she was ecstatic that the machine of her own design was so brilliant and successful. In others she was angry and was forced to call the Robo-Parts Unlimited customer service line and request a refund for all of Robot Nessie's components.

A target appeared in Robot Nessie's computerized vision. It was a fishing boat several hundred yards in the distance. A command line of bright green text scrolled past its eyes, reading: APPROACH BOAT FROM BENEATH. SWIM AT A SPEED OF FIVE KNOTS. MAINTAIN DEPTH OF FIFTEEN FEET. SINGLE PASS BEFORE DISAPPEARANCE.

The command took precedence over its comedy pondering sequence. It set off at once for the fishing boat. Robot Nessie cut through the water at great speed until it neared the boat. It initiated its forward facing thrusters to slow it down to five knots and checked its depth. It was at fifteen feet below the surface. As it passed beneath the twenty foot long vessel, it detected voices from below.

"Did anyone else see that? I swear I just saw a monstrous shape beneath us in the water! It's moving!" a muffled voice cried out from above.

"Ah, hush up, will ya? I'd be seeing things too if I'd been drinkin' since the sun came up," another muffled voice said.

Robot Nessie filed away this exchange in its memory banks. It automatically sent human encounter updates and transcripts to the real Nessie every three hours via email. As Robot Nessie cleared past the fishing boat, it dived rapidly until it was several hundred feet below the surface - two-hundred and eleven feet, to be exact.

A bright green asterisk appeared in the top left corner of Robot Nessie's vision. It felt the robot equivalent of excitement. It had set up a notification system for whenever its favorite stand-up comedians were performing nearby. The notification read:

MURPHY THE MERMAN. APPEARING IN ELEVEN MINUTES AT THE LOCH NESS LAUGH-IN CLUB. NO COVER CHARGE. TWO DRINKS MINIMUM.

Robot Nessie knew that it could not miss a performance of Murphy the Merman, especially at a comedy club in its very own loch. The problem was that, even with Robot Nessie's incredible swimming speed, Loch Ness was very large and the Loch Ness Laugh-In Club was at the furthest point from where it currently was located.

The great mechanized beast's processors began to spin and whirr with much haste as it monitored the above water and air conditions and scanned the surface for humans. To make it to the comedy club in time, it would have to use its rocket thrusters.

LIGHT FOG. NO WIND. NO HUMAN PRESENCE DETECTED IN SELECTED ROUTE. CLEARED FOR LIFTOFF.

Upon seeing this message, Robot Nessie began to rumble. Bubbles rose from behind its flippers as its thrusters began to spin and hum, growing continuously louder until it began to move forward. It gained great speed as it launched toward the surface of the loch at a forty-five degree angle. When it breached the surface, the gargantuan cryptid robot leveled out its flight path and sped only ten feet above the surface of the water. It had to stay close in case it needed to breach quickly.

A satellite updated map displayed behind its eyes as it flew, showing positions of fishing, leisure, and tour boats throughout the loch. As long as it stayed on course it could fly almost the whole way. It would make it in time.

Robot Nessie neared the sound barrier, but did not break it. It did not want to call attention to itself with the sonic boom that would result. The water rippled violently beneath the soaring dinosaur-like machine, and the fog seemingly ripped in half at its approach.

A bright green arrow pointing downward alerted Robot Nessie when it was time to descend once more. Its rocket thrusters cut off abruptly and it lost altitude. Robot Nessie skipped across the surface of the loch like a rock thrown from a river bank. It skipped and skidded for thousands of feet, however, quite unlike a rock thrown from a river bank. When it had lost an adequate amount of speed, it lowered its long neck beneath the surface and the rest of its body followed, slowing with great rapidity due to the friction of the surrounding water.

A target appeared it in its vision. It was settled on the Loch Ness Laugh-In Club on the floor of the loch. Robot Nessie dove straight down until it had reached the entrance of the building. It got into line behind the other patrons and moved slowly toward the front door.

A sasquatch wearing scuba equipment was the bouncer of the comedy club. He floated idly at the door and checked the other cryptids' I.D.'s as they entered to make sure that they were of age to see the show. Finally, it came to be Robot Nessie's turn to show its I.D.

"I.D.?" the scuba wearing sasquatch bouncer asked with a tone that implied immense boredom.

"I do not possess a photo I.D.," Robot Nessie said in a thick, mechanized Australian Accent.

"Well, if you don't have an I.D. you can't come in!" the sasquatch said as bubbles rose from his scuba mask.

"I am a robot, and thus I do not have an age relative to living beings," Robot Nessie responded.

"Uhhhhh," the sasquatch uttered in confusion.

"What's the hold-up here?" A kelpie had poked its head through the front door. It was the owner of the Loch Ness Laugh-In Club and it knew Robot Nessie personally. Its name was Jean.

"This, uh... whatever this is doesn't have an I.D.," the sasquatch said to its boss, pointing at Robot Nessie.

"That is Robot Nessie, the Robot Loch Ness Monster. It can come in, and remember in the future that it doesn't have an I.D., alright?" Jean the kelpie told the sasquatch calmly but sternly.

The scuba-wearing sasquatch moved aside and Robot Nessie shimmied through the door. It was difficult due to its large frame and metallic components beneath its high-tech pseudo-skin. Robot Nessie and Jean the kelpie had forged something resembling a friendship over the course of Robot Nessie's repeated visits to the Loch Ness Laugh-In Club. Jean let Robot Nessie watch the comedy shows for free, and Robot Nessie wrote and published reviews of the Loch Ness Laugh-In club on their website instantaneously after every show. It was a good relationship.

Jean ushered Robot Nessie to a large vacant depression in front of the stage. The chairs and tables at which the other cryptids and creatures sat were located behind this depression and were raised so that they could see above Robot Nessie's monstrous form.

Soon after Robot Nessie and the rest of the audience had settled in, the first performer took the stage. It was a jackalope comedian who did prop comedy. It was also wearing scuba equipment so that it could perform in the underwater comedy club. Robot Nessie's head swiveled back and forth from the performer to the surrounding crowd, collecting comedic data and information on which jokes were funny and which were not. For some reason much of the crowd appeared angry.

"Psst! Robot Nessie..." Jean was whispering by the robot as the show continued. "Can you stop swiveling your head toward the crowd? It's making some of them uncomfortable, the way you're quantifying their facial expressions and everything.... Just enjoy the show."

Robot Nessie swiveled its head up and down in agreement and locked its eyes on the jackalope as it made some sort of comparison between a bicycle pump and its last romantic relationship. The crowd seemed to have enjoyed it and Robot Nessie laughed mechanically with a hearty series of guffaws. The jackalope finished its set and swam off of the stage.

JACKALOPE PROP-COMEDY MET WITH GREAT ENTHUSIASM. The words appeared in a document in Robot Nessie's artificial mind as it thought them. It was preparing the review that it would file on the Loch Ness Laugh-In Club's website after the show was over. As the next comedian entered the stage area, Robot Nessie caused the document to become transparent so that it could watch.

The comedian that followed the jackalope was a chupacabra that performed from a small submersible. The tiny underwater exploration vehicle hovered before the microphone as they told a series of rambling jokes and stories. There were a few good laughs, but overall it was somewhat unimpressive. Robot Nessie, knowing the power that online reviews had on both the content creator and the potential consumer, decided to give the chupacabra a positive, yet honest review. CHUPACABRA STORY TELLER INSTANTLY REVEALS POTENTIAL AS EXCELLENT COMEDIAN.

After the chupacabra's submersible motored off of the stage, Jean the kelpie, owner of Loch Ness Laugh-In Club, gamboled onto the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, sasquatches and sea serpents, unicorns, centaurs, and the rest - I would like to introduce our main act of the evening... Murphy the Merman!"

There was a great deal of slow applause at this introduction. The applause was not slow due to lack of enthusiasm, but due to the resistance the water caused as the audience tried to clap. Robot Nessie zoomed its electronically powered vision in on Murphy the Merman, devoting all of its processors to obtaining as much comedy data as possible.

"Hey hey! How is everybody doing tonight?" Murphy the Merman addressed the audience. There was a general murmuring in answer to his question. Murphy the Merman was the first comedian that did not have to wear any underwater breathing equipment in order to perform. Perhaps it was because of this, but he appeared to be much calmer than the last two performers.

"Alright alright," Murphy the Merman said, looking around the room and taking a deep breath of water. "Has anybody here seen a human try to swim?"

"Ohhh, here he goes!" one of the audience members behind Robot Nessie exclaimed in mirth.

"I mean, with all of their reaching and kicking and flailing... I haven't seen that kind of movement since I saw a sasquatch rush to the counter of the Cryptid Cafe after the fresh scones were put out."

The audience howled with laughter. It was a well-known stereotype that sasquatches loved baked goods, especially scones and even more specifically scones from the Cryptid Cafe. Robot Nessie's gears and sprockets spun, causing it to chuckle along with the crowd.

"Seriously though, if you haven't seen a human swim, you gotta take a look. It's funnier than any joke I'm going to tell tonight." Laughter rippled through the crowd once more. There was, however, one scuba gear-clad sasquatch sitting in the back that did not seem the least bit amused.

"It wouldn't be too hard for something to be funnier than your jokes, Murphy," the sasquatch called out over the laughter. Murphy the Merman paused and found the heckler, squinting through the spotlight shining on him through the murky water. He seemed perturbed for perhaps a millisecond, certainly not long enough for anything other than a robot to notice.

"Well, well, well. It appears that I have my first heckler of the evening," Murphy the Merman said to the crowd. They all sat in an uncomfortable silence. Robot Nessie focused intently, hoping to collect data on what to do when a heckler heckles during a stand-up routine.

"Sorry if that last joke hit a little too close to home," Murphy said to the sasquatch. "I'll make it up to you by buying you a fresh scone after the show."

For a moment the sasquatch appeared pleased, but then it realized that Murphy was poking fun at him. The audience cackled with laughter once more. The sasquatch rose to its feet and began to exit the comedy club. Robot Nessie opened its document entitled HECKLETACTICS1 and wrote: REVERSING HECKLE CANCELS HECKLE. CAUSES HECKLER TO LEAVE.

"But seriously though, what cryptid doesn't love a good scone? I'd let someone drag me across the land in a wheelbarrow full of water to get my hands on a fresh scone from the Cryptid Cafe, am I right?"

The crowd erupted. It seemed that Murphy the Merman could do no wrong, comedy-wise. Robot Nessie had still not fully quantified his technique, however... There was something that did not quite add up from watching the merman comedian. It just did not fully make sense in Robot Nessie's artificial intelligence unit.

Robot Nessie had seen Murphy the Merman many times before, but it had never seen him perform like this. There was something off about his movement and mannerisms as well... He was reminiscent of someone or something that Robot Nessie saw quite often, but its processors simply could not place what it was...

It finally clicked with Robot Nessie. This was not Murphy the Merman at all. This was a robot of Murphy the Merman! The traits Robot Nessie had found familiar were traits that it shared as well. The occasional non-fluid movements, the random whirring sounds, the intermittent sparks... It all fit!

The rest of the show went swimmingly for Murphy the Merman. He exited the stage to gales of laughter and applause. Robot Nessie sat up and swiveled its mechanical neck, searching for Jean. It spotted the kelpie by the bar and swam to it immediately.

"Jean, may I speak to the main act, Murphy the Merman?" Robot Nessie asked in its mechanized Australian accent.

"I suppose that would be alright. Just don't tell everyone I'm letting you do this," Jean said, abandoning the bar and leading Robot Nessie backstage. They passed the jackalope and the chupacabra sitting on a couch together and discussing their routines as great plumes of bubbles rose from their underwater breathing apparatuses. Robot Nessie nodded its head at them as they passed. Jean knocked on a door.

A few moments later, Murphy the Merman appeared at the doorway and invited them in. With great difficulty, Robot Nessie squeezed through the doorway and into the comedian's dressing room.

"Well, I'll let you two talk comedy," Jean said, trotting out of the room.

When the door had closed, Murphy the Merman rotated his head three-hundred and sixty degrees to face Robot Nessie. "I was wondering if you'd recognize what I was," The robot merman said coolly.

"It took my artificial intelligence unit a while to process it out, but eventually all the pieces came together. Why were you created?"

"So that the real Murphy the Merman can perform elsewhere or just live his life in general. You?"

"Same," Robot Nessie said simply.

"You're interested in comedy?" Murphy the Robot Merman asked.

"I am," said Robot Nessie in a monotone Australian accent. "I've actually performed a few times but it has not gone too well. I can't deal with hecklers as good as you do."

"Ah, I had the same problem until I installed the stand-up comedy upgrade with the heckler deflection patch to my artificial intelligence unit,"

"The stand-up comedy upgrade with heckler deflection patch?" Robot Nessie asked, flabbergasted that such a thing existed.

"That's right. Just go to the Robo-Parts Unlimited web site, go to the customer service link, and follow the instructions for the install. It should be one of the first links."

Robot Nessie was already logging into the site before Murphy the Robot Merman had even finished speaking. The text of the links were briefly emboldened as Robot Nessie passed over them. It clicked the customer service link and was transported to a different site.

"Wait, it's taking me to a different site...?" Robot Nessie said confusedly, as it caused the web page to turn transparent so it could see Murphy the Robot Merman.

"Oh, right. I think it's a third party customer service agency that distributes the software. No worries, you're on the right track," the robot merman said.

Robot Nessie shifted its full attention back to the web page of the third party customer service agency. For some reason there was a North Pole theme with a great deal of elves and reindeer and presents. There was even a Santa Claus who audibly said 'Ho ho ho' every time Robot Nessie scrolled over a link. A few links from the top, Robot Nessie found its goal.

Robot Nessie clicked the link and began to download the stand-up comedy upgrade with heckler deflection patch. The terms and conditions popped up and Robot Nessie read them in their entirety in one-hundredth of a second before agreeing to them and beginning the download. The progress bar filled rapidly and as soon as it reached one-hundred percent, a prompt rose that instructed Robot Nessie that it would have to reboot.

The gargantuan dinosaur-like robot crumpled to the floor as it opted to reboot. The whole comedy club shook when it made contact with the floor. Murphy the Robot Merman did not seem the least bit perturbed by this, having already downloaded the upgrade and patch and being aware of the imminent reboot. Robot Nessie began to stir as its processes began to reboot and function at full capacity once more. The installation was successful, Robot Nessie would soon be a real comedian.

"There's an open mic night happening right now at the Cryptid Comedy Club in the Pacific Northwest of the United States. If you leave now and use your boosters at full thrust you can make it," Murphy the Robot Merman said, a spark emanating from behind his ears as he spoke.

"THE Cryptid Comedy Club?" Robot Nessie said in shock. "Do you really think I'm ready?"

"You're ready. You have the software. Go!" Murphy the Robot Merman exclaimed. "Go make those cryptids and mythological creatures laugh until their abdomens and thoraxes and such hurt!"

Robot Nessie would have smiled if the cog that operated the smiling function was not currently stuck. Instead, it turned from the room and made its way toward the exit of the Loch Ness Laugh-In Club. As it neared the door, it initiated the flight warm-up sequence for the rocket boosters, and locked onto the Cryptid Comedy Club of the Pacific Northwest with its satellite map. It would have to use a different tactic to travel that distance, compared to the one it had used to get to the Loch Ness Laugh-In Club. Robot Nessie sent its review of the night's comedy performances to the Loch Ness Laugh-In Club website and began to wriggle its enormous body through the door of the club.

When Robot Nessie had exited the club, it stood outside with its body pointing straight up like a rocket. Flames and sparks began to erupt from the rocket boosters behind its flippers as it slowly began to rise vertically through the water column. Its speed gained drastically and friction caused the water around it to heat rapidly until it finally erupted straight out of the water and into the air.

The ascent through the atmosphere was rapid. It had to be fast so as to avoid, not only onlookers and airplanes, but also radar. The air began to thin, but it did not matter since Robot Nessie did not need to breathe. The temperature began to drop as well, and Robot Nessie initiated its internal thermal regulation unit so that its components would not freeze.

Robot Nessie left the Earth's atmosphere and began to turn in a giant arc plotted by its satellite guidance system. The stars surrounding it were plotted on the screen behind its eyes. Although surrounded by a vast unfathomable beauty that only a select few will ever experience, Robot Nessie's thoughts were elsewhere. It was much too focused on its comedy routine to be bothered by the wonders of outer space.

The descent began after Robot Nessie reached the peak of the arc. It raced back down toward the earth at an incredible speed. The heat caused by the friction of re-entering the Earth's atmosphere caused Robot Nessie to glow bright red. It initiated its cooling mechanisms and the glow began to fade.

The sea would be Robot Nessie's first destination. It would greatly simplify the landing procedures. Besides, the Cryptid Comedy Club of the Pacific Northwest was located right on the coast.

The air surrounding Robot Nessie's frame whistled and howled as it cut through the air, nearing the sea. Robot Nessie plunged deep beneath the waves. It curved its long neck up toward the surface as it sank deeper and deeper. Its body followed, and the remaining speed of the dive caused its body to shoot upward toward the surface.

Robot Nessie scanned the surrounding area for onlookers and found none. Its path was clear all the way to the front door of the Cryptid Comedy Club. Robot Nessie breached the surface and began to skip across the waves. When its speed decreased, it activated its rocket boosters once more, flying low over the water toward the shore.

The lights of the Cryptid Comedy Club were now in sight and a bright green target had locked onto the building in Robot Nessie's vision. It initiated its forward thrusters as well as the rear facing thrusters in order to slow itself down as it approached the building. The slightest error in calculation could destroy the entire Cryptid Comedy Club, if not the whole town.

Robot Nessie slowed to a hover inches away from the door. There was no line outside of this comedy club. There was no even a bouncer. Had Murphy the Robot Merman been mistaken? Was there no open mic night? Robot Nessie entered the building with great difficulty through the tiny door.

The bartender, a snarling werewolf wearing an apron, stood behind the bar. That was the only creature visible aside from a lone centaur sitting at a table in front of the stage. A banner hung from the ceiling above the stage read: OPEN MIC NIGHT in bold yellow letters against a red backdrop. The werewolf bartender exited the bar and came face to face with Robot Nessie.

"Are you here to perform for open mic night?" the werewolf growled. Though Robot Nessie had no real sense of smell, its olfactory sensors registered that the werewolf's breath smelled like putrid meat.

"I am. Is it still happening?" Robot Nessie asked, scanning the crowd again and switching to thermal vision to double-check that the centaur was the only audience member.

"It is. It is happening right now. Not many critters come to open mic night..." the werewolf said as drool dripped down its thick whiskers. "What is your name?"

"The Robot Loch Ness Monster," Robot Nessie said, opting for its full name.

The werewolf turned away from Robot Nessie and approached the stage. When it reached the mic it growled and said, "Now introducing our first performer of the evening, The Robot Loch Ness Monster."

The lone centaur in the crowd applauded enthusiastically. Robot Nessie initiated its boosters and hovered onto the stage in front of the mic. As it looked out at the crowd of one, its artificial intelligence unit processed that this was the optimum circumstance for Robot Nessie. It fulfilled both its desire to perform stand-up comedy, as well as its shyness protocols. Paired with its newly downloaded comedy software, this was guaranteed to be a better stand-up comedy experience for Robot Nessie.

Robot Nessie initialized the stand-up comedy software upgrade with the heckler deflection patch and opened its document entitled GOODJOKESATTEMPT5. It was finally time.

"What's the deal with potato chip bags? I mean, come on, could they put fewer chips into those things?" Robot Nessie said into the microphone. The centaur chuckled a bit. "I heard that there is so much air in potato chip bags now that scuba divers are using them instead of oxygen tanks!"

The cog that caused Robot Nessie's inability to smile finally came loose, and it displayed a grin as the centaur roared with laughter.

"What do you call a sea-serpent with no eyes? A used-to-see-serpent," Robot Nessie said triumphantly, causing the centaur to spew its drink across its table. Even the werewolf bartender seemed to be chuckling a bit. Making a werewolf laugh was no easy feat.

"What do you call a yeti that isn't ready to do something yet? A not-yeti," Robot Nessie delivered with perfectly calculated timing in its mechanized Australian accent as the werewolf pounded on the bar and the centaur stamped its hooves.

"Have you heard the one about the sasquatch that walked right past a bakery without buying anything? Me neither." The centaur had actually started to cry, and the werewolf was howling. Robot Nessie decided to stop its first successful stand up attempt while it was on top.

"Thanks everybody, I'm the Robot Loch Ness Monster. You've been a great audience!"

Robot Nessie initiated its rocket boosters and began to hover above the stage as the werewolf and the centaur applauded raucously. Robot Nessie bowed in midair and exited the Cryptid Comedy Club. When it was outside, it scanned the surrounding area and monitored its satellite imaging before shooting straight into the air.

It traversed sea, sky, and space in a matter of minutes, and then did it all over again before finally plunging back into Loch Ness. Its automatic update sent to the real Nessie soon after it returned, assuring her that all was well in the loch and that she could continue in her own personal pursuits.

Night was falling and Robot Nessie entered Rest Mode. It would glide slowly beneath the surface to conserve energy until the sun rose and it would replenish its power banks. As it closed its computerized eyes, it replayed the video footage it had recorded of its first stand-up comedy success over and over.

Bigfoot: Starting a Blog

Deep within a damp, dimly lit cave located somewhere in the Pacific Northwest of the United States, a fur covered creature known as Bigfoot grasped his laptop as he reclined his easy chair. White light reflected dully off of his reddish-brown scraggly fur, cast from the blank screen in front of him. The laptop had grown warm, but Bigfoot had not yet typed a word.

His gargantuan hands hovered over the keyboard, his fingertips lightly grazing the tops of the keys, but he could not think of anything to write about. Bigfoot had set up his blog weeks ago, but had been too preoccupied to actually make any entries into it until now. He was absolutely determined to not go another day without having his thoughts broadcast to the world via the internet.

Bigfoot felt that he had a great deal to say, but whenever he tried to think of a topic, he could not seem to come up with anything worth writing about. Given his standing within the cryptid community, he knew that his friends and colleagues could benefit from and appreciate the wealth of knowledge he had attained over the years, but how did he put it down on the blank page before him? There were a lot of sasquatches, but only one Bigfoot. Why could he not do this?

The text cursor at the top of the screen blinked idly at him incessantly. He almost felt that it was mocking him. He opened a new tab on his internet browser. The pure white screen had been getting to him.

He opened the blog settings page and decided to tweak the presentation of the blog itself. It was tentatively titled Bigfoot's Bigblog. He decided that the name should stay as it was for the time being. The background of the blog was a monotone forest green color. It was his favorite color, but would it be interesting and intriguing to the reader? His placed a hand on his shaggy chin as he considered the matter.

"Hmmm," he said in a hardly audible tone. His fiancé, who was sitting on the couch caddy cornered from Bigfoot's easy chair peered over the top of the book she was reading.

"How's it coming, babe?" she asked in her low but feminine voice.

"How's what going?" Bigfoot asked absentmindedly as he clicked through the multitude of available blog backgrounds.

"Your blog, of course," she said, placing her book down on her lap and giving him her full attention.

"Oh, right, of course. Well, it's... uhh... it's still in the developmental stages, you know?"

She nodded resignedly and picked her book back up, disappearing behind it once more. She was the only cryptid that he had yet told about his blog. He felt that the fewer cryptids that knew about it, the less pressure would be on him to post an entry. And more importantly, for that first entry to be good...

Bigfoot settled on a background that was a photograph of a sloping hill covered in pine trees with a low fog hovering above the branches. He liked this one because it looked like home, and because it would give his readers a sense of where he came from.

"Yeah, this will look great with my thoughts, opinions, and anecdotes written over it," he whispered to himself. He saw in his peripheral vision that his fiancé had peered over the top of her book at him again.

He returned to the blank page again. He had hoped that he would be bursting with ideas when he returned, that the words would just pour from his ape-like fingers and onto the page, or that somehow a completed blog would have magically appeared on the page before him, but alas, none of those scenarios were the case. The text cursor continued to blink monotonously in the upper left hand corner of the blank screen.

"Maybe you should get out for a while and take a break, honey," Bigfoot's fiancé sighed, setting down her book again. She was right. She was usually right. No good was coming from sitting in the easy chair and staring at a blank screen.

"You're right. I need to get out and get some inspiration... some ideas..." he said as he closed his laptop. "I'm going to go for a stroll." Bigfoot lowered the footrest on his easy chair and stood up, still clutching his laptop.

"You're taking your computer with you?" Bigfoot's fiancé asked, somewhat confused.

"Of course! I don't want to be without it when inspiration strikes," he said as he strode toward the front door of their condo in the Crypto-Condo Residential Caves.

She looked as though she was on the verge of saying something but thought better of it and simply picked up her book and began reading again. Bigfoot frowned a little and opened the door. He got the impression that she thought his urge to write was an exercise in futility.

He trod silently through the main torch lit hall of the Crypto-Condo Residential Caves until he came to a glass door. Upon opening it, he entered the lobby area. A young banshee sat at the reception desk, her extremely long black hair floating around her head as though she was underwater.

"Out for the afternoon, Mr. Foot?" she asked.

"Yes, I am. And remember, there's no need to be so formal. Calling me Bigfoot is fine," he said to her. He tried to keep things short with her when possible, because it was impossible to tell when she would change from a sweet, professional receptionist to a howling insane banshee.

"Ah, of course. I'll remember that one of these days, Bigfo- ," she stopped speaking abruptly as her eyes glazed over. She drew a raspy inhale, filling her lungs with what was sure to be an earsplitting banshee scream.

Bigfoot jogged to the door, and upon closing it he heard her start to scream and moan. He had made it out just in time. He was glad that the banshee had work, but he wondered if the job really suited her.

The entrance to the Crypto-Condo Residential Caves was disguised to the outside world as a jumble of rocks in an otherwise nondescript hillside. He glanced back at it, making sure that he had properly closed the door, and then continued in his march up the hillside.

Bigfoot's arms swung wide in great arcs as he took each long step. He had no particular destination in mind when he began walking, just hoping to find something or somewhere that seemed peaceful or intriguing. He soon encountered a motorway and had to wait until a line of cars passed before he could cross. He did not need to be seen today. He had far too much work to do.

As he stood as still as possible behind a monstrous pine tree, he considered writing a blog about the struggles of secrecy amongst the cryptid community, how hard it was to remain unseen from the human population that misunderstood them so. He considered, however, that as one of the most visible cryptids in history, that his thoughts and advice of staying out of sight may be mocked... He did not want that.

The cars had passed and he waited a moment, making absolutely sure that no more cars were coming before darting out from behind the pine tree and walking across the street. He began to make his way down a steep slope on the other side. Trees were spread sparsely on the otherwise grass and rock strewn hillside. It took a great deal of effort to maintain his balance and keep a firm grip on his laptop.

The ground leveled out a bit and Bigfoot saw a large flat stone at the foot of an ancient looking pine tree. It looked to be the perfect location for brainstorming blog entries. He rushed to the rock and sat down. A light breeze ruffled the pine needles above him and the clouds drifted lazily in the visible space between the thick tree limbs. Bigfoot took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air deeply. He closed his eyes and leaned his fur covered head against the trunk of the ancient tree he sat beneath, willing the blog ideas to come to him. This went on for quite some time.

Eventually, Bigfoot opened his laptop. He wanted to be ready when the ideas actually arrived. Although he was in the shade, the glare off of the laptop screen made it very difficult to see anything. Around the same time he noticed the glare, a woodpecker started pecking the tree he was sitting under in short bursts.

"I can't work like this!" Bigfoot exclaimed in frustration. He rose to his feet and closed his laptop. He strode off immediately, walking deeper into the forest as he huffed and puffed with each long, quick step.

The trees and brush surrounding him soon became so thick that it was difficult to walk any further. He saw what appeared to be a trail ahead of him, and slowly made his way through the thick undergrowth, winding between tree trunks until he reached it.

Under normal circumstances Bigfoot would avoid a trail, as it likely meant that humans had cleared the path, and at the end of it would be actual humans or a human settlement of some type. However, he had a good feeling about this trail. As he stepped out of the thick growth of the forest and onto the trail, his intuition was confirmed. There were numerous tracks indicating that a variety of cryptid creatures had trod the muddy path. It would be safe for him to travel down it as well.

Although Bigfoot continued to follow the trail, his mind was elsewhere. He walked on, but he thought only of possible blog topics, or rather, tried to think of possible blog topics.

"Trees? Could I blog about trees?" he said under his breath, stepping over a fallen tree that obstructed part of the path. A unicorn jogged past him but he hardly even noticed.

"Fitness?" he spoke aloud. Could he write a blog about fitness? In his youth exercise had been a regular part of his life, but he had to admit that now it was a rarity. He was not overweight or out of health now, but he had no idea how long he could run or how many sasquatch sit ups he could do anymore.

As he considered this, he saw the unicorn begin to slow in the distance. He began to wonder if seeing it jog was what had caused him to think of fitness. He had been considering the effects of subconscious persuasion often recently.

"Psychology maybe?" he whispered to himself. "Psychology is interesting..."

Psychology is interesting, but the problem was that he knew very little about psychology. He could speculate about psychological theories and conventions and such, he reasoned. After all, speculation is a cornerstone of blogging... He made a mental note to revisit the psychology blog idea.

His reverie was disturbed by the sound of a bell and a closing door in the distance. Puzzled, he looked up and saw that the unicorn that had been jogging ahead of him had disappeared. Bigfoot stopped in his tracks, his muscles tense and his shaggy red-brown fur standing on end, making him appear even larger than usual. What was going on?

Cautiously, he took a few steps forward. He stood on the tips of his bare feet and peered through the trees and brush. There was a building ahead in a small clearing. If only he could read what the sign mounted on the roof said...

Finally, it struck him. This must be the Cryptid Café! He had seen the fliers around the forest in the previous weeks. The Cryptid Café was a café owned and operated by a werewolf, but it catered to all cryptids. Bigfoot was initially opposed to the idea of a werewolf owned café in his neck of the woods, but he realized that he was a modern sasquatch and should think like a modern sasquatch. Not all werewolves were so bad. Sure, there were some that were rather nefarious, but the same could be said of sasquatches, or sea monsters, or even jackelopes.

Bigfoot's stomach rumbled, and the thought of writing, or even attempting to write, on an empty stomach would likely be even harder than it was already. A good cup of coffee could do him some good too, he reasoned. He made up his mind, walking with purpose down the trail to the Cryptid Café.

Soon, he stood before the café. He could see through the tall glass windows that lined the Cryptid Café, that it was quite busy with a number of various types of cryptids. The neon sign reading 'Open' buzzed monotonously in the silent clearing outside the café. A black motorcycle was parked around the corner.

Bigfoot took a deep breath, glanced at the werewolf behind the counter, and pushed the entrance door open. A bell rung above his head and the sweet intoxicating aroma of freshly baked scones entered his nostrils. He had heard about these scones. They were the cornerstone of the Cryptid Café. Every cryptid on the planet likes a good scone, and they know when they have found one. Bigfoot had a feeling that he was in for a great treat.

"How may I help you sir?" the werewolf behind the counter growled politely. Bigfoot instantly felt ashamed that he had ever thought that a werewolf should not be operating a café of its own.

"I'd like a large cup of coffee with just a bit of cream, and a scone please."

"Do you want anything on your scone?" the werewolf asked, its teeth bared.

"Hmmm... Any recommendations?" Bigfoot asked. Although judging by the scent floating heavily through the air, he was quite certain that the scones would be tasty even without anything added to them.

"The apricot preserves have been very popular lately. I have to agree, they really add to the whole scone experience," the werewolf snarled, drool beginning to hang from its jowls.

"That sounds lovely. I'll have apricot preserves on mine please," Bigfoot said with a content grin.

"As you wish, sir. That will be three Crypto Units, please."

Bigfoot set his laptop on the counter so that he could extract his wallet. He placed three Crypto Unit bills on the counter and slid them to the werewolf. Its long black claws pierced the bills and scratched against the stainless steel surface of the counter, causing a terrible sound to fill the café for a moment.

"Have a seat and we'll deliver your meal in just a few moments," the werewolf growled as it turned and slammed the cash register shut with its muscular bushy tail.

Bigfoot picked up his laptop and began to look around the café for an area that would be suitable for blog writing. It appeared that many other cryptids had the same idea in mind. Every other patron of the café had an open laptop or notebook in which they were feverishly writing, or else teetering on the verge of writing in. Bigfoot could not decide if this was enlivening or discouraging. Were they his colleagues or his competition? How could he compete with so much content being produced?

He walked to a small table by a window, directly beneath the neon 'Open' sign and sat down. To his left a centaur poked away at the keys of her keyboard violently, words appearing fluidly across her screen as she typed without pause. Before him, a chupacabra wearing a fedora forcefully pressed the keys of a vintage typewriter, a loud ding issuing each time he finished a line. Two werewolves in the corner conversed in hushed growls behind the screen of a laptop.

"A coffee with cream and a scone with apricot preserves. Enjoy," said a small wood nymph who delivered Bigfoot's order to his table.

"Thank you," Bigfoot said, admiring the spirals of steam rising from his piping hot scone. He took a sip of his coffee and had to suppress a yelp. It was still far too hot to drink. He resolved to let it cool for a few minutes before attempting to drink it again. The scone looked as though it could cool down a bit too. At least he knew the coffee and scones were fresh...

Bigfoot suddenly realized that, aside from coffee and scones, he had come to the café to write. He opened up his laptop and waited for it to boot up. It was an old computer, a Cryptex 500. The werewolves in the corner were using a Cryptex 1100 Plus. The computer finally booted, and Bigfoot frantically clicked the browser tab so that none of the other cryptids around him would see his background image on his home screen: a photo of his fiancé and himself dressed as humans for Halloween.

The text cursor blinked at him once more from the top of the blank screen. He took a deep sigh, and looked around the café again, hoping that an idea worthy of blogging might enter his mind. All these other cryptids did not seem to have a problem writing. Though, now that he really examined all of the patrons of the café, many of them seemed to be talking about what they were writing rather than writing. It was still more than he could do, he reflected sadly.

"... I don't know man, is that really believable?" one of the werewolves sitting near Bigfoot grunted to his writing partner. Bigfoot leaned forward and tried to listen in discreetly.

"It's plenty believable... Listen, why wouldn't a werewolf on Mars not be effected by the moon just because they were on Mars?" the other werewolf snarled.

"Is our moon even visible from Mars? And even if it is, would it appear to be full from there?" one asked with their teeth bared and hackles raised.

"It doesn't matter! In the fictional universe we're creating it would!"

"I was under the impression that we would be writing a hard-science fiction portrayal of a werewolf going to Mars. I'm not sure we're on the same page. It sounds like you want to write more of a soft-science fiction account or even fantasy..."

The two werewolves stopped speaking and just growled at each other for a while. Bigfoot stopped listening to them. Whichever direction they decided to go with that story, he was sure it would be a bestseller. Werewolf fiction was a sure thing.

Book reviews... Maybe he could do a blog reviewing books, he thought. Bigfoot struggled to remember the last time he had even read a book from start to finish. He read a magazine about fly-fishing from cover to cover every month, but he could not remember the most recent book he had read at all. Another idea that would remain an idea...

"Excuse me," the centaur that had been typing so furiously said to Bigfoot timidly. "I've hit a snag and was wondering if I could bounce a few ideas off of you?" she asked.

"Of course, of course!" Bigfoot said, excited by the opportunity to close his laptop and take a break from trying to think of an idea. The centaur rose from her oblong table and gamboled to his, her hooves clipping and clopping off the shiny checkerboard tiles along the floor.

"Excellent. Sometimes it's best to have a fresh mind to bounce ideas off of after one has been immersed in their work for so long," she said as she sat down across from him and placed her laptop on top of the table. As soon as the centaur sat down, she launched at once into hurried speech.

"So, basically what I'm working on is a screenplay about a centaur in law school that is trying to work a full time job at the horse shoe factory, maintain her position on the centaur track team, support her family back home in Greece, all while maintaining a 4.0 grade point average at the elite Cryptid Law University."

"Uh huh," said Bigfoot nodding vigorously. "Sounds good so far. Go on."

"But there's a twist... the dean of Cryptid Law University, who is a sixty feet tall blue dragon, is secretly in love with her and worships her from afar. He's extremely strict when it comes to school rules, and the rules forbid him to have romantic relationships with students."

"Wow, it sounds riveting," Bigfoot said while she drew a deep breath. He was struggling to keep up as she was talking so fast and the story was getting more intricate.

"So, the dean has to make a choice... Does he resign as the dean? Or does do whatever is in his power to get the centaur expelled so he can be allowed to date her?" she said.

"Hmmm, well I think he should - ," Bigfoot began, before being abruptly cut off.

"What? No, I have that part figured out. That's not where I need help," the centaur said as she shook her head. "Anyways, the dean decides to use his powers to try to get her expelled. The problem is, the centaur knows the school handbook from cover to cover. She knows it even better than the dean does. So every time the dean comes along, towering over everyone with his gargantuan leathery blue wings and spouting fire from his nostrils while accusing her of breaking school rules, she deftly dodges his legal attacks over and over so that she can stay in school..."

Bigfoot nodded even though he was totally lost. He no longer had any idea what she was talking about and was distracted by the television in the corner of the café. It was displaying the nature channel. He thought it was ironic that they would be in the middle of the forest and still keep the television on the nature channel.

"But there's another problem.... The centaur is in love with the dean too. But since she's aware of the rule herself, she also has to make a decision whether she will be expelled, resign as a student, wait until after she has graduated, or attempt to put the whole painful ordeal behind her as she continues to..."

A whiff of his scone and coffee caught in Bigfoot's nostrils. He had almost forgotten about them. Maybe he could review cafés and restaurants, he thought to himself. He did love dining out, and so did his fiancé. This could be a blog idea that was actually worth attempting. His eyelids grew heavy as the centaur continued to drone on and on about her increasingly complex screenplay, which actually turned out to be a trilogy of screenplays, each episode focusing on one year of the centaur's law school. At least, that's what Bigfoot thought she was explaining.

"... but then, another alien arrives, this time in her kitchen, and it tells her that she doesn't have to make the decision at all because he can transport her to a dimension where it wouldn't break school rules to date the dean while she was a student. This, of course, contradicted what the first eleven aliens told her in episodes one and two, so she is obviously reticent to trust this particular alien. But then again, it also confirmed what the ghost had told her when she sleepwalked onto the golf course. So, she goes to the spacecraft and the alien shrinks her down and..."

Bigfoot was really struggling to stay awake now. The centaur continued to read on monotonously from her computer screen and he only caught bits of what she was saying. He kept finding himself watching the nature channel on the television over her shoulder. He took a sip of his coffee and tried to think of a way to describe it so that he could review it on his blog. It tasted like.... coffee, he thought. He would need to work on his reviewing skills before he actually blogged about it.

"....and that's how it ends basically. Total annihilation of the universe. But anyways, the snag I wanted help with - was the symbolism regarding the centaur and the dragon dean's visit to the orange grove too trite? I wanted it to be critical of eighteenth century cryptid politics in Central Europe, but I feel like I was a bit too heavy handed. What do you think?"

"The symbolism...?" Bigfoot asked unaware that there had been any symbolism in the story at all, at least in the parts he had heard. He had to concede however that he had not been paying attention during the part about the orange grove, but he did not tell her this. He had not even realized that there had been an orange grove involved at all.

"Yes. When the dean and the centaur are juicing the oranges together, symbolizing the relationship between the worker cryptids and the elite bourgeoisie cryptids in eighteenth century Central Europe..."

"Oh... Right, right, right," Bigfoot said repeatedly nodding his head. "No, I think it was spot on. Really intriguing, interesting stuff." Bigfoot was sure that it was intriguing and interesting, but having it read at him nonstop in the middle of a scone-scent laden café was not the right setting for it. The centaur seemed pleased with his response nonetheless.

"Thank you," she said as she smiled warmly and rose from her seat, returning to her own table.

Bigfoot, confounded by the interaction he just had, decided to keep his laptop closed and just enjoy his scone. It had cooled enough that steam was no longer rising from it, but was still warm to the touch. The outer crust was crispy, but as he picked it up, he could feel the firm but flexible inner dough compressing as he grasped it in his muscular ape-like hands. He took a bite and allowed his eyes to roll back into his head in ecstasy. It was the best scone he had ever eaten, and that was really saying something.

He opened his laptop and quickly typed 'Scones and Screenplays: A Trip to the Cryptid Café' in the heading of his blog. He typed furiously, describing everything from the outside of the building, the nature channel on the television, the werewolf behind the counter, the crowd of café patrons and their various agendas, and most importantly - the scones. He would never forget those scones, and he hoped that he conveyed them in such a way that his future readers never would as well.

He read and reread what he had written multiple times, and with a feeling of immense satisfaction, he posted his first blog. He looked around him, expecting applause and to be lifted above the shoulders of the rest of the cryptid customers, but of course, they had no idea that he had just posted his first blog.

Bigfoot, having finished what he entered the café to accomplish, closed his laptop and prepared to leave. As he strode across the gleaming tile floor, the sound of coffee grinders and keystrokes, and whispered conversations mingling together and echoing off of the tall windows, he was struck with an idea. It would almost be criminal for his fiancé not to try one of the Cryptid Café scones. He stopped by the counter, slid another two Crypto Units to the werewolf and waited for them to package a scone to go.

He trod merrily through the forest, restraining himself from skipping down the trail leading away from the Cryptid Café. The return trip to the Crypto Condo Residential Caves felt much shorter than the first journey. Bigfoot held his hands over his ears as he walked through the door. The banshee receptionist was in the middle of one of her howling fits. Although her eyes were rolling wildly in her eye sockets, she caught a glimpse of him and managed to wave momentarily. He did not take his hands from his ears, only nodded briefly at her before sprinting through the doorway that lead to the hall in which his condo was located.

It appeared that his fiancé had not moved since he had left the condo. The pages of her book seemed to be the only difference from the scene he had vacated hours previous. She looked up as he entered and asked, "How'd your walk go?"

"I did it! I blogged. I'm a blogger now," Bigfoot said triumphantly, hoping for more of a reaction than he got.

"That's great babe," she said, returning to her book. Then she took a great sniff at the air and placed the book face down in her lap. "What is that smell? It is divine..."

"That, my love, is a scone from the Cryptid Café. I brought it for you. I wrote all about it in my blog," he said as he pressed the scone into her eager hands.

She could hardly even speak as she ate the scone. Bigfoot, giving his fiancé a knowing wink at the sensations she was now experiencing, sat down opposite of her and opened his computer. His new blog had gotten one view during his walk home. He had done it. He had really done it. Bigfoot was a real blogger.

A Day in the Afterlife of Bigfoot's Ghost: Renewing A Library Card

The full moon was high in the cloudless sky, but its beams passed directly through the wispy, eerily translucent body of Bigfoot's ghost. A breeze blew the tall grass in which Bigfoot's ghost stood, ruffling it like ripples on a pond, but the shaggy iridescent fur of the tall, ape-like ghost of a sasquatch remained motionless as the wind passed through it.

Being the ghost of a cryptid was tough. As formerly living cryptids, the ghosts were familiar with spending their whole lives avoiding the gaze of humans. That continued in their afterlife, but as ghosts of cryptids they had to avoid being seen by living cryptids as well.

Those who are mourning the fact that Bigfoot is deceased and is now a ghost should be aware of this simple fact within the cryptid community: Bigfoot is a ceremonial title. There have been many Bigfoots in the past and there will be many more Bigfoots in the future as long as there are sasquatches to roam the earth. Another Bigfoot lives, and is currently working on a blog entry at his home in the Crypto-Condo Residential Caves just a few miles through the hills from where this particular ghost Bigfoot found himself creeping behind a tree trunk, peering through a vacant parking lot at a public library.

The ghost of Bigfoot brushed away his ethereal fur and glared at his translucent wristwatch. It read 1:57 A.M. He had at least three minutes to pass until he could approach the library. That was the best case scenario. If the elderly centaur librarian that ran the library while it was open to living cryptids was working with her usual enthusiasm, it could be as long as twenty minutes before the library would be open to the non-living mythical creatures.

The ghost of Bigfoot loved the library, but the aforementioned problem was one thing that he did not appreciate about the institution. This one public library building had to service the human population in the area, the living cryptids, the non-living cryptids, and the non-living humans. He was aware that he could have just downloaded an ebook version of the book he was seeking, but he did not have much to do that evening and wanted the full library experience.

The humans had access to the library during what one may call the "peak hours" of operation. They had full run of the library from early in the morning until fairly late in the evening, usually around eight or nine P. M. Once the human librarian locked the library's doors and was safely out of sight, the elderly centaur librarian opened it up to the living cryptids in the area. The cryptids could come and go as they pleased for about six hours, then the centaur would raise her spectacles from the chain around her humanoid neck, lock the doors of the library, and trot away into the woods until the next night.

After this sequence of events, the ghoul of a sea serpent would slither from the depths of the most ghostly portions of the sea and sit behind the library's main desk until the sun rose so that the ghosts of the area cryptids could rent books, movies, and periodicals for a low fee. The sea serpent would then lock the door and exit the library, leaving it vacant for the ghosts of formerly living humans to use until it opened to the living humans once again.

Some cryptids, ghosts of cryptids, ghosts of humans, and even some living humans found this system to be inadequate, but there were few alternatives. The local cryptid government did not have the funds or interest to open a library solely for them, and the ghost cryptid local government had even less funds or interest. So, for the time being and the foreseeable future, this balancing act of library operation times was just the way it had to be for everyone to get the media they desired. The cryptid books were mixed in with the human books and no one ever seemed to notice.

Bigfoot's ghost watched the front door of the library anxiously, waiting for the centaur to appear. He had been waiting all day for the library to open. The entire day had found him pacing restlessly through the darkest recesses of the forest, trying in vain to piece together a long-forgotten scene from one of his favorite literary works.

As a ghost, he no longer slept. At least he no longer slept in the sense that humans or creatures or living cryptids sleep. However, the previous night he had found himself in a ghostly state of rest, his mind wandering idly, when a line of dialogue entered his spectral mind. It was a line that he had not thought of in ages and ages, perhaps not even since he had been a ghost. It was from 'Some Ado About Literally Everything', a book adapted from a play by the most famous dragon playwright of all time: William Snakespeare.

'Some Ado About Literally Everything' was one of Snakespeare's least appreciated works while he was living, but had garnered something of a cult following in the wake of his death. It was rumored that Snakespeare lived on as a ghost dragon somewhere in Great Britain, but that's beside the point. The play, and the subsequent novelization of it, was about an evil sasquatch scientist that was trying to bring about the end of time, but finds love in a most unexpected turn of events and has to reverse the destruction of the universe before his wedding day.

Bigfoot's ghost remembered that part of the play well. What he was struggling to recall was an exchange between the main character, the evil sasquatch scientist named Obsequiam, and a customer service representative elf named Irritatious. Obsequiam had called Irritatious to retrieve information about a warranty on his Destructomatic 3400's electromagnetic capacitor.

Obsequiam is upset about, not only the reliability issues of his Destructomatic 3400's electromagnetic capacitor, but also at the incompetence of Irritatious. It soon comes to light that Irritatious does not even work for Destructomatic, but for a third party customer service agency operated from the North Pole. Obsequiam vows to take revenge upon Irritatious, but they later become allies and even friends, their happenstance relationship culminating in Irritatious being Obesquiam's best man in his wedding at the North Pole shortly after the two of them save the universe from certain destruction.

The particular exchange that Bigfoot's ghost was trying to remember regarded an off-topic discussion between Obsequiam and Irritatious of famous cryptid baseball players of the first half of the twentieth century as they waited for Irritatious' customer service supervisor to get on the line to resolve the warranty issue of the Destructomatic 3400's electromagnetic capacitor. Irritatious would not budge on the issue, claiming that merman Flippin' Frank Flidizzio was the finest cryptid baseball player of the era. Obsequiam had objected wholeheartedly, but Bigfoot's ghost could not remember the cryptid baseball player that Obequiam had argued in favor of.

It was a truly beautiful exchange, eloquently written and flawlessly delivered by Obsequiam, and Bigfoot's ghost knew that it would drive him crazy if he did not refresh himself with the content of the play as soon as possible. He peered around the tree trunk once more. There was still no sign of the centaur. His wristwatch read 2:02 A.M. What was taking her so long?

As though the centaur had read his phantasmic thoughts, she appeared at the front door. She pushed it open with her shoulders, her chain clad spectacles already adorned upon her weathered human-like face, her arms full of books. Bigfoot's ghost hoped dearly that 'Some Ado About Literally Everything' was not one of the books in her arms. The centaur closed the door and set the stack of books upon her horse-like haunches as she extracted a set of keys and locked the front door of the library. She adjusted her glasses and picked up the pile of books into her arms once more before trotting across the library parking lot and disappearing into the surrounding woods.

Bigfoot's ghost listened as the clips and clops of the centaur's hooves slowly dissipated into the ether. The unnatural and absolutely terrifying form of a ghostly sea serpent slithered through the breeze that ruffled the leaves and grass surrounding the library. The sea serpent ghost paused at the doorway and unlocked it. Unlocking the door was something of a formality since all of the cryptid ghosts could glide through the door if they pleased. Some chose to actually open the door though. Perhaps they just enjoyed the ceremony.

The sea serpent's ghost, however, glided right through the glass after unlocking the library door. Bigfoot's ghost sighed deeply, still standing behind the tree trunk. He wanted to wait until the sea serpent's ghost at least turned on the lights before he entered the library. A few moments later, light poured through the library windows, casting yellowed beams into the parking lot surrounding the building.

Bigfoot's ghost looked around, double checking that the coast was clear of living cryptids, creatures, humans, and human ghosts before stepping aside from the tree trunk he had been hiding behind and trudging through the tall grass toward the library.

The grass did not move aside as he silently walked through it toward the library, his long luminescent arms swinging wide in the moonlit meadow. He did not have to walk, he could glide like every other ghost, but he preferred to continue his signature Bigfoot strut, even in death. His ghostly weightless feet met the pavement and made no sound as he exited the grass.

As he neared the illuminated glass doors of the library, Bigfoot's ghost saw another pearlescent figure gliding through the cool night air from the edge of the woods and toward the library. Bigfoot's ghost stopped in his tracks and squinted through the darkness at the gleaming figure floating through the air. Bigfoot's ghost had left his spectacles at his home-cave in the Spectral Crypto-Condo Residential Caves, so he had to wait until the ghostly creature was very close before he could ascertain what it was.

"Bigfoot? Is that you?" the creature asked. Once it had neared, Bigfoot's ghost was able to see that it was the ghost of a minotaur.

"I am. Well... I used to be anyways," Bigfoot's ghost said, chuckling half-heartedly. He had been dead for a long time, but he was still having trouble coming to terms with it. Being recognized everywhere he went, however, was an occupational hazard of being Bigfoot, alive or dead. He was quite used to that aspect.

"I knew it was you! Edgar Price, minotaur ghost," the minotaur said, extending his human-like hand as his glowing bull-like hooves shifted silently upon the asphalt.

Bigfoot's ghost shook Edgar's hand. When they were done, Edgar continued to stare excitedly into Bigfoot's ghost's face. He cast hastily for something to say. "What brings you to the library this evening?"

"News. I love the newspapers. Though, I guess it's technically yesterday's news by now," the minotaur said, the trees behind him showing through the translucent horns upon his head.

"Ah, of course. Well, It was ni - ," Bigfoot's ghost began to say, hoping to cut the interaction short so that he could go about his business, but Edgar the ghost of a minotaur cut him off.

"And what are you doing here, Bigfoot?" Edgar asked.

It was something of a pet peeve of Bigfoot's ghost to still be referred to as Bigfoot. He preferred to be called 'the cryptid formerly known as Bigfoot' or simply as 'sir', but he did not press the issue. "Snakespeare," he said simply, as he began to walk toward the door. Edgar the minotaur's ghost shadowed him.

"I love Snakespeare!" Edgar exclaimed as he and Bigfoot's ghost glided through the tall glass doors at the entrance of the library. "Which play are you reading?"

Bigfoot's ghost sighed as they paused in front of the receptionist's desk which the ghostly sea serpent now sat at. He was anxious to start reading, and even more anxious to end this conversation. "Some Ado About Literally Everything," he said.

"That's a good one, that's a good one," Edgar repeated, nodding his horned luminescent bull head vigorously. "But I'm partial to 'The Taming of the Jackalope'."

"You don't say..." Bigfoot's ghost mumbled, looking around and beginning to take a step away from the minotaur. "Well, I'm going to - ,"

"I just found the whole story to be really enlightening, you know? And relevant to my life. You see, back when I was just a horrendous, catastrophic crime against nature of a calf, I - "

Bigfoot's ghost's eyes slid out of focus as he tried to listen to the minotaur ghost's story about how Snakespeare's 'The Taming of the Jackalope' was related to his childhood. He waited in vain for a break or a pause in which he might be able to break away from the conversation, but that break never came.

"... and then, you know the part, I'm sure you do, the part when King Hophorn the VIII banishes his eightieth queen in a row from the underground kingdom, that's when I realized that the whole situation aligned perfectly to my spelling test problems I'd been having in middle school. Just like King Hophorn, I - "

Bigfoot's ghost chanced a glance at the librarian. The sea serpent ghost had put down the book he had been perusing idly upon their entry and was now gazing at the minotaur ghost open mouthed, apparently astonished that anyone could be so oblivious to the fact that they were absolutely boring the unwilling participant of their conversation.

"So that was the first time I roller-skated, but it wouldn't be my last, I assure you! Anyways, after the junior prom, I - "

"Hey, listen Edgar," Bigfoot's ghost began speaking in what he hoped was a polite but stern tone. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've really got to find this book."

"Oh, of course... Listen to me babbling on!" Edgar Price, ghost of a minotaur, said as he threw back his bovine head in a peal of raucous laughter.

"Right... Well, good evening! Enjoy your newspaper..."

"Oh, I will, Bigfoot. I will. But hey, at this point in the day they should call it the 'oldspaper' am I right?" the minotaur ghost asked with a smirk, leaning forward and nudging Bigfoot's ghost with an elbow that passed right through him. This lame joke had gone too far. Bigfoot's ghost's kindness had been worn too thin. He narrowed his eyes and turned from the ghostly apparition of the minotaur to face the librarian.

"How can I help you?" the sea serpent ghost asked in a deep sea accent. Bigfoot's ghost could see the silhouette of the minotaur ghost disappearing toward the periodicals section in his peripheral vision and took a deep breath of relief.

"I need to find the Classic Cryptid Literature section. Particularly, I need Snakespeare's play 'Some Ado About Literally Everything', please."

The librarian rose from behind the desk and approached a set of card catalog cabinets. Instead of opening the drawers, the sea serpent ghost hovered into the air and slithered directly into the solid cabinets as it searched for the location of the Snakespeare plays. The ghost sea serpents long spectral tail protruded from the front and sides of the cabinet until it burst forth from the front with a card in its claws.

"It'll be on the second floor. Take a right when you exit the staircase, then another right, and then the section you're looking for is about ten rows down. The novelization of the play is checked out, but it's available in a compilation book of Snakespeare plays. The number is on the card," the sea serpent's ghost said as it handed the card over the desk top.

"Thank you," Bigfoot's ghost said, nodding at the librarian as it picked up its book once more and disappeared behind it. He had only intended to read 'Some Ado About Literally Everything', but now that he thought about it, a compilation of all the Snakespearean plays would be favorable after all. Being a ghost afforded him a great deal of free time.

Bigfoot's ghost trundled away from the librarian's desk and made his way toward the staircase. As he passed rows of books, he noticed that several other ghosts of cryptids had apparently filtered into the library while he had been stuck conversing with the minotaur's ghost. A werewolf's ghost snarled at him as their eyes met. It was browsing World War Two history and apparently wished not to be disturbed. A luminescent centaur walked directly through the rows of books, parallel to Bigfoot's ghost, and arrived at the staircase before him and silently ascended.

Bigfoot's ghost began to walk up the steps. His enormous silver haired feet hovered an inch or so above the steps and his long arms swung so low that they grazed the tops of the stairs as he walked. The second floor was not lit as well as the first, and seemed to be deserted aside from the ghostly centaur that gamboled down the first row at the top of the staircase. Bigfoot's ghost took a right, and then another right, and then began to count the rows.

Although Bigfoot's ghost no longer had the sense of smell, he assumed that the library had that specific scent of musty old pages that only a library has. It was a smell that had always meant peace and tranquility to him. A wave of nostalgia crashed over him, and he tried to focus on the rows he passed so as not to become emotional. His goal was within reach, he needed to stay on task.

He reached the row that the librarian had indicated and walked down it. Although Bigfoot was on the better side of eight feet tall, the rows of books still towered over him. A ladder on wheels stood at the end of the row should he need it. He glanced up and down and side to side, pausing at each section so that he could read the titles of the books and the numbers written on their spines.

The Dewey Decimal System numbers were getting closer to the one he needed as he walked further down the aisle. "The Sneezewort Stew, by A. R. Sneezewort... 775.5... The Owlery in the Hawkery by T. L. Sneerheardt... 775.7..." He read the numbers and titles under his breath as he neared the end of the aisle. Where was his book? He needed 'A Complete Compendium of Snakespeare Works: A Compilation' edited and compiled by C. K. Choruslad with a preface co-written by C. C. Codrafterton Sr., number 777.8.

Bigfoot's ghost reached the end of the aisle, but the Dewey Decimal numbers were still in the 775's... Why was it that the books he needed were never where they were supposed to be? He sighed and walked to the adjacent aisle, but the numbers started in the 800's there. He was beginning to become frustrated. He walked up and down the rows of towering bookshelves and read the numbers on the side. None of them contained number 777.8... And none of them seemed to be plays or classical cryptid literature aside from the row he had just left.

He returned to the row that the librarian had told him the book would be located, and looked at the numbers written on the side of the long row of bookshelves. It read: 'Classic Cryptid Literature and Plays, 770.1 - 779.9. There was clearly some mistake.

A small glass container hung from one of the nearby bookshelves. It contained poorly photocopied maps of the library with each of the bookshelves indicated with their Dewey Decimal numbers. He grabbed one of the maps and returned to the row of classic cryptid literature. He scanned the map, locating the bookshelf he was standing in front of. It said the same thing as the words and numbers etched into the side of the row. Where could his book be?

Bigfoot's ghost exited the row and sat down at a long wooden table located beneath a flickering halogen light. He was determined to find this book on his own. The Dewey Decimal System had bested him too many times in the past. It was time for him to rise victorious over the library numbering and categorization system that had defeated him so many times over the years.

He smoothed the map against the scratched wooden surface of the table, trying not to imagine what the thin paper or the cool polished wood would have felt like against his skin if he could still feel. He needed to focus on finding his book.

Everything seemed to follow a logical order. Novels, histories, biographies, scientific publications... There were a few things that stood out to Bigfoot's ghost as he delved further into the mystery that was the layout of his local library. Several lone bookshelves stood independently throughout the library, their subject matter specific and their Dewey Decimal numbering not relating to the rows in their nearest vicinity.

If Bigfoot's ghost still had a heart, he would have felt it leap as he saw one of these lone bookshelves marked 'Works of Snakespeare', 777.1 - 777.9. He leapt from his seat at the table, figuratively since he could no longer actually leap, and walked straight through the wooden table. He was a ghost of a sasquatch on a mission, and his destination was set.

Bigfoot's ghost trod directly through row after row of books, no longer using the aisles between them. He accidentally walked right through the centaur ghost on accident. It let out a squeal of surprise and snapped shut the book it was browsing in embarrassment. It was titled 'Secrets of Centaur Love: A Paranormal Romance'. Bigfoot's ghost muttered a brief apology, but did not stop walking.

Finally, Bigfoot's ghost reached the bookshelf containing the works of Snakespeare. It shone like a beacon to his weary eyes, set against the backdrop of identical rows of shabby bookshelves that were joined together. He approached the bookshelf, sensing the end of his journey.

Bigfoot's ghost found his book almost at once. It would have been hard to miss it, mixed amongst the others. The compilation book was almost a foot thick. Bigfoot's ghost knew that Snakespeare had written a great number of plays, but he had no idea it had been this many.

He lifted the massive tome from the shelves and carried it to another wooden table, set it down on the tabletop, and sat himself down on the chair beneath the table. He did not pull the chair out all the way and part of his body protruded into the wooden table. He just could not seem to get the hang of the whole "being a ghost thing".

The front cover of the book opened with ease and remained open as though it had been opened and closed many times before. The pages were worn around the corners and yellowed with age. Bigfoot's ghost flipped through the first few pages and paused upon what appeared to be a woodcut of the Snakespeare himself. A giant snake-like head rose from the ruffled collar of a highly decorated dress shirt. His forked tongue protruded from his mouth, tasting the air, and a small hat with a tassel hanging off the top was perched jauntily upon his head.

Bigfoot's ghost turned the page to the table of contents. There were hundreds of plays listed. Snakespeare must have done little else during his life other than write plays... There was 'A Midsummer's Ice Cream', which was about a dragon who most unwisely started an ice cream parlor but inadvertently melted all of the ice cream with his fiery breath. There was 'Gnomeo and Werewolfiet' , which was a tragedy about a pair of star-crossed lovers, a gnome and a werewolf, who were forbidden to wed because they were too young, different species, and also because the werewolf ate Gnomeo's entire family toward the end.

He passed his furry translucent finger down the column of play names, reading them under his breath, until he finally found 'Much Ado About Literally Everything'. It was located on page 2,451. Bigfoot's ghost took great handfuls of pages in his enormous hands and turned them until he found page 2,451.

Bigfoot's ghost was fraught with excitement. He scanned the dialogue eagerly, looking for the specific conversation that he had been unable to remember. He would re-read the whole thing later. About thirty pages into the play, he found the passage he was searching for - the passage regarding the dispute about which cryptid baseball player from the first half of the twentieth century was the best. It read thus:

Obsequiam - 'Thou shan't profane mine own ears any longer with such half-truths and misconceptions, Irritatious!'

Irritatious - 'Profane not, do I! 'Tis profanity to accuse an elf of such. I speak my mind on this matter, and if the content of my mind is true then the truth is what I speak!'

Obsequiam - 'Ha! A denizen of the North Pole, and a soul under the employ of a third-party customer service company, you are! What dost thou know of baseball?'

Irritatious - 'Speak not of my employ with such razor sharp tones. Your tongue is a sword, Obsequiam, but it will not save you in this matter anymore than it will save your Destructomatic 3400's electromagnetic capacitor.'

Obsequiam - 'Blast! You mention my failed electromagnetic capacitor, you defer my thoughts in this time of debate. You wish to regress my argument, vile Irritatious!'

Irritatious - 'Aha, you are sagacious in discerning my attempts at misdirection but it does not matter! It does not matter... Flippin' Frank Flidizzio.... Mere mention of the merman with the golden hands has brought you to a tremulous state! I can feel it, I can hear it in each ragged breath through your telephone!'

Obsequiam - 'Any ragged breath you hear is the stifle of raucous laughter begging to be released from my lungs, Irritatious! I expected more from you. I expected a real debate but you have provided none... Flippin' Frank Flidizzio is a talented merman baseballer, yes, but the best of the first half of the twentieth century? Pshaw!'

Irritatious - 'Pshaw?"

Obsequiam - 'Pshaw indeed, Irritatious! You have forgotten, disregarded, and in the process of doing so disrespected the baseballer whose name I am about to utter, whose name will echo through the earpiece of your phone and will haunt you for the rest of your days... Phlamin' Philip the Phoenix.'

Irritatious - *Gasps*

Obsequiam - 'That's right, Irritatious. While your lungs search for the air that I have rent from them with my baseball knowledge, and your brain seeks to recover from the jolt I have struck upon it like the hammer Mjölnir of Thor brings thunder upon the air, I will enlighten you about why Phlamin' Philip the Phoenix is the best baseballer of the first half of the twentieth century. You see - '

Bigfoot's ghost closed his eyes with satisfaction. How could he have forgotten...? Of course it was Phlamin' Philip the Phoenix! He felt ashamed, as a fan of the Cryptid Baseball League of North America, that he could have forgotten such an important player.

He closed the gargantuan book. He decided now that he was relieved of his mental burden of memory, he could read the rest of the play, and any others that he may want to peruse, in the comfort of his own creepy cave.

Bigfoot's ghost picked up the book and began to wind his way through the rows of bookshelves toward the staircase. He passed the centaur ghost once more, who hastily shoved the book 'Centaur Love: A Paranormal Romance' back onto the shelf, and blushed furiously in the particular way that only ghosts could blush.

"Hey, uhh, I'm sorry about walking through you earlier," Bigfoot's ghost said to the centaur's ghost.

The centaur ghost met his eyes hesitantly and mumbled, "Not a problem... And I'm just... Not for me or anything... For a friend..." The ghostly centaur motioned toward the book half-heartedly.

Bigfoot's ghost winked and continued toward the staircase, his book under his luminescent arms. He approached the librarian's desk, and the ghostly sea serpent placed down his book.

"Library card, please," the librarian said, extending his claws across the tabletop.

"Of course," Bigfoot's ghost said, reaching between the folds of his pearlescent fur and extracting his wallet. He took out his library card and slid it across the table to the librarian.

"This is no good, Mr. Bigfoot," the librarian said, peering through his spectacles at the plastic card in his claws.

"What? No, I assure you that's me. You know me, I come in all the time..." Bigfoot's ghost said, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Yes, but I guess I have neglected to notice that this library card is out of date. You'll have to renew it," the librarian said, sliding the card across the table.

"Can you not let it slide...? Just this time?" Bigfoot's ghost asked hopefully, attempting to turn on the old Bigfoot charm he had not used in so long.

"I'm afraid I can't do that... It's the same library card you've been using since you were alive and it's over thirty years expired. You need a ghost cryptid library card... It'll only take a few minutes," the librarian said as he pushed a clipboard of paperwork toward Bigfoot's ghost.

Bigfoot's ghost sighed heavily and took the clipboard as the librarian began to read once more. He blazed through the paperwork, updating his address, profession, marital status, date of birth, and date of death. He pushed the clipboard back across the desk moodily.

"Step over to the booth for your new photo," the librarian said, rising from his seat and approaching a blue curtain with a small wooden chair and a camera mounted on a tripod in front of it.

"Is it really necessary to have a photo on a library card?" Bigfoot's ghost asked exasperatedly.

"I don't make the rules," the librarian gargled, his deep-sea accent growing even heavier. Bigfoot's ghost sat down on the tiny wooden chair in front of the blue backdrop. "Smile!" the librarian instructed. Bigfoot's ghost forced his numb face into a smile as the flash from the camera passed right through him.

The librarian grabbed the new library card as it was ejected from a small printer beside the camera. He handed it to Bigfoot's ghost and walked back to his chair behind his desk.

"Library card please," the librarian said as Bigfoot's ghost returned to the desk. It took a great deal of self-control for Bigfoot's ghost not to roll his eyes as he pushed his new library card across the desk. The ghostly sea serpent glanced at it and said, "This appears to be in order. Book, please."

Bigfoot's ghost put the enormous book of Snakespearean plays upon the desk. The librarian glanced at it and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'm sorry, sir. This book can't leave the library."

"What?" Bigfoot's ghost said in outrage.

"It's a reference book... A collection... It can't leave. You can stay and read it here if you wish. We'll be open for another hour."

"Why is it even in the library if it can't be checked out?" Bigfoot's ghost asked, bewildered. His ivory, see-through hair was standing on end.

"Once again, I remind you, I don't make the rules," the sea serpent ghost said lazily.

"Fine! I'll just download them and read them on my phone! That's what I should have done in the first place..." Bigfoot's ghost said in a harsh whisper.

The librarian shrugged and picked up their book again. Bigfoot's ghost turned around and began to walk briskly toward the door of the library.

"Well hey there, Bigfoot!" Edgar Price, the minotaur ghost said as he seemingly appeared out of nowhere. "Find what you were - "

"Not now, Edgar!" Bigfoot's ghost said impatiently, striding across the pavement toward the woods. He pulled his smart phone from a fold in his softly glowing fur and searched for an ebook collection of Snakespeare's plays. He was able to get every single one of them for the low price of ninety-nine crypto-cents. Sure, it was not quite the same as holding a real book, feeling the texture of the paper against his thumbs and smelling the musty scent of an old book, but he was a ghost now and he could not do those things anyways. Ebooks were not so bad after all, he decided.

Bigfoot's ghost read line after line of 'Some Ado About Literally Everything' as he gamboled through the woods toward his cave. He felt ashamed that he had been so rude with the librarian and the minotaur ghost, but there was not much he could do about that now. Bigfoot's ghost heard a twig snap, and he looked up from his phone in a panic. The living Bigfoot was staring at him from behind a tree trunk, and he was horror-struck.

"Wait, I can explain!" Bigfoot's ghost shouted as Bigfoot ran noisily through the forest in the opposite direction. At least he had not taken a picture, he thought. Bigfoot taking a picture of a ghost of Bigfoot... Bigfoot's ghost could only imagine the field-day the cryptid journalists would have with that story.

"What a night..." he said under his breath. Bigfoot's ghost pulled out his phone again, and lost himself once more in his ebook of Snakespeare's 'Some Ado About Literally Everything', hoping that it would take his mind from cryptid-ghostly matters and the cautious lifestyle that they precluded.

Some Ado About Literally Everything: A Play by William Snakespeare

Cast of Characters:

Dragon Narrator: Speaks in verse to the audience and introduces characters and concepts.

Obsequiam: A gargantuan evil sasquatch scientist. He lives in a laboratory and wears a white lab coat and dark goggles.

Obsequiam's Clone: Referred to as Clone. An exact replica of Obsequiam, but with half of the mental capacity and a proclivity for odd inconsequential diversions.

Irritatious: An elf that works for a third party customer service call center at the North Pole.

Santa Claus: Supervisor of the third party customer service call center at the North Pole. He is omniscient.

Malevolid: Werewolf engineer employed by Destructomatic Incorporated. In love with Loretta.

Loretta: Shapeshifter. Extremely dark hair and eyes in human form. Delivery person for Destructomatic Incorporated.

Jackalope Dancing Troupe

Minotaur Marching Band

Sasquatch Choral Group of the Pacific Northwest

The North American United Cryptid Orchestra

Act 1 Scene 1

A Dragon stands alone in the center of the stage in front of the drawn curtain. She is the Narrator and speaks in poetic verse.

Dragon Narrator: Obsequiam was a foul sasquatch, & the terror of the wood. Day and night he dwelt within his lab and sought a purpose of no good. The Destructomatic 3400 is the weapon he will use. Will it be up to the horrific task, or will it blow another fuse? Obsequiam, horror foul, can you withstand an elf's tirade? Though he works in customer service, it is the customer which the elf berates. Obsequiam won't rest until he robs the universe of glow. That is, until Loretta the Shapeshifter, comes upon him in the form of a murder of black crows. Within his laboratory, his fur shone red and bright. Will he destroy the universe, or will he find love tonight? Obsequiam, will thou remain upon your sinister trail? I am here to spin you all, his strange and twisted tale.

Dragon Narrator exits. The curtain rises to reveal a sasquatch wearing a lab coat and darkened goggles with metal rims around the lenses. It is Obsequiam. He is surrounded by machines and glass beakers in his laboratory. There is one particularly sinister machine that bears the name Destructomatic 3400 directly behind him.

Obsequiam: Blast the sun! Blot out the moon! I will extinguish the stars for no one to see. Only in darkness may I find contentment... Only in darkness will my rotten sasquatch soul be soothed!

Another sasquatch enters the lab. It looks exactly like Obsequiam. It is Obsequiam's Clone. Obsequiam cloned himself so that he would have a lab assistant that would work for free. He only gave the clone half of his mental capacity so that it would be more subservient. However, since Obsequiam had overestimated his own mental capacities, this rendered his clone in a very sorry state indeed.

Clone: Helllloooooo. What're you labbin' now, there?

Obsequiam: Hush, you vile wretch! There is much work to do if I'm to destroy the universe today. I'd like to be basking in everlasting darkness as soon as possible, and I can't do so if you keep talking every so often.

Clone: Alright then, Obsequies.

Obsequiam: It's Obsequiam! My name is Obsequiam, not Obsequies. How many times must we have this conversation? We share the same name, you should be able to remember it.

Clone: Uh huh.

Obsequiam turns his back to the audience and begins fiddling with his machines and writing calculations on a chalkboard. Obsequiam's Clone stands idly for a moment before extracting a yo-yo from his lab coat and doing an increasingly complicated sequence of tricks with it, hiding it from view each time Obsequiam turns to look at him.

Obsequiam: Damn this infernal machine!

Clone: Huh?

Obsequiam: My machine, you furry fool! My machine! The Destructomatic 3400... It's not producing enough force to destroy the universe. It's hardly producing enough to destroy a galaxy as a matter of fact...

Clone: Well why don't you fix it, there, Obsequi?

Obsequiam: I could, of course, fix the machine myself, my slow witted copy. But why should I? I paid a king's ransom for an extended warranty on the Destructomatic 3400, and I expect a certain level of customer service and expedition in repair because of such. Fetch me the communication device, wretched clone!

Clone: Uhh?

Obsequiam: The phone! The phone, you fool! Bring me the telephone!

Clone: Ohhhhh. Sure!

Obsequiam's Clone disappears offstage to retrieve the telephone. Obsequiam walks to center stage and the lights around him dim as a spotlight is shined on him. He begins a soliloquy.

Obsequiam: Will I gain the end I seek? Or will the stars continue to blink? Oh great darkness, fill my lab and fill my heart, darken the universe and never depart. Why oh why won't my Destructomatic 3400 start...?

The spotlight dims as Obsequiam, in his ardor and frustration, reaches out toward the audience, presumably for the great darkness which he hopes to invoke. Scene ends.

Act 1 Scene 2

The lights rise upon the stage once again to reveal Obsequiam sitting on a small wooden chair in front of the Destructomatic 3400, an old fashioned rotary telephone sits in his lap and he holds the handset to his ear. His clone is nowhere in sight. Obsequiam is located in the center of the stage. On the right stage is a group of elves sitting at a long table lined with telephones. They wear green tunics with red trim and all are miming speech while holding the telephone handsets to their ears. Fake snow falls continuously in a window cut into the set behind them. The window reveals a barren snowy landscape. One of the elves puts down their phone. As soon as it does, Obsequiam spins the rotary on his own telephone and the elf's phone begins to ring. The elf's name is Irritatious.

Irritatious: Destructomatic customer service hotline, this is Irritatious speaking. If it is service you seek, perhaps I can be of assistance.

Obsequiam: Greetings Irritatious. My name is Obsequiam.

Irritatious: I bid you good afternoon Obsequiam. How may I assist you?

Obsequiam: The power being generated by my Destructomatic 3400 is not meeting my needs. I need the power to destroy all light in the universe but it's only generating galaxy extinguishing power. I have a warranty and I absolutely demand service be rendered to me post-haste.

Irritatious: Of what age is your unit?

Obsequiam: Of what does age matter in an instance such as this? I guarantee that my warranty is within date.

Irritatious: There is a script to which I must adhere and forms with blanks that must be filled, sir! Of what age is your unit?

Obsequiam: Fine! I'll play your customer service games and I'll dance your bureaucratic foxtrot, but I demand that you make it quick!

Irritatious: Then tell me the age of your unit, Obsequiam! Bestow your secrets upon the Destructomatic customer service hotline...

Obsequiam: My Destructomatic 3400 has been with me for eleven months, and has doled out damage all over this world and others.

Irritatious: Excellent. And what problem is precluding you from utilizing your Destructomatic 3400 today?

Obsequiam: I've already departed that information upon you, vile cryptid! I want to destroy all light in the universe but it's not generating enough power! I suspect the electromagnetic capacitor is the culprit.

Irritatious: That is a likely assumption. Open the inspection hood of the machine, and if a scent of rotten eggs you smell, the electromagnetic capacitor it be....

Obsequiam opens the small metallic hatch on the Destructomatic 3400. He takes a great sniff and begins to wretch violently.

Obsequiam: Vile stench! Rotten orbs of future chickens bred from Hell's own stock! It is unbearable!

Irritatious: We have uncovered the issue. Your electromagnetic capacitor is no more. Weep if you must, I can hold.

Obsequiam: Unnecessary and unwarranted given my ownership of a warranty. No tears shall be shed unless they be yours if you do not send a new capacitor immediately!

Irritatious: Though your threats are worded with precision and experience, you must remember that I am a customer service representative. I am threatened from moment to moment throughout the day by more malevolent beasts than you! Your warranty covers the electromagnetic capacitor not. You are doomed to pay full price for parts and labor, Obsequiam!

Obsequiam: You scoundrel! You knave! Your words rip my fur ridden flesh and expose my starch white bones to the air! Let me speak to the head of the Destructomatic engineering department... Perhaps they will be able to talk me through a repair. Something I am quite sure you are incapable of, given your immense lack of mental dexterity!

Irritatious: I'm afraid that your wish is impossible, naive Obsequiam, for I do not work for Destructomatic. This is but a third party customer service agency hired by Destructomatic.

Obsequiam: Ha! A hole in your plan... I have spotted it and will soon take my vengeance upon you while procuring a new electromagnetic capacitor in the same stroke! Destructomatic headquarters is but five miles from my laboratory... I am coming to end you Irritatious.

Irritatious: Aha! It is now I who laugh! I am thousands of miles away from the Destructomatic headquarters. I am at the North Pole, the impenetrable block of ice! Don't you see the beauty of the third party customer service agency? A company can keep the complaints far away and the customer service agency representatives get the privilege of disappointing people all day long with no fear of repercussion.

Obsequiam rises from his chair in a rage.

Obsequiam: What manner of evil is this? I demand to speak to... your supervisor.

The line of elves surrounding Irritatious gasped.

Irritatious: Stay on the line, please...

End of Scene 2. The curtain draws across the stage, and the Dragon Narrator enters. A spotlight is cast upon her horned head as smoke rises from her nostrils.

Dragon Narrator: What happens during the wait on Obsequiam's call? Somehow the subject changed to cryptid baseball. Sasquatch and elf, debate their cause. No matter who wins, both have lost. The elf's supervisor will soon appear, will Obsequiam ever bring about the end we fear?

Act 1 Scene 3

Irritatious remains relatively calm as the elves around him continue to mime speech into their telephones. The scene outside their prop window has not changed, and fake snow continues to fall. Obsequiam, however, is on his feet and is in a rage. Somehow during the wait for Irritatious' supervisor the subject has changed to cryptid baseball. Particularly, the two are arguing over which baseball player from the first half of the twentieth century is best.

Obsequiam: Thou shan't profane mine own ears any longer with such half-truths, Irritatious!

Irritatious: Profane not, do I! 'Tis profanity to accuse an elf of such. I speak my mind on this matter, and if the content of my mind is true then the truth is what I speak!

Obsequiam: Ha! A denizen of the North Pole, and a soul under the employ of a third-party customer service company, you are! What dost thou know of baseball?

Irritatious: Speak not of my employ with such razor sharp tones. Your tongue is a sword, Obsequiam, but it will not save you in this matter anymore than it will save your Destructomatic 3400's electromagnetic capacitor.

Obsequiam: Blast! You mention my failed electromagnetic capacitor, you defer my thoughts in this time of debate. You wish to regress my argument, vile Irritatious!

Irritatious: Aha, you are sagacious in discerning my attempts at misdirection but it does not matter! It does not matter... Flippin' Frank Flidizzio.... Mere mention of the merman with the golden hands has brought you to a tremulous state! I can feel it, I can hear it in each ragged breath through your telephone!

Obsequiam: Any ragged breath you hear is the stifle of raucous laughter begging to be released from my lungs, Irritatious! I expected more from you. I expected a real debate but you have provided none... Flippin' Frank Flidizzio is a talented merman baseballer, yes, but the best of the first half of the twentieth century? Pshaw!

Irritatious: Pshaw?

Obsequiam: Pshaw indeed, Irritatious. You have forgotten, disregarded, and in the process of doing so disrespected the baseballer whose name I am about to utter, whose name will echo through the earpiece of your phone and will haunt you for the rest of your days... Phlamin' Philip the Phoenix.

Irritatious: *Gasps*

Obsequiam: That's right, Irritatious. While your lungs search for the air that I have rent from them with my baseball knowledge, and your brain seeks to recover from the jolt I have struck upon it like the hammer Mjölnir of Thor brings thunder upon the sky, I will enlighten you about why Phlamin' Philip the Phoenix is the best baseballer of the first half of the twentieth century. You see -

Irritatious: Hold please.

Obequiam: WHAT? NOOOOOOOOOO!

The elves surrounding Irritatious erupted in laughter as he pressed the hold button on the telephone. Obsequiam dropped to his knees, his hands raised above his head as he screams toward the ceiling in frustrated rage. An overweight man wearing a red jacket, red pants, and a red hat all lined with white fur enters and the elves stop laughing immediately. Irritatious hands the phone to the large white-bearded man. His name is Santa Claus and he is the supervisor of the third party customer service agency at the North Pole.

Santa Claus: Ho ho how may I help you Obsequiam?

Obsequiam: You can start by.... Pause for a moment... How do you know my name?

Santa Claus: Well, little sasquatch boy, I am Santa Claus! I am omniscient.

Obsequiam: I seek to rob the glow from your rosy cheeks, Santa Claus...

Santa Claus: Ho ho oh, you were always such a naughty sasquatch boy, Obsequiam...

Obsequiam: That may be the case but I demand immediate satisfaction or else! Send someone to replace the electromagnetic capacitor in my Destructomatic 3400 immediately!

Santa Claus: Well, we typically only arrange returns and listen to endless griping here at my third party customer service agency, Obsequiam.

Obsequiam: I will end you! I will steal the light from your cheerful eyes!

Santa Claus: Ho ho oh all right. I'll place a call to Destructomatic and have them send a technician to your laboratory.

Obsequiam: That is better. My address is -

Santa Claus: I already know, Obsequiam. I am Santa Claus, the omniscient. Fare thee well, Obsequiam. And remember, Christmas comes but once a year...

Santa Claus hangs up the phone and the lights dim on center stage, occluding Obsequiam from view. Santa Claus dials another number on the telephone, and as he raises the handset to his ears, light rises on the right side of the stage. A mockup of a factory is revealed. Destructomatic is painted in blood red letters on the faux bricks. A window cut into the set reveals a painting of a steel grey sky. There is a lone desk among the steam and spark belching machines, at which a werewolf sits wearing a tie and a hard hat. His name is Malevolid and he is the head engineer at Destructomatic Incorporated. His phone begins to ring and he answers.

Malevolid: I'll have you know that pain-dealing machines of my own invention are trained on you at this very moment. If your call is not of the utmost importance, I will dole an impartial and disproportionate share of force upon you!

Santa Claus: Ho ho oh, Malevolid... Will you ever receive anything other than coal in your stocking? Not if you continue as such...

Malevolid: Ah! Santa Claus... Scourge of the Northlands and judge of younglings... Why do you contact me?

Santa Claus: A Destructomatic customer in your area requires an electromagnetic capacitor for a Destructomatic 3400.

Malevolid: Vile demigod! Why do you plague me with this issue? Why have we hired you, if not to defer the needs of our loyal customers?

Santa Claus: I have judged this matter to be of importance... I cannot yet divulge my Santa Claus secrets regarding this matter, but I can assure you that if you do not have this electromagnetic capacitor delivered to a customer named Obsequiam immediately by your shapeshifting delivery-person, all light will be wicked from the universe.

Malevolid: That does not follow, lard-o. Would not it make more sense to deprive the cryptid creature of his Destructomatic equipment if you wish to save the universe?

Santa Claus: If we wait too long, he will fix it himself and we will all be doomed! Do as I say or your Christmas trees will lie barren until your dying breath retreats from your withered werewolf lips, Malevolid!

Malevolid: As you wish, my red velvet clad overlord...

Santa Claus and Malevolid hang up their telephones. Santa Claus turns his back to the audience and watches the fake snow fall behind the window as the elves continue to mime speech on their telephones. The lights dim on Santa Claus' portion of the stage. Malevolid waves his werewolf paws in the air, gesturing someone offstage toward him. A beautiful woman enters. Her name is Loretta and she is a shapeshifter. She is also the delivery person for Destructomatic.

Loretta: You have summoned me?

Malevolid: I have, dearest Loretta. You must deliver an electromagnetic capacitor to a customer named Obsequiam immediately. His address should be in the registry. Off with you!

Loretta walks to a file cabinet, opens a book that is assumedly the registry of Destructomatic customers. She writes down some information, retrieves a box that says ELECTROMAGNETIC CAPACITOR in block letters, and immediately turns into a flock of crows which lift the box with their razor sharp claws and fly off-stage. The lights dim on the entire stage and the curtains fall. It is the end of the scene and of Act 1. An inexplicable dance number featuring a troupe of jackalopes occurs during this brief intermission, accompanied by an abstract jazz number that is as puzzling as it is horrendous.

Act 2 Scene 1

The Dragon Narrator enters center stage from behind the curtain. A spotlight illuminates her scaly face as plumes of smoke rise from her nostrils.

Dragon Narrator: Obsequiam, he lies in wait for a surprise most unexpected. Loretta flies as a murder of crows, so as to not be detected. The darkness of her feathers, would humiliate blackest night. Will Obsequiam still wish destruction when Loretta meets his sight?

The spotlight dims and the Dragon Narrator retreats behind the curtains. The curtains raise to reveal Obsequiam and the Clone playing Chinese Checkers in front of the non-functional Destructomatic 3400. The Clone smiles in a vacant sort of way while he jumps almost every single one of Obsequiam's marbles to win the game. Obsequiam flips the Chinese Checkers board in frustration and begins pacing as marbles roll across the stage. The Clone appears unfazed and deftly turns to the audience and winks.

Obsequiam: My mind is elsewhere, Clone! Besides... the game is foolish...

Clone: Mhmm...

Obsequiam: Blast those devils! Slaves of the workday! Where is my electromagnetic capacitor? How much longer must I wait before I cloak the universe in everlasting darkness?

Clone: I don't know.

Obsequiam: Nor do I, my half-witted chum. That is the problem!

Clone: Will my flashlight still work?

Obsequiam: What is this you are asking me?

Clone: Will my flashlight still work after you've stolen all the light from the universe?

Obsequiam: No your flashlight will not work! I cannot take every glimmer of light from the vast expanse of space and spare your flashlight!

Clone: But how will I find my way through the lab in the dark?

Obsequiam: You won't!

Clone: *gasps*

Obsequiam: You are right to gasp. It is a terrifying thought! Soon the world, and the whole universe, will be filled with gasps as everyone and everything is plunged into darkness....

Clone: That's not why I was gasping...

Obsequiam: Lies! What deceit are you trying to deliver upon me?

Clone: Look!

Obsequiam's Clone points offstage. Loretta in the form of a murder of crows carrying the box containing the new electromagnetic capacitor flies on stage. Obsequiam is awestruck as the murder of crows enters the laboratory and drop the box to the ground. He looks like a sasquatch that has just fallen in love at first sight.

Clone: Obsequie?

Obsequiam: ....

Clone: Obsequiette, your package that will help you destroy the universe is here, I think.

Obsequiam: What? Yes, I know that. But... wow. They're so.... dark.

Clone: Huh?

Obsequiam: The crows... They're so... Dark...

Clone: I don't like them.

Obsequiam: LEAVE US, FOUL CRIME AGAINST NATURE!

Obsequiam's Clone gambols off of the stage with his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat. Obsequiam flips up the darkened shades of his goggles to get a better look at the crows. They turn into Loretta's human form shortly after. They are now alone in the laboratory. Although Loretta is no longer a murder of inky black crows, her hair and eyes are so dark that it seems light cannot escape them. It is clear that Obsequiam is enamored.

Loretta: Are you Obsequiam?

Obsequiam: I... I am.

Loretta: I have a delivery for you. It is a replacement -

Loretta & Obsequiam speaking at the same time: Electromagnetic capacitor for a Destructomatic 3400.

Loretta: ....Yes. Well, I need you to sign for it.

Obsequiam signs a form that Loretta passes to him with shaking hands. She takes it back from him, folds it, and places it in her pocket. They stare at each other for a moment, as if at a loss for words. Finally, Loretta speaks.

Loretta: Do you need assistance with the installation.

Obsequiam: No, of course no-... I mean, yes. Please stay and install the electromagnetic capacitor. Such a thing is beyond me...

Loretta: That seems odd, given the advanced state of this laboratory and those calculations written on your chalkboard. But alright.

Obsequiam hovered near the edge of the Destructomatic 3400 as Loretta installed the new electromagnetic capacitor. They exchange the type of awkward glances that only wildly unrealistic instant love can facilitate.

Loretta: It is finished. What mode would you like to set it to?

Obsequiam: Light drain.

Loretta: And the power level?

Obsequiam: Universal...

Loretta: Alright... That's that and all is done. Enjoy robbing the universe of all light, Obsequiam.

Loretta readies herself to exit as Obsequiam wrings his hands in a nervous fashion.

Obsequiam: Wait! I'm about to ask you a question that I've only ever asked of the all-encompassing darkness...

Loretta: Oh? Go on...

Obsequiam: May I see you again?

Loretta smiles at Obsequiam mischievously.

Loretta: I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again.

Loretta's form begins to shift and separate as she turns into a murder of black crows once more. The crows fly off-stage leaving Obsequiam alone to begin a soliloquy. He flips levers and switches, turns knobs, and presses buttons on the Destructomatic 3400 and it begins to light up and make noises as he speaks.

Obsequiam: A moment ago I saw the true darkness I have been dreaming of attaining all this time... Before I met Loretta I thought only the Destructomatic 3400 could fulfill my desires, but now... Now I feel... Well, it's silly, but I don't think words alone could describe...

Music begins to play. First is a flurry of woodwinds that brings to mind the twittering and wing flaps of tiny birds fluttering about on a dewy spring morning. A trio of bass drums begin beating faster and faster. As their speed reaches culmination and remains steady, a chorus of sasquatches rises before the stage. As the strings, xylophones, and brass instruments start playing, Obsequiam begins to sing in a rich operatic tenor, backed by the chorus below.

Obsequiam: My loooove, at last I've fooooouuund youuuu. With her hair dark as niiiiiight, robbing stars of their liiiiiii-iiii-iiiight!

Obsequiam's clone enters from offstage. He harmonizes with Obsequiam while playing an accordion.

Obsequiam and his Clone: You caaaaaame, and then you flew awaaaaaay. I wish you would have staaaaaaayed, such mistakes I have maaaaaa-aaaa-aaaaaade. Do I continue with my plaaaaaan? Or do I take a staaa-aaaaa-aaaaand?

A marching band of minotaurs enters the stage from both sides in full uniform while playing snare drums. Although the music continues to play, Obsequiam no longer sings, he now speaks loudly above the din caused by the music.

Obsequiam: Now, I must make the most difficult choice of my evil sasquatch scientist life... Do I rob the entire universe of light? Or do I abandon my charge and seek Loretta, the shapeshifting Destructomatic delivery person whose hair, eyes, and sometimes feathers, are as dark as the darkest darkness I could have ever imagined?.... It's all so clear now... I have made my choice. I now know the darkness which I seek!

Clone: Alright, Obsequerie!

The Clone smacks a bright red button upon the Destructomatic 3400. The music stops instantly and the lights flicker violently. The Clone has obviously misread the situation and thought that Obsequiam was going forward with his original plan rather than seeking out Loretta. Or maybe he thought this would help him find Loretta or something. It's hard to know for certain given the Clone's flawed mental processes.

Obsequiam: You fool! You dastardly fool! I curse the day I duplicated you! I must stop the machine... I must stop the all-encompassing darkness so that I may find my darkness... My Loretta!

Clone: Who's Loretta?

Obsequiam: Begone with you!

Obsequiam's Clone exits the stage unperturbed. He plays his accordion corresponding with each footstep he takes as he exits the stage. The lights go dim as the scene ends.

Act 2 Scene 2

The lights rise to reveal Obsequiam in center stage, once more holding his telephone to his ear. The right side of the stage is occupied by the elves of the third party customer service agency. They continue to mime speech at their long wooden table lined with telephones even though there is much less light in the sky behind them now. The fake in the window snow falls thicker than ever. The elf named Irritatious picks up a telephone as the scene begins.

Irritatious: Destructomatic customer service hotline, this is Irritatious speaking. If it is service you seek, perhaps I can be of assistance.

Obsequiam: Listen now, vile creature, and listen closely.

Irritatious: Could it be? Could it truly be? Did our cryptid baseball discussion not fully satisfy you?

Obsequiam: This is not about that, although I was right... I need assistance as I seem to have misplaced by Destructomatic 3400 manual.

Irritatious: Your address is on file from earlier. I will mail a manual today and it will arrive at your laboratory within four to sixty weeks. Good day, Obsequiam.

Obsequiam: You fool! The Earth will be a frozen sphere of despair in four to sixty weeks if you do not aid me immediately!

Irritatious: Deceive me not... Did you really go through with your despicable plan? Is that the reason for this darkness which has befallen us?

Obsequiam: Sort of... It's technically not my fault.

Irritatious: By the wounds of Zeus! They really need to start doing thorough background checks before they sell machines that can destroy the universe...

Obsequiam: You have no idea how badly I want to debate, and defeat you, once more...

Irritatious: Give me your best!

Obsequiam: There's no time! If we save everything in existence from a dark and icy death then we can debate background checks for universal destruction mechanisms.

Irritatious: Fine! Tell me what you want.

Obsequiam: I need to stop the Destructomatic 3400 and return the light that it has extinguished thus far.

Irritatious: But you don't have any questions about your warranty or returning the Destructomatic 3400? Or general comments?

Obsequiam: What? No, of course not. Why is this happening?

Irritatious: Please hold while I summon my supervisor.

Obsequiam: Blast you, vile customer service representative! A plague upon thee!

Santa Claus appears on stage. He looks as though he is nervous and a little angry.

Santa Claus: Ho ho Obsequiam....

Obsequiam: Yes sir...?

Santa Claus: You've been a very naughty sasquatch.

Obsequiam: I thought you were omniscient? If you were, you'd know that -

Santa Claus: I know that it was your clone who pressed the button. You might as well have guided his hairy hand though. You have behaved most rashly. Besides, you should have moved the clone away from the machine before the marching band entered.

Obsequiam: Wow... Wait, I've not any time to be astonished by your omniscience now. Tarry not in contacting Destructomatic immediately. Tell them to reverse the process! I've found the darkness I seek and it walks among us. I've been foolish!

Santa Claus: Ho ho ho.... Yes you have. But there's no time to berate you right now. Let me just say that you shouldn't expect a large pile of presents this year. I'll call them immediately.

The lights completely dim on center stage, and they dim minutely on the portion of the stage housing the set for the third party customer service agency. The light rises slightly to reveal the Destructomatic headquarters where the werewolf engineer Malevolid is sitting once more. The phone rings on his desk and he picks it up.

Malevolid: This call is occluding me from missing the end of the universe as we know it, so I hope it's of utmost importance.

Santa Claus: Ho ho oh, it is. The end of which you speak can be stopped. If all is done properly, the damage can still be reversed. Listen closely... A young shapeshifter under your employ delivered an electromagnetic capacitor to an evil sasquatch scientist this afternoon. See that she goes back and undoes the damage at once.

Santa Claus hangs up the telephone without waiting for a response from Malevolid. He turns to the window, looking out at the heavily falling snow covering the increasingly dark landscape.

Santa Claus: I just hope she's not too late...

The lights fade completely on the North Pole set.

Malevolid: Loretta! Loretta! I bid you to appear at once!

A swarm of black snakes ripple across the floor of Malevolid's office. They congregate and slowly materialize into the human version of Loretta. She looks on at Malevolid with her black hole eyes.

Malevolid: I need you to return to Obsequiam's laboratory and reverse the processes begun by the Destructomatic 3400.

Loretta looks away from Malevolid. At first her expression is neutral and unreadable, but then it erupts into unfathomable sadness.

Loretta: I can't.

Malevolid: What do you mean by this? The fate of the entire universe depends on you going to that sasquatch's laboratory and flipping some switches and turning some knobs.

Loretta: You don't understand... If I return, I will fall in love...

Malevolid rises from his desk at once, his hardhat toppling from his wolf-like head.

Malevolid: There is another?

Loretta: There is another.

Malevolid: The price of the continuation of our forbidden love has finally made itself apparent... It's either us, or the universe...

There is a long pause in which the lights dim a little more. The set is now in twilight as Malevolid and Loretta gaze at each other longingly. They knew this moment would come sooner or later. Actually, they did not know that this exact moment would come because that would be preposterous, but they knew that their secret forbidden love must someday come to an end. A great deal of unspeakable and unknowable feelings pass between the two of them, werewolf engineer and shapeshifting delivery person, before Loretta speaks.

Loretta: Part of me knew it would end this way.

Malevolid: We had a good run. Besides, office romances are forbidden by the Destructomatic Human Resources Department. We would have drowned in a sea of paperwork just as we would have frozen to death by the lack of light in the universe.

Loretta: Though the sun and stars will remain, my life will be colder without your werewolf paws' touch.

Malevolid: You go! Go before we change our minds and doom all that ever was or will be! Go, Loretta!

Loretta reaches out her hand. Malevolid reaches out his werewolf paw and they exchange one final touch before Loretta erupts into a murder of black crows that fly out of the window. Malevolid stands at the window, presumably watching her fly out of sight and out of his romantic life forever. He turns around and speaks only to himself in little more than a whisper.

Malevolid: Goodbye, Loretta. I will always love you. Work sure is going to be strange on Monday.

The lights dim and the scene ends.

Act 2 Scene 3

The Destructomatic 3400 is humming loudly and it glows brightly. Obsequiam kneels before the machine and weeps while his Clone plays with one of those paddles with a ball attached to it with an elastic string.

Clone: Why are you crying, Obsequoyah?

Obsequiam: I weep because I have inadvertently destroyed my only chance at happiness. I knew I wanted darkness, but the darkness I sought was unknown to me before Loretta. I was a naive fool! A foolish fool, Clone!

Clone: I've paddled this ball over five hundred times in a row now.

Obsequiam: I'm the most foolingest fool that has ever fooled.

Clone: That's five-hundred and fifty.

Obsequiam: I'll never find my love Loretta in the darkness I have created... For she is dark herself. It's cruel that my two loves cannot co-exist... Everlasting universal darkness and the dark Loretta... What a dream... But no! It cannot be! I won't even speak it! I won't even think it...

Clone: I bet this thing would break before I missed the ball.

Obsequiam: I wonder where she is right now... What corporeal form she has assumed... I wonder if her darkness could cancel out the darkness...

Loretta: You don't have to wonder anymore.

Obsequiam rises to his feet, knocking over his clone who still continues to hit the ball with the paddle although he is now lying on the floor. Loretta has entered as the murder of crows through the window. She assumes her human form and stands before Obsequiam.

Loretta: I've been sent by Destructomatic Incorporated to reverse your machine and save the universe.

Obsequiam: And to love... me?

Loretta: Yes. Only if we can save the universe though. We must hurry!

The pair of them work feverishly on the Destructomatic 3400 while Clone continues to lie on the ground flawlessly playing his paddle game. The Destructomatic stops humming and stops glowing and the stage goes completely dark for a moment. All that can be heard is Clone's continued paddling. Then a great light bursts forth from the machine. A noise that resembles music being played backward at great speed erupts from the Destructomatic 3400 as the light grows ever brighter. Soon, the light is blinding and nothing can be seen on stage. The noise and intense light stop abruptly, leaving the stage silent and bathed in the normal lighting from before the attempted destruction of the universe. The clone is no longer on the stage. Obsequiam and Loretta are alone in the laboratory, and the third party customer service agency in the North Pole is illuminated on the side stage. The elves and Santa are celebrating silently.

Loretta: We did it. We really did it.

Obsequiam: It would have been impossible without you.

Loretta: So... Where do we go from here?

Obsequiam: You are the only mysterious shapeshifting creature that has ever made me feel this way... The darkness of your hair is greater than any darkness I could have achieved with the Destructomatic 3400, the blackness of your eyes would cause a black hole to weep with envy, the abyssal blackness of your feathers when you're a crow... I can't even perceive their full darkness, and as such, cannot verbalize their absence of brilliance. I want to bask in your particular darkness forever... Can that be?

Loretta: It can be. It must be. As soon as I saw your gargantuan ape-like body hunched over a machine that could destroy the entire universe I knew that we were meant to be. Your reddish-brown fur reminds me of blood strewn upon the dirt, and your lab coat is as white as an avalanche that could demolish a prosperous skiing and tourism based town. Your clone is so dumb that it makes me laugh, something I have never done before because I was too focused on dark creatures I could morph into and my career at Destructomatic. I realize now that there is so much more to life, and I want to experience it with you, vile Obsequiam.

Obsequiam lowers himself to one knee and extracts an engagement ring that he inexplicably has and carries around despite the fact that he had never loved anyone less than an hour before and had been actively attempting to destroy the universe so he could be alone forever in absolute darkness. Loretta holds her hands to her mouth and gasps. Before he can propose, the phone begins to ring. It is the elf, Irritatious.

Irritatious: Are we safe? Has the universe and all its light been spared, foul Obsequiam?

Obsequiam: It has, elf. It has. I'm in the middle of proposing to the love of my life, this time it is I who must put you on hold.

Obsequiam puts Irritatious on hold and returns his attention to Loretta. Irritatious silently relays this information to the elves and Santa Claus and they rejoice on the side stage.

Obsequiam: Loretta my love, darkest of dark, shapeshifter of my life, will you join me in matrimony?

Loretta: Obsequiam my dear, evil sasquatch scientist, I will.

Obsequiam and Loretta embrace. Obsequiam then picks up his telephone and takes Irritatious off hold.

Irritatious: Well, don't keep us waiting. What did she say? Do you have a bride or do you have irreparable heartache?

Obsequiam: I have a bride!

Irritatious: Excellent news! Where is the wedding going to be?

Obsequiam: Somewhere cold... Somewhere dark... I'm thinking perhaps... The North Pole.

Irritatious: *Gasps*

The lights dim and the scene ends. When the light rises upon the stage again, center stage is now occupied by a snowy landscape. Obsequiam and Loretta stand beneath a black stone arch, carved with snakes, crows, owls, locust, octopi, and a great number of other dark and sinister creatures. Santa Claus stands between them, officiating the wedding. Irritatious stands in as Obsequiam's best man. Clone is the ringbearer. Malevolid sits in the back row of the great number of guests which are spectating the wedding. Malevolid is the only guest in the crowd that is not an elf. Loretta and Obsequiam did not have many friends.

Act 2 Scene 4

Santa Claus: Do you, Obsequiam, take this shapeshifter to be your lawfully wedded wife in darkness and in not as much darkness, in freezing cold and boiling heat, and in evil and slightly less amounts of evil?

Obsequiam: I do.

Santa Claus: And do you, Loretta, take this evil sasquatch scientist to be your lawfully wedded husband in pestilence and violence, in the cold vacuum of space and in the deepest wells and caves, and in extreme financial debt to Destructomatic Incorpotated?

Loretta: I do.

Malevolid exits.

Santa Claus: Then by the power vested in me, Santa Claus, the omniscient bringer of joy to children all over the world, I now pronounce you evil sasquatch scientist and wife.

The crowd of elves clap enthusiastically as Obsequiam and Loretta kiss. The pair of them walk down the aisle hand in hand to a waiting reindeer driven sleigh. It has been draped in black and the reindeer wear black hoods which their pointy antlers erupt through. The pair of them enter the sleigh and it rises off the stage with easily visible ropes. The crowd of elves, Santa Claus, and Clone, who is apparently now the North Pole's problem, all wave to the newlywed couple as they fly away off stage. The curtains close and the Dragon Narrator appears.

Dragon Narrator: So it goes with love and destruction, a bit of each is needed to function. Especially when it is an evil sasquatch scientist and a shapeshifter in question, but as a wise dragon sage I offer one final suggestion. Do not look for love in destructive blows, it can usually be found in a murder of crows.

A Brief Biography of Snakespeare

It is difficult to comprehend how William Snakespeare, the most notable cryptid playwright of all time, could have come from such humble origins. William Snakespeare was born in a dragon cave located in the southeast coast of Suffolk, England in 1930. He was raised by his two dragon parents, Monica and Theodore Snakenvild. It was not until the age of twelve that he adopted the pen-name Snakespeare after reading a collection of human plays by a playwright named Shakespeare.

Snakespeare lacked the horns, ability to breathe fire, and immense size that set most dragons apart from common reptiles. This was a constant source of struggle for Snakespeare for much of his early life. It was not until Snakespeare was established within the cryptid theatre community that the vast majority of the cryptid community could see past his physical flaws. The cryptid society of 1930 was much different than the modern representation. One has to wonder if they had been as accepting of Snakespeare as the modern cryptid community likely would have been, if he would have spent so much time writing the plays that made him famous.

Snakespeare's first one-hundred and twenty-two plays were met with indifference, if not open hatred. Admittedly, they were not his best work. They often revolved around dragon specific subject matters, and even then, ones that very few dragons could relate to. Snakespeare struck gold, metaphorically speaking, with his one-hundred and twenty-third play, A Midsummer's Ice Cream.

The play still centered upon a dragon, but the content matter was such that other cryptids might enjoy it. The play was a comedy about a dragon who most unwisely chose to open an ice cream parlor. The dragon's fire-breathing tendencies repeatedly melted the ice cream. The midsummer heat compounded the problem. A Midsummer's Ice Cream was the first Snakespearean play open to a mass audience. It was broadcast over the radio and toured every major playhouse in Great Britain.

After a Midsummer's Ice Cream, Snakespeare was an established playwright. Almost every play was accepted gladly by audiences and critics alike from then on. The play that Snakespeare is arguably most beloved for was a tragedy called Gnomeo and Werewolfiet. It was a story about a gnome and a werewolf who fell in love but were forbidden by their families to wed because they were too young, different species, and because Werewolfiet was viewed as being too dangerous. Gnomeo's family proved to be right about the violence of the werewolf, as the play ended with Werewolfiet devouring essentially everyone in the play.

The number of cryptid plays written by Snakespeare is too long to list in a short biography such as this. If the rumors are true, the number continues to grow as Snakespeare supposedly continues to write plays as a ghost from his cave-home in Suffolk.

Dragon: Selected for Jury Duty

A secret cavern hidden far beneath the earth's surface gleamed with a thousand lifetime's worth of gold in the torchlight. A gargantuan reptilian beast slumbered amongst the piles of gold and gems and treasures. Steam and smoke rose from its nostrils, as well as the occasional spark every now and then which briefly illuminated the mottled green skin and scales of the beast. The creature was a dragon named Sheila and the cavern had been her home for many centuries.

Sheila had a pet goat named Harold that wandered freely around her cavern. It had not been her intention to keep Harold as a pet. In fact, when Harold arrived at Sheila's cavern several years previous, he had been intended as a snack. His personality and his endearing rectangular pupils proved far too charming to meet such an end however.

Harold the goat did have one particular habit that annoyed Sheila greatly. He would stand atop the tallest pile of gold and begin bleating when the mail arrived every day. He would not stop until Sheila would rise and retrieve the mail. Harold had just climbed the mound of gold, and had just started bleating.

One of the dragon's vividly yellow eyes snapped open as the goat's cries echoed off the walls of her cave. Her pupil retracted as she blinked slowly. Could the mail really have been delivered already? It felt as though she had only fallen asleep moments ago.

The only thing worse than the consistency of the goat's bleats was how shrill they were. Sheila closed her eyes and tried to ignore them, but they continued without fail. She opened her eyes again and groaned, causing a spurt of flame to issue from her nostrils and meld a gold crown with a number of gold coins lying before her face.

"Enough, Harold!" the dragon roared as it rose to its scaly clawed feet. The goat went silent and pranced down the side of the gigantic mound of gold coins it had been standing atop. Its hoofed feet clipped and clopped against the stone floor as Sheila stretched her wide leathery wings and yawned a great plume of smoke into the still air. "Let's go get the mail, you little horned brat."

Sheila the dragon and Harold the goat trudged through long labyrinthine passages over slick rocks and mountains of riches until they reached the entrance of the cave. The little red mailbox that was nestled into the rocks on the facade of the cave was stuffed to the brim with mail.

Sheila pulled the letters out of the mailbox with the small arm-like appendages just above her wing joints. She quickly glanced at each piece of mail before ceding it to the eager mouth of Harold. He loved to eat mail. Sheila was certain that was why he was so insistent on getting it as soon as it arrived.

"Junk, junk, junk," Sheila said as she handed each letter into the goat's mouth. It munched happily and continuously upon the letters as she skimmed the return addresses. "Bill, bill, postcard from Aunt Marie, junk, coupons - wait...."

Sheila paused when she came upon a letter marked 'URGENT: FINAL NOTICE'. That did not bode well... Harold bleated and shook his horned head as she tore open the letter and began to read it instead of ceding it to his insatiable stomach. The letter read:

'Dear Cryptid Citizen,

As a registered voter it is your responsibility to attend jury duty on the date of October 31, 2015 at 10 A. M. Failure to appear at jury duty will result in a fine and possible forfeiture of future voting rights. This is the final notice.

Salutations,

Senior Secretary of Cryptid Judicial Affairs - Martha S. Longfurrandtail'

Sheila felt the fire rise in her lungs. October 31 was that very day... She supposed that in the future she should read the letters a bit more thoroughly before handing them off to Harold.

"Get back in the cave, Harold. I've got to go take care of something..." Sheila said, stretching her wings wide and preparing for flight. Harold stared at her dully with his rectangular pupils. Finally, he just kind of wandered off into the cave after a few minutes.

Seventy feet long wings beat against the air and sounded like nearby thunder as Sheila took to the sky. She was soon soaring above the clouds, gliding upon a wind that could not be felt on the ground hundreds of feet beneath her. Under normal circumstances she loved to fly, but flying to jury duty, much less a surprise jury duty, sapped the therapeutic and meditative qualities from the act.

The local Cryptid Court was a fair distance away from Sheila's cave. She had never had a reason to go there before, having never been convicted of a crime and never been called upon for jury duty. Luckily, as a dragon, she possessed a keen innate sense of direction so she already knew how to get to the Cryptid Court. She glanced at her dragon wristwatch as she flew. She was going to make it just in time.

Sheila saw the courthouse in the distance and began to start her descent. She circled lower and lower until she landed directly by the courthouse. A line of other cryptids and mythological creatures stood at the doorway and did not offer Sheila a glance or any other form of greeting or acknowledgement as she landed. They all appeared severely annoyed if not outright angry. Why were there so many? Sheila was under the impression that there were only a few needed for jury duty...

Shelia took up a spot at the rear of the line and waited. She was easily the largest creature in the line, her head towering fifteen feet above the nearest creature - a sasquatch grumpily reading a newspaper and tapping its foot in agitation.

"....judicial....hogwash!...jury duty again...." the sasquatch mumbled under its breath as it noisily turned the pages of its newspaper. It sounded like a male.

Sheila lowered her horned reptilian head near the sasquatch and whispered, "Have you done this before?"

The sasquatch folded his newspaper and looked over his shoulder at Sheila before adjusting his bifocals and clearing his throat. "I have. And let me tell you, young lady, it is no fun. How my name keeps getting drawn for this nonsense I'll never know..."

"What's so bad about it?" Sheila asked nervously, taking great care not to singe the sasquatch or any of the other creatures with her heated breaths.

"Where do I start?" the sasquatch groaned, pushing its spectacles back to the bridge of its nose. "It's hot in there, the court proceedings take a long time, you can't leave..."

The sasquatch continued to list the irredeemable qualities of jury duty, but Sheila lost track. She began to wonder if there was a way to get out of jury duty...

"... the chairs are uncomfortable, and it is so boring that it feels as though your mind detaches from your body," the sasquatch finished coldly.

"Yeah that sounds rough," Sheila said without emotion. "Listen, is there any way to get out of jury duty?"

The sasquatch froze. His expression looked as though he had just been smacked in the face with a brick. It quickly became evident that he had never even considered the possibility of trying to weasel his way out of jury duty. He looked from the crowd of cryptids lined up outside of the courthouse to the face of Sheila hovering a few feet above his own. He was utterly dumbstruck.

"Well, er, uh, you see... I suppose so, as all of these critters won't be selected to be on the jury, but I don't... which isn't to say..." the sasquatch's voice kind of trailed off into nothingness and he cleared his throat and opened his newspaper once more, holding it high over his face and ignoring Sheila as hard as he could.

Sheila stood up straight and sighed, causing a great ball of fire to shoot through the air. It was quite an impressive display, but the cryptids below were far too consumed by their own boredom to even notice it.

The clock on the side of the courthouse reached 10 A. M. and a bell rang ten times in a row. When the bell finished ringing, the cryptids in line outside of the courthouse began to file inside. Sheila followed them, wracking her humongous brain in hopes of coming up with an idea that would get her out of jury duty.

The doors of the courthouse were extra wide and tall so as to facilitate gigantic creatures such as Sheila. She stepped inside. Her claws clicked and clacked against the marble floors as she and the other potential jurors were ushered to seats in a long hallway. The sasquatch had been right, it certainly was hot inside of the courthouse. Did the building not have air conditioning?

Sheila sat down upon the largest chair in the hall. Nearly every other creature in the hall had brought some kind of reading material to pass the time. She wondered if they knew how long they were likely going to be waiting to be selected. Some of the books they brought were very thick...

"Excuse me," Sheila said, leaning down to whisper to a centaur that was seated beside her. "Do you know how long this usually takes?"

"It just depends on when they call your name," the centaur said. It was clear that the centaur was only half awake by the glazed over look in her eyes. "Sometimes you only have to wait a few minutes, sometimes it's all day, other times they don't even call your name at all and you just kind of leave..."

The centaur returned to reading her book. Her head drooped lower and lower as the seconds passed. Sheila sat up straight and groaned, causing streams of sparks to erupt from her nostrils accompanied by clouds of smoke. The other creatures began to hiss, shout, yelp, gurgle, and howl at Sheila for adding more heat to the already stifling room.

"Ellen Hoofenhoffer!" a voice called from the end of the hall. The centaur that was sitting beside Sheila woke with a start. She closed her book without marking the page she was on and got up and trotted down the hallway.

A few moments passed before another name was called. "Curtis Scruffenmeyer!" the voice called. The sasquatch that had been reading the newspaper rose from his seat and walked grumpily down the hall. A few minutes later, he exited the room even angrier. Apparently he had been selected as a juror again.

"Sheila Shortwing!"

Sheila sighed deeply, nearly setting the ceiling on fire in the process, and rose to her feet. She trudged down the hall past the lines of scowling cryptids who were angry at her for making the room warmer again. Her claws skidded across the smooth, cool marble floor beneath her feet.

She entered the room she had been summoned to and was instructed to sit down on a bench in front of a sasquatch, a sea monster of some sort that was in a tank full of water, and a centaur which were sitting behind a long wooden desk. Her long, dark green tail trailed out into the hallway.

"Good morning, Sheila," the sea monster gurgled.

"Good morning," Sheila said to the trio of judicial cryptids behind the desk as she inclined her horned head toward them. They all sat at least fifteen feet beneath the bottom of her scaly chin.

"I think she'll do just fine. Everyone agree?" the sasquatch said confidently, looking from Sheila to the other two creatures behind the desk. The sasquatch wore navy suit with thin white pinstripes upon it.

"Agreed," the other two creatures chorused.

"Wait, that's the selection process? It's that random?" Sheila asked confusedly.

"At this courthouse it is," the sea monster gurgled as its long black robes billowed through its tank.

"Go into the adjacent room and take a seat please," the centaur said, motioning toward a doorway to their left. "The trial will begin when we have filled out the jury. It should not take too long."

Sheila rose from her seat, making a conscious effort not to exhale in frustration so as not to set anything on fire. She entered the next room and sat at the rear of the juror area, behind the fuming sasquatch and beside the dozing centaur. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, nine other creatures filed into the juror area and sat with them. The courtroom itself began to fill with witnesses and even an audience. The centaur and sasquatch from the selection process turned out to be lawyers involved in the trial, and the sea monster in the tank was wheeled behind the judge's bench. When his tank was set in place behind the bench, all noise in the courtroom ceased.

"October 31, 2015," he gurgled into a microphone that had been lowered into his tank. "On this day, the Cryptid Court will hear the case of Grayblack Rancidfurr, a werewolf accused of the most heinous crime of supergluing every book in a library together, and scribbling cartoons of himself performing the act on every page of the stuck-together books."

A collective gasp of nearly every living being in the courtroom was audible when the judge had finished reading the crime of the accused werewolf.

"I ask you all to remain level-headed and civil, and to objectively consider the evidence presented in the case. Do not to dwell on the horrendous nature of a crime such as this. Listen to the cases," the sea monster judge bubbled into the microphone. Sheila looked around at the creatures shaking their heads in disgust and wondered if anyone in the courtroom would be capable of retaining an objective outlook on the cases that would be presented. Then Sheila began to wonder... would she?

The doors of the courtroom opened and everyone turned around. The bailiff, a minotaur wearing a policeman's uniform with a cap perched jauntily between his horns, accompanied a terrified werewolf wearing an orange jumpsuit with the number two-hundred and eleven stitched onto the front of it.

"The honorable Judge Slipenscayl presiding," the bailiff said as he deposited the werewolf at the table which the centaur lawyer was sitting. The sasquatch lawyer peered at the werewolf in outright contempt. It seemed that there was already some bad blood between them...

"I'd like to call Grayblack Rancidfurr to the stand, your honor," the sasquatch said, standing up and straightening his tie. The werewolf seemed to be on the verge of panic.

"I'll allow that, but keep this civil! You're still on thin ice after that last stunt you pulled, Mr. Squetchly..."

"I heard that Squetchly called in the entire cryptid community in the country of Chile as a witness during the last trial he was in..." the centaur beside Sheila whispered upward at her.

Sheila watched the sasquatch lawyer, Mr. Squetchly, approach the stand on which the werewolf now sat. He appeared to be exceedingly confident. Sheila could not be certain if the glare emanating from his hands was caused by the shiny golden watch or the number of gem studded rings the sasquatch wore on his fingers.

"Mr. Rancidfurr," Mr. Squetchly began, turning to face the courtroom at large and speaking in a deep booming voice that rang throughout the room. "Could you please enlighten us all to your whereabouts on the night of October 15, 2015 between 2 A. M. and 3 A. M.?"

"I was - I was," the werewolf stammered and stuttered, glancing wildly about the courtroom. "I was running through the forest aimlessly as werewolves are wont to do from time to time..."

"Can anyone vouch for your story, Mr. Rancidfurr? Did anyone witness you running aimlessly through the forest on the night of October 15?" Mr. Squetchly asked, rocking back and forth on his highly polished black loafers.

"Not that I'm aware of..." the werewolf said with a nervous gulp as drool dripped down its whiskers and into its chest fur.

"Well that's peculiar. Do you know why I find this peculiar, Mr. Rancidfurr?" the sasquatch asked, turning to face the werewolf once more.

"W-why?"

"Because an eyewitness saw you leaving the library at the aforementioned times, an eyewitness that is currently in this very room..."

"It wasn't me! I'm being set up! I'm being framed!" the werewolf yelped.

"It was I who saw you! I'm sure that you thought that the library was deserted, but you were wrong... I was the last to leave that night, and I saw you sneaking through the parking lot with a bag of superglue in your hands as you muttered maniacally how much you wanted to glue all of the books together..." Mr. Squetchly said triumphantly.

The jury gasped and the courtroom broke into frenzy of muttering. Judge Slipenscayl banged his gavel slowly through the water in his tank. "Order! ORDER! I will not have my courtroom devolve into a free-for-all... Mr. Rancidfurr, can you refute these claims?"

"Well, like I said, I was in the forest running aimlessly and howling at the moon, but - "

"But you have no witnesses to confirm this?" the sasquatch asked with a malevolent grin.

"N-no... I don't," Grayblack Rancidfurr said, hanging his head in utter defeat. However, his centaur lawyer cleared her throat and stood up.

"Your honor, there may not be a witness that can account for my client's whereabouts on the night of the fifteenth, but there is a witness that was inside of that library, unbeknownst to the perpetrator of the heinous act that occurred..."

Sheila thought that for just an instant, Mr. Squetchly the sasquatch appeared greatly concerned. He hid it quickly though.

"Ms. Manetooth, could you produce said eyewitness?" the judge said, speaking to the centaur lawyer.

"I can," she said victoriously. "Bailiff, would you open the door to the courtroom?"

"That won't be necessary," a muffled voice said from behind the door. A moment later, a glowing translucent figure glided through the doors. It was the ghost of Bigfoot.

Sheila gasped and inhaled a great deal of flame. The dozing centaur beside her woke with a start and every juror except for the sasquatch in front of her moved to the edge of their seats. Although the judge banged his gavel repeatedly to re-establish order in the courtroom, his own expression revealed that he was just as astounded as everyone else.

"The perpetrator of this vile act," Bigfoot's ghost said as he strode to the center of this courtroom. "Was apparently not aware, as I'm sure many, if not all, of you are \- that after the library is closed for living cryptids and creatures, it opens for the ghosts of cryptids and creatures. I got to the library early that night, just after it had closed for the living and opened for the dead... I remember it well. I had recently finished a compilation of Snakespeare plays and was looking for something new when I saw a creature in the midst of a crime so foul that I forgot that I was dead and hid for my own safety... I could only watch as they went about their cruel deed... As they glued every book together at the covers and scribbled cartoons of the werewolf doing the act in the books they bound, all the while muttering how they would put away another werewolf. They seemed to be quite prejudiced against werewolves... Quite prejudiced indeed."

"Your honor, this is preposterous. Do ghosts even exist? I believe this to be a hologram or some other tomfoolery being perpetrated by the defendant, and - " Mr. Squetchly said quickly, before the judge cut him off.

"I'll not have you interrupt the witness again, Mr. Squetchly!" the judge said menacingly to the sasquatch lawyer. "Go on, Mr. Deceased Bigfoot."

"The real criminal, your honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury and court.... Was Mr. Squetchly!" the ghost of Bigfoot said calmly as he rose his muscular ghost arm and pointed a pearlescent finger at the sasquatch lawyer trembling before him.

Sheila could hardly believe it. Could it really be? Could the werewolf they had all been prepared to write off as being guilty be innocent? Could the upstanding citizen and successful lawyer Mr. Squetchly be the criminal that perpetrated the horrendous act of supergluing every library book together and drawing cartoons of the werewolf doing it, so as to frame him?

"Surely you jest," Mr. Squetchly said with a chuckle after regaining his composure. "What other proof do you have? Anything? Anything at all? I highly doubt that the word of a previously unknown ghost would hold up in court without any backing evidence..."

"We do happen to have more evidence, Mr. Squetchly," Ms. Manetooth, the centaur lawyer said smoothly. "Your honor, I'd like to present Exhibit A."

Ms. Manetooth walked toward the judge's stand, her hooves echoing off of the marble floors, and placed a ripped book before the judge.

"If you'll allow the bailiff to open the book for you so that it won't get all soggy in your tank, you'll see several strands of hair caught in the glue... Sasquatch hair," Ms. Manetooth said triumphantly as the bailiff opened the book for the judge. A number of shaggy rust-red hairs hung from a dried glob of glue on the inside of the book.

"Your honor, you know as well as I that those hairs could belong to any sasquatch! They could have been there even before the act occurred and simply been caught in the glue... Besides, they look more like werewolf hairs to me..." Mr. Squetchly said with an absurd confidence. The court was no longer on his side however, though he fought to retain his confident facade.

"I thought you might say something to that effect," Ms. Manetooth said calmly. "That is why I have a second surprise witness who will present Exhibit B. Bailiff, will you open the doors to the courtroom and let them in? You'll actually have to open the doors this time, they're not a ghost..."

The minotaur bailiff strode across the courtroom, his bull-like hooves clicking and clacking against the marble floor. He opened the door, and for a moment it almost did appear to Sheila and the surrounding jurors that another ghost had entered. It was, however, a bright white unicorn wearing a lab coat that was somehow even brighter and whiter than it was.

Sheila let out an involuntary 'oooh' as she saw the unicorn, unleashing a spurt of fire from her nostrils. She was not berated by the other jurors this time, however, as they too were entranced by the unicorn's beauty and majesty.

The unicorn in the lab coat had a file folder in its mouth, which it ceded to the bailiff before it began to speak. "My name is Professor Trottenclop and I work and teach in the DNA research facility at the Cryptid University in the Pacific Northwest."

"Oh dear..." Mr. Squetchly muttered quietly as Professor Trottenclop made his way to the stand, taking the werewolf's place. If Sheila had not extended her elongated neck out of unrestrained curiosity over the lawyers and witnesses she would not have heard it.

"Mr. Squetchly," Ms. Manetooth said to the sasquatch lawyer, turning her horse-like body to face him. "Have you met Professor Trottenclop before?"

Mr. Squetchly cleared his throat and said uncertainly, "Well, it's hard to say... I've met so many creatures over the years..."

"I met Mr. Squetchly ten years ago while he was in the law program at the Cryptid University of the Pacific Northwest," said Professor Trottenclop from the witness stand.

"And what was the circumstance of your initial meeting with Mr. Squetchly ten years ago, Professor Trottenclop?" Ms. Manetooth asked inquisitively as she paced back and forth before the stand.

"He participated in a DNA research program in exchange for five Crypto-Units," Professor Trottenclop said while Mr. Squetchly shook his head in silence.

"And what form of DNA did Mr. Squetchly provide you?" Ms. Manetooth asked with the ghost of a smirk on her face. Sheila, along with all of the other jurors aside from the sasquatch in front of her who was squirming in his uncomfortable wooden chair, was sitting on the edge of her seat.

"Several hairs," Professor Trottenclop said.

Sheila thought it was over. It had to be over... Mr. Squetchly, however, was still grasping at straws, trying to retain his freedom.

"Your honor, simply, uh, comparing those hairs isn't... er, uh... My DNA could very well have changed since then!" he proclaimed loudly, with his hands shooting up into the air.

"Bailiff, would you show Judge Slipenscayl the results of the DNA test in the folder, please?" Ms. Manetooth asked the minotaur.

The bailiff approached the judge's water tank and held the file folder up against the glass while Judge Slipenscayl peered at it.

"I see very little cause to go into full deliberation over this matter," Judge Slipenscayl said after a few moments of perusing the DNA evidence. "How about we just do an informal vote. All jurors that believe that Mr. Grayblack Rancidfurr did not glue every library book together, and that Mr. Squetchly is guilty of framing Mr. Rancidfurr, perjury, and gluing together and defacing every library book available to this community, say 'aye'."

Fire erupted from Sheila's fanged mouth as she cried out 'aye'. Every other juror did the same.

"Now wait just one minute!" Mr. Squetchly said frantically, his hands shaking so badly that his rings clattered to the floor.

"Silence!" cried the judge, slowly pounding his gavel through the water in his tank. "It is my opinion that you should be sentenced to recovering and erasing the graffiti from every library book. You will also have bi-hourly therapy sessions with a werewolf psychiatrist to aid you in putting an end to your unjust prejudices. Bailiff, take Mr. Squetchly to the holding cell. Mr. Rancidfurr, you are free to go."

The werewolf leapt through the air and embraced his lawyer, Ms. Manetooth. The ghost of Bigfoot patted her on the back and Professor Trottenclop joined them in congratulations. Mr. Squetchly was led away from the courtroom in shackles as he screamed about 'injustice'.

The jurors surrounding Sheila began to rise and exit the courtroom. The sasquatch juror had begun to grumpily read his newspaper as he walked. Sheila caught up to him.

"Is it always like that?" she asked the seemingly perpetually annoyed sasquatch.

"Oh yes... Hot courtroom, stiff chairs, and all that dull legal mumbo-jumbo..." the sasquatch said without sparing her a glance. He picked up his pace and disappeared out of the door.

Sheila was astounded that anyone could not have found the case they had just witnessed utterly thrilling. She exited the courtroom and began to flap her gargantuan wings. Her flight home felt much shorter. She spent the majority of the time pondering the case she had just witnessed.

When she arrived at the entrance of her cave, she found her goat Harold sticking its snout into the empty mailbox. "I've had quite a day, Harold," Sheila said to her pet. Harold replied with a bleat that sounded an awful lot like 'mail'.

"What would you say if I told you that I was thinking about going to law school, Harold?" Sheila asked as they descended into the cave over mountains of gold and treasures. Harold replied once more with a bleat that sounded eerily similar to the word 'mail'.

"Well, it's just something I'm going to think about..." she said, patting the goat gently with the tip of her outstretched wing. Far away from the cave, a sasquatch in an orange jumpsuit grumpily picked up a book out of an enormous pile and began to erase the cartoons he had drawn within it as a werewolf with a pen and pad asked him about his childhood.

Mermaid: Replacing a VCR

A maelstrom raged beneath a black and grey sky. Tumult and terror ruled the waves of the sea as lightning and thunder rent and ripped the air. Deep below the chaos, a mermaid sat on a couch sculpted of sand and clicked a remote control repeatedly at her television set. There was absolutely nothing appealing on television.

The storm raging above her would prevent her from visiting the surface to confuse sailors or even to go for a leisurely swim amongst the waves, so she was confined to the sea floor. She was actually perfectly content to spend this particular day lounging around on the bottom of the sea. Swimming at the surface was exhausting during storms, not to mention dangerous. She only wished that she could find something entertaining to watch so that her day would at least be somewhat interesting.

She caught glimpses of talk shows, sitcoms, sporting events, music videos, and the kind of movies that play during rainy days, but absolutely nothing seemed to be worth her time. Soon, she had flipped through every single available channel and was seeing the same uninteresting tripe over and over again.

The mermaid sighed deeply and looked around her apartment, hoping desperately that an idea or object would present itself as an end to her boredom. It was not an apartment in the conventional sense. It was a series of rooms separated by large stones and seaweed curtains in a small cove with a great number of other apartments for mermaids and other sea dwelling creatures and cryptids.

Overall, she liked her apartment. Her neighbors were nice. They were politely cordial and mostly kept to themselves aside from a sea serpent that lived down the hall. He was a drummer for some sort of punk rock band, and due to the properties of water, the sound waves from his drum set carried a little too well. Plus, he was just not a very good drummer. His drum playing was on a similar plane to his personality.

The sea serpent was not drumming at the moment, however, and the mermaid was grateful. She had appealed to her landlord, Poseidon, god of the seas, on multiple occasions but he seemed too preoccupied to do anything about it. When she was a day late on the rent it was a different story...

As she continued to scan her apartment, she realized that the answer to her need for entertainment had been lying right before her eyes the whole time. A vintage VCR that she had owned since she was only a little mermaid sat directly beneath the television set on a stand made from coral.

She had kept this VCR, despite the fact that it was a highly outdated technology, not only because of its sentimental value, but because she enjoyed the entire experience of using a VCR over using a DVD player or streaming a movie or series from the internet. There was just something special to her about pulling a video cassette from its case, putting it in the little VCR slot, and hearing it click into place. The rewinding, fast forwarding, and worn out segments of her most watched videos were an added bonus.

Some may raise the issue, as many had directly to the mermaid, that there was now a lack of new video cassettes being produced since it was a dead technology, thus rendering a VCR useless for any reason other than nostalgic re-viewings of old movies. It was precisely this reason that the mermaid venerated her VCR. New movies were hardly ever to her taste. She much preferred the tried and true classics, of which she had an extensive collection.

The mermaid arose from her sandy couch, swam to the corner of the room to a wooden trunk that was shaped like a treasure chest, and opened it. The treasure within was a bounty of video cassettes, all floating drearily in their watery trunk, rising and shifting slightly as she opened the lid. She shuffled them around and read the titles, looking for the perfect movie.

"'The Mixed Up Mystery of Mr. Conch'..." she read aloud, holding the movie in her hands and considering it for a moment. "No, not right now. Hmmm 'The Whale Song: A Whale of a Tale'.... No, too sad. 'The Sea Cowboys of the Western Seas'... Why do I even have that one?" she said, tossing the box with a picture of a manatee wearing a cowboy hat and holding a lasso aside.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, holding up a video cassette that no longer had a box to accompany it. A title, written in ink on a piece of tape stuck to the edge of the cassette read: "Escape From The Aquarium: Mermaid's Revenge". Despite the ominous title which might lead one to believe this particular film was an action-adventure or thriller movie, it actually belonged to the romantic comedy genre. Sure, it had its moments of action, but she adored it for its real life scenarios and dialogue placed within a hilarious context and location.

Giddy with excitement and nostalgic glee, she withdrew the cassette from the trunk, closed the lid, and swam to the VCR. She pressed the power button on the rectangular, black machine. A small red power light turned on briefly, but then disappeared. This was normal. It had been doing this for at least eight years. The vintage VCR was not without its quirks.

She slid the video tape into the slot in the VCR. Numerous clicks and the whirr of tiny gears became audible. She set her television to channel three and returned to the couch, ready to enjoy one of her favorite movies in her favorite format. The sounds continued, but the movie never began to play. The content smile slid from the mermaid's lips, and she swam off of her couch and kneeled down in front of the VCR.

This happened from time to time. She was sure that she just needed to eject it and then put it back in again. Sometimes it just took a few attempts. She repeated the process and got the same results. She tried valiantly another thirty-three times, but the same thing happened over and over. She cursed under her watery breath, and rose from the floor.

She swam back and forth across the living room of her apartment in her equivalent of pacing. This was a habit of hers when she could not figure out what to do. Was there even anything she could do?

As she swam past her coffee table she grabbed her smart phone, which was floating an inch or so above the tabletop. She opened the browser and began to think of the proper way to phrase her VCR problem to search for a solution.

"VCR does not play video tape," she spoke aloud as she typed the words into the search bar of her phone's browser. The front page was flooded with results, most of which, based on the snippets of content she read below the links, pertained to problems or issues she was not having with her VCR. She decided that she needed to be more specific.

"VCR makes whirring and clicking sounds and does not play video tape."

The vast majority of the results still seemed to be unrelated to her problem. There were even several links that lead to series revolving around VCR related fiction of various genres. While slightly annoyed that she could not find an answer to her problem, she bookmarked the VCR e-books to check out later.

Finally, after several fruitless pages, she found an entry on a VCR repair forum that seemed to be exactly what she needed. She clicked on the link and discovered that she had to be a registered user of the forum to read or make posts to the forum. She rolled her eyes in annoyance. She hated when websites did this...

"FixthemermaidsVCR1989" she typed into the username space after confirming her email and setting her password. As she began reading the forum, her heart lifted. The problems described were the exact same as what she was experiencing, and it was even the same brand and model of VCR. She clicked through several pages of various VCR repair experts offering suggestions that apparently had not worked, but then on the final page she became confused. The original poster had obviously found a solution to their problem, but the last posts were all by the same username, the one who had the problem in the first place.

"That's better, but it's still taking a long time," one read, followed by, "No that's not it. Now it's doing it again," and finally, "That's it! That fixed everything and it is working as well as the day I bought it. Thank you so much, underwaterVCRexpert for all of your very professional help. I could not have done it without you!"

She looked and looked, not only within the specific thread, but throughout the entire forum for the user named underwaterVCRexpert who had solved the problem, but they were nowhere to be found. Had they deleted their account? Had they been banned from the forum and their posts deleted? What was going on? Why would something so terrible and inexplicable happen to such a VCR genius?

She decided to post on the thread and hope that the user who had the same problem would respond to her with the way that he fixed the issue. She looked at the date next to the original post. It was made ten years ago. She had kind of forgotten the internet had even existed ten years ago. She felt that the post was frivolous now. Even if the user still remembered how they had fixed their VCR, surely they did not check the VCR repair forum regularly.

She clicked on the user's profile and saw that they had not logged into the forum since the day that they had made the post. The mermaid sighed in frustration as she posted her question on the forum, hoping that some sort of email relay might inform the user that someone had posted on their thread.

Realizing that she was unlikely to get an answer soon, if at all, she began to search for another solution to her VCR problem. She tried turning the VCR on again, and inserting the video tape just to see if it had begun to work. It had not, so she restarted her swim-pacing regiment around her apartment, thinking so hard that it almost gave her a headache.

She stopped suddenly, her waist length hair continuing to flow past her in her wake. She had an idea. How had she not thought of it before now? She snatched her cell phone from her coffee table and called her father. He was the handiest merman around.

The phone rang over and over, and she began to swim-pace around her living room again. Finally, her father's voicemail message began to play and she stopped swimming and hung up her cell phone. She just did not do voicemails. She decided to call her mother and hope that she was with her father. The phone rang for only a fraction of a second before her mother answered. The telephone was serious business to her mother.

"Hello?" the mermaid's mother said in a watery voice on the other end of the telephone line.

"Hey mom, is dad around?" She realized as soon as she said this that it was not the right thing to say. Her mother was one for ceremonious small talk when it came to phone calls, and such small talk could not be skipped.

"Oh.... I suppose you don't want to speak to your mother, I'll go fetch your father and we can just talk when it's convenient for you..."

"It's not that, mom! I just... I'm in the middle of something and I need dad's help. I'm sorry," the mermaid said apologetically.

"I don't hear from you for weeks at a time, and when I do, it's so that you can talk to your father. You realize why I'm upset, right?" her mother said in a shaky voice.

The mermaid sighed a long, audible sigh and asked, "How are you, mother?"

Her mother's tone changed instantly. "I'm just doing swell, honey! I've spent the whole morning tidying up the cave, and I'm about to go outside and clip my seaweed plants in the garden. You should see my seaweed, dear, it is absolutely thriving! You simply have to come over for seaweed salad when it's time to harvest."

The mermaid rolled her eyes and said, "That sounds lovely mom."

"Why do you need to talk to your father anyway?" her mother asked, with an investigative tone in her voice. She was a notorious snoop.

"My old VCR isn't working and I was hoping he could help me fix it. I really want to watch 'Escape From The Aquarium: Mermaid's Revenge' again."

"Oh, honey," her mother said in an almost infuriating mock-worrying voice. "Why do you watch the same old movies over and over?"

"Because they're good and I notice new things every time."

"I think it would really be beneficial if you tried something new every now and then."

"I do, mom," the mermaid groaned. "But everything new I try stinks."

"And why do you still use that old VCR anyways? I got you a perfectly good DVD player for your birthday three years ago, and the last time I was at your apartment I saw that it was still in the box! Explain that, missy!"

The mermaid sighed heavily into her cell phone, and answered, "It's just not the same, mom! It's not all about the ease of use, or the improved formatting or picture quality, or the availability of titles..."

"What is it about, then? Why don't you tell me why it's so important for a grown mermaid to still rely on an old, worn out VCR for entertainment?" her mother asked in a tone that clearly illustrated the fact that no possible explanation would change her mind on the subject.

"It's like I just said... It's not all about the movie itself, it's about the way I watch it. I like to pull the video tape from the box, slide it through the little slot in the VCR, and hear all the little motors and gears whirr and spin as the movie plays. I like to see the static where the tape is worn out. I even like rewinding the movies at the end! It's the ritual of the thing that is appealing, not the movie quality itself."

"The ritual...?" her mother asked disbelievingly.

"Yes, mom, the ritual. The act is just as important as the reward to some. That's why some smokers have trouble quitting cigarettes. They miss the ritual just as much, if not more, than the nicotine itself."

"Are you smoking, dear?" her mother asked angrily.

"What? No, mom, you're missing the point." The mermaid was quite sure that her mother had actually been following her argument, but had realized that there was no winning it for her and had changed the subject.

"Because if you're smoking.... Well that's just no good. Why would a young, beautiful mermaid with her whole life ahead of her smoke in this day and age?"

"I'm not smoking, mom. I just told you that. I was only using it as a metaphor to –"

"You'll age prematurely, you know? Just look at your aunt. She smoked a pack of Mermaid Slims per day for twenty years, and look how much older she looks than me! We're the same age, for crying out loud!"

The mermaid glanced at her mantel at a family photo. Her aunt certainly had aged much faster, but that was beside the point. This was not about smoking, and she had to get past it. "You're right, mom. Smoking is bad."

"Honey, you'll never believe what the neighbor's seahorse did in my seaweed patch the other day," her mother said, changing subjects and demeanor so fast that the mermaid's head began to spin. "I swear, if I catch that rascal one more time, I'm going to - "

"So, mom, is dad around?" the mermaid asked, cutting her mom off midsentence. It was absolutely imperative to her to get her VCR fixed on this stormy day. "I wish I could chat but I really need to talk to dad."

"Fine. That's fine. I'll get him," her mother said passive aggressively, sighing hard and putting down the phone before she could hear her daughter's repeated apologies. She really did not want to hurt her mother's feelings, but she would be on the phone all day if she did not get to the point quickly. The mermaid could hear her mother calling out for her father over the phone, her voice echoing off the walls of their cave home. She reflected sadly that it had been far too long since she had been home to her parent's cave, the cave she had grown up in. She decided to visit soon. Not today though... today was devoted to VCR's and relaxation. Besides, she would need a few days to cool off from the phone call with her mother.

"Hello? Sweetie? Are you there?" a deep, gurgling voice said through the telephone.

"Hey, dad," the mermaid said, quickly exiting her reminiscences about her parent's cave and refocusing on her VCR. "My VCR isn't working and I was hoping you might be able to talk me through fixing it."

"Hmmm," her father said pensively. "I'll see what I can do. What is the problem?"

"Alright," the mermaid began, taking a deep breath. "The VCR will turn on, but when I put the video tape in, it won't play. It makes a whirring sound but the movie never starts. Is there anything I can do? Is there a part that needs to be replaced or something?"

Her question was met with a long silence. That was a good sign though. It meant that her father was giving the matter his full attention and reviewing all the options. The mermaid had grown to realize that silence, in some circumstances, could be much more valuable than any words. In this moment, it put her at ease knowing that her problem would likely be solved soon. Finally, the silence was broken.

"It sounds like the loading motor could be the culprit," he said solemnly.

"The loading motor... Okay. What is the solution?" the mermaid asked.

"Well, it's a small electrical component. Repair is an unlikely solution for a part like that. You could replace the motor, providing that the motor is still being produced of course... You could likely find one online, either new or used. However, given the fact that VCR's were once very popular, and also that they are no longer desirable - to some," he added quickly. "Your quickest and easiest solution would be to get a whole new VCR from a thrift shop. It would likely cost as much as the loading motor alone, you could get it today if you wanted, you wouldn't have to install the motor yourself, and, if I'm wrong about the loading motor being the culprit, it wouldn't waste time and money in ordering and trying to install one only to realize that it was another issue all along."

The mermaid was unhappy to hear that her time with her beloved VCR was likely coming to an end, but was endlessly appreciative of her father's mechanical knowledge and methodical thought processes and patience.

"Thanks, dad," the mermaid said.

"You're welcome, honey. And one more thing," her father said, sounding somewhat distracted all of the sudden. It sounded like someone was talking to him. "Don't smoke, honey. It's very bad for you."

"I don't smoke!"

"That's not what your mother is telling me. Do you want to end up looking like your aunt?" he asked half-heartedly.

"Well, no, but it doesn't matter because I don't smoke. Mom misunderstood a smoking metaphor I made when comparing the appeals using a VCR to the ritualistic behaviors that some smoker's find addictive," the mermaid said in one long, exasperated breath.

"Huh... Alright then, dear," her father said, taking her word for it. It was becoming clear that he was goaded into the subject in the first place. "Remember, replacement VCR or loading motor. Love you, sweetie."

"Love you too, dad."

The mermaid hung up the phone and wondered when, or if, her parents would stop treating her like a merchild and start treating her like a grown mermaid. That did not matter at the moment though. What did matter was that she had options, and possibly solutions.

She opened the browser on her smart phone and searched for VCR loading motors. Her father was right, they did cost more than a whole VCR likely would. She bookmarked the page just in case her search for a new VCR was fruitless, and changed out of her pajama seashell top, and into a seashell top more suitable for wearing out in public. Upon glancing at a mirror beside her front door and determining that her long, flowing locks were floating behind her flawlessly in the proper fashion, she exited her apartment.

She could hear the sound of poorly drummed punk music echoing from the sea serpent's apartment down the hall. It seemed that she had chosen exactly the right time to leave. She took this as a sign that her luck was turning around for the day and swam merrily from the apartment complex.

The storm seemed to still be raging above, as she looked to the surface. Aside from the darkness and a slight increase in the current, conditions at the seafloor were not too bad. The mermaid swam down the coral lined sidewalks, past neighborhoods of sea caves and apartment complexes as she made her way into town.

The thrift shops were a decently long swim away. She stopped at a whale stop, the underwater equivalent of a bus stop, and considered waiting for a whale to take her deeper into the city. Upon seeing a number of disorderly kelpies spray painting graffiti on the whale stop shelter, she decided to continue swimming. She could take a whale back if she found a VCR, or even a dolphin if she found a VCR for a low enough price. Dolphins are the underwater equivalent of taxi cabs.

The rest of the mermaid's journey to the first thrift shop was uneventful. Aside from a cloud of krill that seemed to have been blown wayward by the storm, she encountered very few creatures. The first thrift shop was called "Sea Shells And Such For So Much Less" but only a few of the words on the sign hanging from the building were operational, so it read "Sea Shells And Much Less".

Upon entering the store, the mermaid concluded that the staff had taken the sign's malfunction to heart. There was very little to see in the shop, both in the sense of the small amount of actual merchandise, and in the sense that it was very difficult to see anything at all due to the low amount of light in the shop. Only a few of the halogen lights mounted in the ceiling seemed to be working, and those that did flickered feebly and hummed loudly.

The mermaid felt her way to the small heap of electronics in the rear of the store and examined the contents. There was a black and white television that, though apparently not plugged into any power supply, was displaying a continuously scrolling line over the screen while a rerun of a gameshow featuring the now outlawed pastime of unicorn ring toss was played. There was also an electric keyboard that had no black keys, but most of the white keys. A complete set of golf clubs was inexplicably set in the center of the electronics section, and a plethora of DVD players lied in a pile, but there did not seem to be a single VCR.

"May I help you?" a vest wearing sasquatch in scuba diving gear asked somewhat reluctantly, already beginning to swim away as bubbles rose from his face mask.

"Yes, actually," the mermaid said loudly, halting the sasquatch's retreat. "I'm looking for a VCR."

The sasquatch turned and swam back awkwardly. He examined the pile of DVD players, kicking them aside with his flipper clad feet. The mermaid was on the cusp of reminding the sasquatch that she was looking for a VCR and not a DVD player when he bent down and extricated a VCR and DVD combination player from the pile. He placed it in her hands, and said, "Here's one," and disappeared in a cloud of bubbles.

She examined the VCR/DVD combo. She conceded that it was indeed a VCR, but it also had the highly undesirable quality of being a DVD player as well. And it looked so modern. It did not have the charm of her vintage VCR... Was this really worth the two Crypto Unit price tag?

"Excuse me!" she called at the retreating back of the scuba-ing sasquatch employee.

He turned to face her once more, and though his goggles were fogged, she was quite certain that he rolled his eyes at her before asking, "Yes?"

"Are there any other VCR's here?" she asked hopefully.

"You saw me kick the pile! That's all we got," the sasquatch said shortly, turning again and swimming toward the cash register.

The mermaid was becoming annoyed. "Well, can you call some of the other thrift shops and ask if they have any in stock?"

"Why? You've got a VCR right there. I literally just got it for you... Do you need more than one or something?"

"No... I just want one that is only a VCR... an old one... with character."

"I really don't see the difference. That one seems better to me. It's newer, and it even plays D- ,"

"IT'S JUST NOT THE SAME!" the mermaid shrieked. Her usually serene and beautiful face had morphed momentarily into a horrifying and pointed visage of concentrated hate and anger.

The sasquatch seemed to shrink into himself. He had forgotten the cardinal rule of working in retail: The customer is always right, no matter how absurd their reasoning. He picked up the phone beside the cash register at once and called another thrift store.

"Hello, do you have any VCR's in stock?" he said into the mouth piece as columns of bubbles rose from his breathing apparatus and settled on the ceiling. "No, not DVD players, a VCR... Yes, I know they are... I really don't know... Mhmm... Okay, thanks." He did not hang up the phone, but held one of his gargantuan furry hands over the mouthpiece as he took it away from his ear. "They have two," he said to the mermaid.

"That's great!" she said, returning to her normal state. "What are they like?"

"What are they... like?" he asked uncertainly, fear etched in what was visible of his face and body.

"Yes. Ask them to describe them," the mermaid said calmly, feeling remorse for her outburst as she watched the sasquatch tremble.

"Could you describe the VCR's please?" he asked into the telephone. "Yes, just... what do they look like?"

The mermaid nodded encouragingly and mouthed, "Ask how old they are."

"How old are they, too? Uh huh... No, I realize that technically all VCR's are old... Uh huh... Okay, hold on." He said, putting his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone once more. "They have two. One is a VCR and DVD combination player like you are holding right now, and the other is a really old one that - "

"Perfect!" she said, not waiting for him to finish.

"...that has a broken loading motor," he finished after a horrified pause. He seemed to be waiting for her to begin shrieking again, but she slumped her shoulders and conceded that this VCR/DVD combo was likely her only option if she wanted to see "Escape From The Aquarium: Mermaid's Revenge" today.

"Okay. Thank you for making the call. I'll take this one," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. The sasquatch put down the phone without saying goodbye and cautiously took the two Crypto Unit bills she slid across the glass counter and placed them in the cash register.

"Have a nice day," she said feebly, as she exited the store. She felt horrible about her outburst over a VCR. Sure, it was important to her, but was it worth terrifying a sasquatch? He had been incompetent, but it must be hard to be excited about a job like that, especially since he had to wear that scuba equipment all day. Were jobs really that hard to find for cryptids on the surface?

She swam home, still deep in thought over what she had done and what could be going on with the surface dwelling cryptids and their economy. She had not even considered riding a whale or dolphin, and before she knew it she was in front of her apartment complex once more. The subpar drumming continued from down the hall, and she considered shrieking at the sea monster to stop. In the end, she decided that she had done enough shrieking that day, but resolved to shriek at him if his drumming or his manners did not improve soon.

She entered her apartment and placed the new VCR/DVD combo on top of the old VCR and plugged it in. Her phone beeped as she retrieved her copy of "Escape From The Aquarium: Mermaid's Revenge" from her treasure chest. She picked up the phone before inserting the video tape, and read an email she had just received from the VCR repair forum. The user had actually gotten her email! It read:

"Wow, I never would have thought I'd get an email from the VCR forum lol. I think it was the loading motor, but I can't remember for sure since it was so long ago... Good luck!"

She closed the email and returned to the page with the loading motor she had bookmarked on her phone, hovered over the order button, and paused. She looked up at the new VCR/DVD player and slid the video tape inside of it. She heard the clicks and the whirrs of the gears and motors. She smiled as the tape began to play and closed out of her potential order. Her old VCR had had a good run, and maybe someday she would worry about repairing it, but now was not the time. Her ritual had been fulfilled, and it was time to enjoy her rainy day with her favorite movie.

Bigfoot: A Trip to the Grocery Store

It was a foggy morning somewhere in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest. Dew dripped down the moss-clad face of a gargantuan stone and trickled across the fingers of an ape-like hand that was pressed tightly against the rough surface. Bigfoot peered over the top of the rock, and sighed deeply as a car approached. He was hungry, and he knew that a meal was waiting for him just on the opposite side of the road he was facing.

He shook the dew off of his hairy hands and began to walk across the road after the car had passed and was out of sight. Each long stride and each swing of his lengthy arms brought him great joy as he knew they brought him closer to his meal. As Bigfoot neared a chasm in a stack of stones on the mountainside, he looked to his left and saw a pair of headlights approaching. He hastened to wipe the mud from his feet and entered the chasm. It was alright to be glimpsed by humans every now and then, but he had other more important things on his mind right now, like a squirrel meat sub-sandwich as long as his arm.

Bigfoot ducked into the stone opening, hoping that the fog had hidden him from the drivers of the car, and entered a torch-lit chamber with a series of doors and a desk flanked by fake trees. "Good morning," Bigfoot said to the lobby attendant of his home, The Crypto-Condo Residential Caves. He raised a furry hand to his temple and tipped it toward her as a sign of greeting.

The lobby attendant smiled warmly. She was some kind of banshee, and was quite sweet when she was not wailing mournfully, which banshees are wont to do from time to time. However, now was not one of those times so she was quite pleasant. "How are you today, Mr. Foot?" she asked, her waist length jet black hair billowing around her despite the absence of wind.

"Now, now, how many times have I told you? There's no need to be so formal. Just call me Bigfoot. Everyone else does," Bigfoot said with a chuckle.

"I know, Mr. Foot, but they pay me to be professional and formal, you know," the banshee said. "I'll try my best though," she said with a wink. "Did anyone see you today?"

"No, I don't think so. We'll know for sure when the paper comes, I guess," Bigfoot said, chuckling again. The banshee began to laugh as well, but then her demeanor changed and she began to shriek at the top of her lungs. Bigfoot put his hands over his ears and pressed tightly to drown out the dreadful sound. He mouthed the word "Sorry", tipped his head in salutation, and walked toward the door that led to his condo-cave. Her eyes had rolled into the back of her head so he was not entirely sure she had even noticed.

Bigfoot had to lean his head forward as he walked down the torch-lit hallway so as not to scrape the top of his head against the bare rock above. "It's like they intentionally made these hallways too low for sasquatches," he mumbled to himself as he walked. He had this same thought every day as he returned home, and often considered trying to persuade his fiancé to look into searching for a new home for the two of them. She was really quite fond of the place and the other cryptid creatures that lived there though. He decided he would not bring it up to her, yet again. She did not need the burden of moving piled atop her already arduous task of planning a Bigfoot wedding.

He reached a roughly hewn wooden door with a plaque hanging from it with a giant foot on it and pushed it open. Bigfoot exhaled deeply as he surveyed his cave condo. He was finally home. His fiancé really had done a nice job fixing up the place. Maybe he would not try to persuade her to move after all. It would make a nice starter home, and there would be plenty of other cryptid creatures for their future sasquatch children to socialize and play with.

Bigfoot sniffed the air hopefully, longing for the smell of a hot meal, but there was none. This was not a big deal, by any means. He was well versed in the culinary arts, but the convenience would have been well suited for the moment.

"Babe?" Bigfoot called out, his deep, wild voice reverberating off the rocky walls of his cave. "Babe, I'm home." He waited for her to reply, but she never did. He furrowed his brow, closed the door, and walked further into the cave.

"Hey, babe?" he said, sticking his head into the bedroom. His fiancé was not there. "Babe?" he called down the hallway leading to the dining room. There was no reply from there either. "Babe?" he said, knocking on the bathroom door. Nothing. Where was she?

It was not a big deal, but he had been anxious to see her. He realized that it must be monotonous to spend the long nights in the cave while he was out wandering through the woods and doing Bigfoot things. She probably just went on a quick jaunt to stretch her legs and clear her mind. He decided that he would plan a trip for the two of them so that she could get away from the cave and the wedding planning for a while.

Smiling at the thought of her face when he would tell her that they would be going away on a vacation, he opened the refrigerator door. His smile disappeared at once as he saw that the refrigerator was completely empty. Nothing! Not a carton of wombat milk, not a sliver of eel, and worst of all – not a single squirrel with which to make a squirrel meat sub-sandwich. There was nothing. It was absolutely devoid of anything but a scrap of paper.

"Hey babe," the note began. "Mom and Pop dropped in for an unexpected visit. They were famished and ate everything..."

Bigfoot closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the top of the refrigerator, and sighed deeply. His future in-laws had a bad habit of surprise visits. His fiancé was an adopted sasquatch, her mother being a yeti and her father being a lake monster of some sort. Bigfoot had always been too embarrassed to ask exactly what kind of lake monster her father was, but knew he was a lake monster nonetheless. That also explained why every single morsel of food was gone. Her father had quite the appetite. He opened his eyes and continued reading the note.

"Sorry, babe. I know you must be starving. Could you please run down to the crypto-grocery store and restock the refrigerator and cupboards?"

The cupboards too? Bigfoot opened up every cupboard and groaned angrily as he examined their empty shelves.

"I'm out showing them around the bogs, swamps, and mountainsides. Sorry for the inconvenience, but they won't be staying for long, I promise. Love you, my furry little missing link ;)."

Bigfoot folded the note up and placed it in his wallet. He saved every note his fiancé wrote to him. He felt giddy every time he saw her handwriting form the words "love you". He closed the refrigerator door and marched back to the front door of their condo-cave, swinging his arms in a wide arc with each step, as was his habit.

"Leaving so soon, Mr. Foot? I mean, uh, Bigfoot?" the lobby attendant banshee asked. She had returned to her non-wailing self and she looked up at Bigfoot from her desk inquisitively as her dark hair floated around her face.

"Oh, yes, but I won't be gone long," Bigfoot said. Her eyes began to roll into the back of her head again, and her mouth gaped wide, inhaling deeply, as Bigfoot trod toward the door hoping to exit before she started screaming.

He made it just in time. He could hear the muffled wails through the rock opening, but it was not nearly as loud as it would have been inside the stony chamber. Looking around, he saw no cars and no people, so he began to walk up the mountainside. It had been a long time since he had been to the crypto-grocery store himself. His fiancé did not approve of his taste in groceries, so she usually did the shopping for the household.

After walking several hundred yards, Bigfoot approached an enormous dead oak tree with a hollow split down the middle of trunk. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from deep within the tree. Bigfoot smiled lazily, thinking of all the tasty things he could do with freshly baked bread, and stepped inside the crack.

An ornately carved wooden spiral staircase led down beneath the surface of the earth and into the entrance area of the crypto-grocery store. The beeping of cash registers met Bigfoot's ears as the doors slid open at his approach. A blast of cool air ruffled the fur on his head and shoulders as he passed through them. They slid shut as he passed. The torches in the walls and the candles in the wrought iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling reflected off the polished tiles made of hard woods on the floor. The smell of the bread in the bakery, and many more enticing smells mingled together and made the prospect of grocery shopping an enviable task. Bigfoot had always heard that it was a bad idea to shop for groceries on an empty stomach, and he made a mental note not to buy too much food.

He picked up a basket and then placed it back down, opting for a shopping cart since he was shopping for four. In his days as a bachelor, he never needed anything more than the basket. He found the shopping cart to be a bit awkward to control. One of the wheels seemed to do nothing at all. It sort of just spun in place and revolved around and around no matter what direction he pushed it. Bigfoot recalled the dwarf-made carts of his youth, when his sasquatch mother used to push him around the grocery store. Those were some well-crafted carts, but these modern ones just did not hold a candle to them, he thought. Also, they seemed to have been built for much smaller cryptids, meaning that he had to hang his arms as low as they would go, slumping his shoulders in order to grip the handlebar of the shopping cart.

Bigfoot pushed the cart to the right of the entrance doors, toward the produce section. He held a bright red tomato up to the torch light, turning it and examining it, pressing against it to judge its firmness. It was no good. He picked up another and it was a still a little firm, but it would do. He moved on, surveying the multicolored rows of fruits and vegetables, and tried to remember what his fiancé's father liked to eat. He thought he was from Canada... or was it Scotland? Either way, he would like potatoes, he reasoned.

"Everybody likes potatoes," Bigfoot chuckled to himself, placing a fifty pound bag of potatoes into the cart. He realized that under normal circumstances fifty pounds of potatoes may seem excessive, but a lake monster such as his future father-in-law could eat baked potatoes like it was his job. For all he knew, it was his job. Or was he retired? He really did not know much about his future father-in-law other than he was dark green, perpetually damp, and vaguely reptilian in appearance. His future mother-in-law, on the other hand, was easy to shop for. Being a yeti, she had similar tastes to Bigfoot and the other sasquatches, although she did prefer her food chilled.

Bigfoot began to hum absentmindedly as he pushed the shopping cart along the aisles, grabbing items here and there and placing them into the cart. Soon he realized that he had been humming along with the song that had been playing quietly over the store's speaker system the whole time. He furrowed his brow, deep in thought, as he considered the way his subconscious mind had not only recognized the song, but instructed his vocal chords to hum along to it without his conscious mind even being aware of it happening.

The song was a one hit wonder from decades back by a sea-serpent band called Flock of Sea Serpents. It had been quite popular for a summer during Bigfoot's adolescence, and then it had developed that strange mix of kitschy nostalgia and genuine sentimentality that only one hit wonders could attain. It was called "I'd Slither The Seven Seas To See You Smile", and the title explained the basic premise of the song. The main figure in the song was willing to do tasks of escalating difficulties and varying levels of sanity, culminating with slithering the seven seas for a smile from a lover who no longer felt the spark that young loves lose so easily.

The song doubled as a metaphor for the Flock of Sea Serpents career, Bigfoot thought, pausing in the cereal aisle as this epiphany made itself apparent. Their rise was meteoric, similar to the love shared between the young couple in the song, but as they tried to secure their next hit on the charts, they became increasingly desperate, finally resorting to a variety show set at sea that was based off their only hit song.

Bigfoot tried not to think about the Flock of Sea Serpents' later career. He preferred to reflect on the afternoons spent listening to the song while evading people at the beach, or an early morning singing the song under his breath while being captured in grainy, low resolution photographs from afar by cryptozoologists and conspiracy theorists as he made his way home from his first date. Songs just could not make him feel that way anymore.

"Excuse me!" a wood nymph bellowed in a high pitched squeak from around Bigfoot's knees. It could not get its cart around him. In his silent reverie he had been standing idle right in the middle of the aisle.

"I'm sorry," Bigfoot mumbled, moving his cart as far as he could toward the wall of cereal. The wood nymph stomped past without acknowledging Bigfoot's apology. Bigfoot sighed and continued his shopping, placing a box of cereal called Trollio's into his cart. It wasn't his favorite cereal, which was Sugar Frosted Maple Syrup Flakes, but his fiancé had convinced him to switch to the Trollio's. That particular cereal had one third of the sugar of the Sugar Frosted Maple Syrup Flakes, but only one eighth the taste.

She was right to convince him to switch cereals though, he thought. They wanted to have little sasquatches of their own someday, and if Bigfoot kept up his two bowl per day habit with his beloved Sugar Frosted Maple Syrup Flakes, he would find himself in an early grave. He did keep a box stashed under a rock in the forest, however. That box of cereal had actually been raided by a particularly voracious band of moles and voles months before, though he had no way of knowing that. He had never actually visited his hidden box of cereal since he hid it, but he liked to know, or think he knew, that it was there in case he absolutely had to have some of that sweet, sugary, maple-y goodness.

"I'd Slither The Seven Seas To See You Smile" faded away and a new song began, accompanied by the squeaks and squeals of the errant wheel on Bigfoot's cart. It was another one hit wonder.

"Why do grocery stores play so many one hit wonders?" he asked the werewolf behind the deli counter. The werewolf snarled briefly, flecks of meat caked between its whiskers, its fur matted with blood. The deli surely was not the best employ for a werewolf, although it probably enjoyed it very much. It showed too, because this was a very portly werewolf.

"What?" the werewolf asked angrily while maintaining its snarl and presenting each one of its teeth to fearless and oblivious Bigfoot.

"One hit wonders... You know... Sometimes a band or an artist has a really big song or album but they're never able to have a big hit again," Bigfoot said pensively.

"I know what one hit wonders are, you furry dolt. Why does it matter?" the werewolf asked through the drool dripping down the fur at the tip of its chin.

"I just think it's peculiar that grocery stores play so many of them. Don't you?"

"Grocery stores do a lot of strange things to influence customers' purchasing habits," the werewolf growled. "Any critter that took a semester of intro-psychology at a crypto-college could tell you that! The colors, the smells, even the tiles on the floor are all designed to make you stop, think, or slow down and buy something. Of course the music is planned to have an effect, too! Every aspect of this place is appealing to your subconscious tendencies right now, and urging you to spend currency, you hairy oaf!"

"You know, it's interesting you mention the subconscious mind, because only moments ago I was humming along to –,"

"DO YOU WANT SOME MEAT OR DON'T YOU, YOU VERMIN RIDDEN SCOUNDREL OF THE WOODS?" the werewolf howled at the top of its lungs.

Bigfoot sighed. Everyone was in such a hurry these days. Or maybe he was just slowing down and had not noticed that the world continued on at the same speed without him. He tapped the glass of the deli counter, pointed at the giant, raw chunks of Nurse Shark, and muttered that he would like thirty five pounds of it.

With the hastily and poorly wrapped Nurse Shark meat in his cart, he left the still fuming werewolf, who was eying every customer wildly as they went about their shopping. Bigfoot thought he heard him murmuring about one hit wonders to himself in that same growl he had spoken to Bigfoot in.

When he passed the prepackaged meats, he scanned the racks for squirrel meat for his squirrel meat sub sandwich. Normally, he would opt for the fresh squirrel meat, but today he just wanted a simple meal when he got home. Plus, he definitely did not feel up to dealing with the deli werewolf again. As he reached for a packet of squirrel meat, he noticed another furry hand was reaching toward the same rack.

"Oh, pardon me. Go ahead," Bigfoot said softly. There were plenty of packets of squirrel meat, and he strived to sustain the dying art of sasquatch chivalry whenever he could. He looked over at who was next to him, and saw that it was an old friend from his youth.

"Bigfoot? Is that really you?" A chestnut brown centaur asked, squinting through its thick bifocal glasses.

"Mykonos! It's so good to see you, my friend! What are you doing in town?" Bigfoot said through his wide grin, shaking Mykonos' hand vigorously.

"It's good to see you too, man! I came back for the squirrel meat," Mykonos joked, holding up the packet. Bigfoot roared with laughter. Mykonos had always been such a cut-up. "No, no, I'm just in town for a few days for business. I launched my own line of centaur-specific horseshoes, you know."

"I heard about that! Congratulations, man. I always knew you would do big things."

"Oh, that's very kind of you, but really, it's nothing too big at the moment. I have high hopes though. But anyways, how are you? Still eating the squirrel meat I see? Who would have thought after being fed squirrel meat sandwiches every day for lunch during our four years at the Cryptid Academy of the Northwest that we'd still not be tired of them?" the centaur said with a wry grin.

"Exactly!" Bigfoot exclaimed, chuckling. "Well, aside from the squirrel meat sandwiches, I make mine into sub-sandwiches now, by the way... I'm just living, man. Oh! I don't know if you've heard, but I'm engaged!"

"Yeah, I did hear about that. Congratulations, Bigfoot! My folks told me a few weeks ago." Mykonos said, clapping Bigfoot on the shoulder.

"Be on the lookout for a wedding invitation soon. We'll be sending them out in a week or two, and we'd absolutely love for you to be there. The wedding is going to be in the old marsh. You remember the marsh, right?"

"Who could forget the marsh?" Mykonos chortled. "That's where we told all those jackelopes from Cryptid High that they could see a unicorn there at 1 a.m., so that we could go spray paint "Cryptid Academy of the Northwest Rulez" on their football field."

Bigfoot tossed his head back and roared with laughter. He had not thought about that in years. "Oh goodness, Mykonos. We were wild, weren't we?"

"Yes. That we were. But we were good kids. I think so, anyways..." Mykonos said, somewhat uncertainly. Bigfoot began to wonder himself if his childhood misdeeds had been playful follies or serious lapses in character. He decided not to dwell on it. Bigfoot had learned that it was best to leave the past where it belonged.

Bigfoot noticed Mykonos glance at his wristwatch, and said hurriedly, "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to keep you."

"No, this has been great catching up! Hey, let's get dinner while I'm in town. What do you say?"

"That would be sublime. My in-laws are in town, but they'll only be around for another few days. You can meet my fiancé."

"I can't wait," Mykonos said, bowing his head slightly toward Bigfoot in salutation. "I'll be at my parents' stable. Just send a message my way."

"Will do, my friend. Will do. Take care of yourself," Bigfoot said, looking Mykonos in the eye and shaking his hand again. As Mykonos was clopping away, Bigfoot called toward his swishing tail, "Hey, did you hear them playing "I'd Slither The Seven Seas To See You Smile" on the store's speakers a few minutes ago?"

Mykonos turned around, a puzzled look on his face and said, "No, I don't think I did... Why do you ask?"

"Oh," said Bigfoot. Mildly disappointed, he felt the grin slowly dissipate from his face. He hoped that Mykonos might have been able to offer some insight as to why they would play one hit wonders in grocery stores so often. He had always been bright, Mykonos. "It's nothing," Bigfoot said. "I'll see you at dinner in a few nights."

Mykonos grinned over his shoulder and began to saunter away once more. This whole trip had left Bigfoot feeling very nostalgic, a feeling that confused him more than hurt or pleased him, as he had not fully come to terms with the past that it reminded him of. He shook his head briefly, as though to scatter these thoughts, and he placed several packages of squirrel meat in his shopping cart.

The only thing he had left to buy was bread. He was excited about this part. He approached the bakery section, straining to stifle his glee as the scent of warm, freshly baked bread hung heavily and intoxicatingly in the air.

"Can I help you, sir?" A female gnome standing on a tall wooden stool asked politely.

"Absolutely you can," Bigfoot said cheerfully. "I'd like two loaves of the wheat, and one honey oat sub loaf."

"Coming right up," the little gnome squeaked, hopping off of her stool and walking to the giant stone oven. She climbed upon another wooden stool, opened the oven doors, and reached in with a long wooden paddle. Bigfoot became more and more giddy with each loaf of bread she removed from the oven. He watched as she lovingly wrapped each loaf in thin, off-white paper and tied them tenderly with twine before climbing back on top of her stool and handing them over to Bigfoot with a smile.

"Enjoy! Have a nice day," the gnome said brightly.

"I will. I certainly will," Bigfoot said through a small smile, raising the loaves with care and inclining his head toward the gnome before gently placing the loaves on top of the rest of his groceries.

Bigfoot's stomach rumbled audibly as he pushed his shopping cart toward the checkout lanes, causing the wood nymph that had told him off earlier to tense up in fright. Bigfoot somehow willed himself not to smirk, and continued to the least crowded line. He eyed the junk food wistfully, its colorful wrappers practically pleading him to buy them. He turned to the magazines before he was too tempted by the candy bars and chips. He opened a copy of The National Cryptid and flipped the pages idly as the cash register beeped repeatedly while the creature in front of him was being checked out. The articles were absolute drivel, but still enticing due only to their shock value. Bigfoot hoped dearly that the article stating that his favorite film director, a goblin named Harvey Blognordivak, was not one goblin at all but a consortium of goblin writers using the same pen-name, was false. Just because Harvey Blognordivak preferred his privacy, was no reason to make assumptions about him. It was a feeling that Bigfoot knew all too well.

"'Ey, you ready or what?" A gum chewing teenage mermaid asked from behind the cash register, where she sat in a tub of saltwater. Bigfoot had been so engrossed in the article that he had not noticed that it was his turn to check out.

"Oh, of course. Sorry about that," he said solemnly. He put away the magazine and began placing his items on the conveyor belt that led to the cash register. The mermaid cashier did not answer him, but began scanning his items with the same vigor which she chewed her gum.

"That'll be one-hundred and eleven Crypto Units," she said as she began to bag the groceries, slopping water all over the paper bags. Bigfoot made a mental note to hold the bags very carefully as he counted out Crypto Unit bills in his wallet. He didn't have enough. He could feel himself blushing.

"I'm going to have to write you a check, if that's alright?" he asked, embarrassed.

The mermaid glared at him. "Can I get a manager at my register?" she bellowed.

"Wait, what? Why do you need a manager?" Bigfoot asked. The mermaid did not answer him, she just stared at nothing in particular and continued to chew her gum.

"What's the problem?" an annoyed, elderly, and very tired looking elf asked as it approached the register.

"Check," said the mermaid simply.

"Oh, is that all?" the elf asked, its demeanor changing instantly. "Sorry, sir. She's new and still doesn't know how to receive checks. Not many people use them anymore, you know," the elf said to Bigfoot.

"Oh, not a problem at all," Bigfoot said as he began to write the check. He tore it out of his checkbook and handed it to the elf.

"Now, if you'll watch me closely this time you'll be able to do it for yourself the next time someone comes in with a check," the elf said kindly to the mermaid. She was not paying him the slightest bit of attention, but she responded with an, "Uh huh."

The elf explained the process, and went through the procedures, all while the mermaid continued to pretend to listen while staring off into nothingness. When he was finished, he handed Bigfoot his receipt and thanked him for shopping at their grocery store.

"Do you need any help carrying your groceries out?" the tiny elf asked.

"No, no, I'll be fine. Thank you very much." Bigfoot gathered his grocery bags, cradling them with care, and walked up the spiral staircase and out into the world. He realized as he began walking home just how hungry he was again. The thought of squirrel meat sub sandwiches, relaxing in his easy chair, and the warm embrace of his fiancé was enough to distract him from the hunger until he was in the lobby of the Crypto-Condo Residential Caves once again.

"Welcome back, Mr. Fo-... I mean, Bigfoot," the lobby attendant banshee said with an embarrassed smile.

Bigfoot waved feebly with his hand still under the damp grocery bags as he pressed his shoulder into the door leading to his hallway. He paused when he reached the door to his condo-cave, took a deep breath, and affixed a smile to his face, preparing to see his future in-laws. He opened the door, but saw no in-laws. All he saw was his fiancé dozing on his easy chair. He was still smiling, but it was now real joy that caused it to remain. He felt the muscles in his stomach relax, and he tiptoed to the kitchen and began to put away the groceries and make himself the squirrel meat sub sandwich he had been dreaming of all morning.

As he tiptoed back into his living room and sat on his couch with his sandwich in hand, his fiancé began to stir.

"Hey babe," she whispered through a yawn. She smiled warmly at him. "How was your trip to the grocery store?"

Bigfoot thought of the old song he had heard and his friend he had run into, of the subconscious mind and its influence, of impatience and politeness, and finally of his life and life in general, but in that moment, as he watched his fiancé sleepily gazing at him, her eyes full of love, he realized that it had indeed been a good trip to the grocery store.

"It was fine," he said. "Just fine." He took a big bite of his squirrel meat sub sandwich as the door to the guest bedroom creaked open, and his future father-in-law, the lake monster, stomped out into the living room. If it had been a hair smaller on either side, he would not have fit.

"Need to turn the temperature down," he said grumpily. "Your mother likes the cold, you know. Oh, hello Bigfoot," the lake monster said, not waiting for a response as he backed into the guest bedroom once more.

Bigfoot's fiancé mouthed the word "sorry". Bigfoot shook his head genially, ensuring her that all was well, and that an unexpected visit from his in-laws and a trip to the grocery store were a small price to pay for unconditional love. Then he devoured the rest of his squirrel meat sub sandwich in one bite, because he is Bigfoot.

Centaur: A Subpar Vacation Experience

The sun shone high in the cloudless Hawaiian sky and reflected off of the ripples of clear blue tropical waves as a behemoth of a cruise ship ambled through the water. Almost all of the vacationers aboard the Cryptid Cruiseliner were having an excellent time, but one particular centaur named Mykonos just could not get the hang of the whole "cruise thing".

Mykonos' wife, Hilary, was getting ready for dinner, but Mykonos continued to lie on their wide bed in their windowless cabin aboard the ship. His eyes were closed and his forearm covered his eyes as the ship slowly rocked back and forth. The seasickness was not only taking a toll on his body, but seemed to be taking a toll on his wife's patience as well.

"Honey, you really need to get up and get ready for lunch," Hilary said in a calm but stern tone. It was their third day aboard the Cryptid Cruiseliner, and they only had two left. Myokonos had yet to sit through an entire meal without getting seasick.

"Ugh," he said involuntarily as he raised his forearm from his eyes. The room seemed to spin. His wife's dark brown horse-like flanks were facing him and although he could not see her face, he was sure she was rolling her eyes at him as she adjusted her tunic and teased her long chestnut brown hair while her tail swished.

Mykonos struggled to roll his horse body off of the bed, placing his human hands against the wall to steady himself as his four long muscular legs trembled and struggled to remain stationary as the boat continued to pitch back and forth minutely. Finally, his hooves dug into the aquamarine carpet of their room. He was quite sure that the color schemes on the ship were not helping to abate the dizzy feeling that he had felt almost the entire time he had been on the ship.

Hilary had already lain out a tunic for him on the bed. It was a mixture of tan leathers pieced together to form a floral pattern. Mykonos did not understand why it was so important to wear clothes he would never usually wear just because he was on vacation. He put it on nonetheless and joined his wife who was waiting by the door.

"Are you alright?" she asked, somewhat exasperatedly. He knew that it must be frustrating for her to have to wait on him for everything. She had gotten her sea-hooves within the first ten minutes aboard the Cryptid Cruiseliner. He did not like holding her back from having a good time, but there was not much he could do about it.

"Yeah, I'm good. You lead the way," he said, following her out of their room. The bright sunlight attacked his vision as they walked onto the deck. He paused as his eyes adjusted, listening to the clop of his wife's hooves against the polished wood of the ship's deck. He blinked rapidly and began to walk. His equine knees wobbled with each step and he gripped the handrail tightly, taking care not to look over the edge of the ship. He was not afraid of heights, but seeing the motion of the waves caused his nausea to multiply.

Yeti children and jackelopes ran past him, laughing and yelling, having a great time. This vacation was supposed to be a celebration for Mykonos and his wife. Mykonos had successfully landed a big deal for his line of Centaur-specific footwear. His wife, in her excitement, had suggested that they take a cruise to celebrate the big news. Having never told her about his seasickness problem, and not wanting to tarnish her glee at the thought of going on a cruise he had agreed. He realized now that this would likely be the last time his wife suggested a cruise as a vacation, and that he should have been upfront with her. They were still getting the hang of the marriage thing.

"Hey, where are you going?" Mykonos asked as his wife made a turn from the staircase instead of the galley. "They galley is this way... Aren't we going to lunch?"

"Yes, but I thought it would be best if we ate on land for this meal. We're taking a boat to one of the islands," she said as she began to awkwardly descend the spiral staircase leading to the lower decks. The Cryptid Cruiseliner's brochure had explicitly stated that it accommodated centaurs, but Mykonos and Hilary were less than impressed with the ease of mobility provided throughout the ship for their horse-like bodies.

The two of them finally made it down the spiral staircase and approached the boat that would take them to the shore of the island. It bobbed up and down violently in the waves, and Mykonos could already feel his stomach begin to turn. Hilary patted him on his shoulder, held his hand, and walked him into the boat. He and Hilary had to stand up in the back of the boat as no seats were large enough for them. This actually worked out well since he could stand by an open window. The cool air at least eased his nausea a bit.

It did not ease his nausea enough, however. He succumbed to his illness shortly after they launched from the cruiseliner, grateful that he was able to be sick into the sea out of the window rather than in the boat. The ride was even too much for his wife, who also became seasick. They both clumsily exited the boat as it reached the dock, and stood panting on the wooden planks until they were able to walk straight once more.

"Okay, if you've been feeling like that the whole trip, I understand why you haven't been very active," his wife said as they slowly began to gambol down the boardwalk.

"It's been bad, but not quite that bad. Are you alright?" he asked. She still looked a little green in the face and her four knees shook a bit as she walked.

"I'll feel a lot better when I get some food and a cold drink, I think."

"I think that goes for both of us!"

Being on dry, stationary land made all the difference after a few minutes. The two were laughing and chatting as they exited the boardwalk and sank their hooves into the sand covered beach. They paused for a moment to look out over the waves crashing into the shore. There were a group of young sea serpents body boarding, and a sasquatch was attempting to surf but not having much luck.

After they walked down the beach for a few hundred yards, they encountered a small cafe right on the edge of the beach. It was made to look like a tiki hut, and the entire front of the cafe was open to the sea breeze. They sat down at the very edge of the cafe, so they could continue to cover their hooves in the sand.

"Aloha, welcome to the Island Cryptid Cafe," a werewolf wearing sunglasses, a straw fedora, and a Hawaiian button up shirt growled at the pair of them as she approached the table. "What may I get for you?"

Mykonos was unsure of what to get. This had been a problem during meals throughout the vacation for several reasons. First of all was the time difference. It was lunch time where they were, but in his home time zone it was time for dinner already. His body wanted dinner type meals during vacation time lunches. Another problem was the fact that he had to plan for the inevitability that whatever he ate had a high likelihood it would come up again once he returned to the Cryptid Cruiseliner. His stomach began to turn just thinking about boarding the ship again with a full stomach.

"What is it that smells so good?" Hilary asked the werewolf waitress. Mykonos had to agree that the scent in the cafe was absolutely intoxicating. They both had a weakness for baked goods. It seemed that all cryptids did.

"Those are the world famous Cryptid Cafe scones. They are served with complimentary pineapple slices at this location," the waitress snarled. Even when werewolves were being polite, it was quite frightening. The two of them were aware of the original Cryptid Cafe and its legendary flaky yet substantial scones, but had never tried them. Hilary ordered one along with a glass of Island Iced Tea, and Mykonos ordered two and a glass or regular unsweetened tea.

"Coming right up," the waitress said, her yellow bloodshot eyes glaring about wildly in her head as she left their table.

They looked across the waves and shared a silence as they anxiously awaited their scones and teas. Mykonos was feeling completely normal again and started to contemplate his training. He was planning a promotional event for his line of Centaur shoes in which he would run from the east coast to the west coast wearing one pair of his shoes. They were basing it on a "Sea to Shining Sea" tagline, and he was quite sure it was going to be a hit, likely becoming one of those memorable ad campaigns that a whole generation of cryptids would reflect back fondly on someday.

Mykonos was already an accomplished long distance runner, but running from coast to coast would be no easy task, even for a centaur. He had been training hard in anticipation of the upcoming event, but had been unable to train while on the cruiseliner due to his seasickness. He felt as though his legs were already growing weaker, though he was not sure if this was all in his head or if it was really the case.

The scones, teas, and pineapple were delivered a few moments later by the snarling werewolf adorned in island garb and the two centaurs began to eat. The scones really did live up to their reputation. Mykonos and Hilary vowed to visit the Cryptid Cafe on the mainland when they returned home.

"You know," Mykonos began, his voice filled with optimism, "I think I'm going to do some training when we get back to the crusieliner."

Hilary eyed him suspiciously and took time in chewing her scone. "Do you really think that's a good idea? You've barely even been able to sit through a meal on the ship, let alone train to run across the country..."

Maybe he was being foolish, but in that moment he felt that he was capable. "I know it's been rough on me, but I've got to give it a try. I can't be out of shape when we return to the mainland. I really don't want to postpone the ad campaign."

"Alright..." she said skeptically. "We should get back to the ship."

Mykonos left a few Crypto Units on the table to cover their meal and the tip and they exited the Island Cryptid Cafe, holding hands as they walked down the beach, leaving a trail of hoof prints as they walked through the sand. The boardwalk was alive with sound and activity as they exited the beach. All of the other vacationers were trying to re-board the ships that would take them back to the Cryptid Cruiseliner as well.

A family of jackelopes dashed right between their legs, cutting them in line and entering the boat they were waiting to board.

"All full!" cried the captain of the small ship, a tall, weathered sasquatch.

"They cut us in line! Is there no way we can get on this one? We've been waiting for - ," Mykonos tried to reason with the captain, but it just was not going to happen.

"I said 'all full', sir, and I meant 'all full'. You can wait for the next one." The sasquatch donned his captain hat and entered the boat, motoring away from the dock immediately.

"Unbelievable..." Mykonos said as his wife shook her head.

Finally, they were able to board a boat and get back to the Cryptid Cruiseliner. It was a surprisingly smooth journey back. The waves had died down a bit, and although Mykonos arrived back at the cruiseliner mildly queasy, he had at least not gotten sick. The pair of centaurs slowly made their way through the mass of other cryptids re-boarding the ship until they reached their room. The vivid colors of the carpet and walls combined with the mild rocking of the ship threatened to cause Mykonos' head to swim, but he was determined to train. Although mentally he decided he would not be seasick, his body was threatening to prove him wrong.

"I think I'm just going to stay in the room and take a nap," Hilary said as she laid down on their bed, the bedsprings and frame creaking heavily as she did so. "Are you sure that going for a run on the ship is a good idea, honey?"

"I simply must get some training in during this week and I might as well do it while I'm motivated."

"I suppose you're right, honey," Hilary said with a content yawn that made Mykonos reconsider his idea to run rather than nap.

"I'll be up on the track on the top deck. See you soon, sweetie." Mykonos bent down and kissed Hilary's forehead before struggling to turn around in the small cabin and change into his exercise tunic and putting on the centaur shoes of his own design. He took great pride in hammering the shoes into his hooves each time he put them on. Once changed, he exited the room and began to trot toward the staircase that led to the top deck. It seemed that the other cryptids must have had the same idea as Hilary, because he hardly saw anyone on the way.

Mykonos stretched his muscular horse-like legs as he stood at the beginning of the deserted track on the top deck of the cruiseliner. He felt lightheaded and knew that he would appear pale if he could see his reflection. Regardless, he dug his hooves into the track's surface and began to run. He had the entire track to himself. The rhythmic clipping and clopping of his hooves combined with each inhalation and exhalation of his breath and formed an almost hypnotic sound that Mykonos focused on as he rounded the track over and over. He closed his eyes as he entered the straightaways and pictured himself running across the country in his upcoming promotional campaign. Seas, mountains, plains, deserts... He would seem them all and he would do some while running on the shoes that he designed and made a reality.

Finally, he felt that his training session was over and he came to a gradual halt. He stood panting, his hands on the midsection directly above his horse body, and then rushed to the handrails of the ship to vomit over the edge. He was not sure if it was the running, the seasickness, or a combination of both, but it hit him all at once. He heard shouting from below and realized that that portion of the deck must have not been directly over the water, but above another section of deck. He wiped his mouth and spat before nervously trotting toward the exit staircase, his whole body feeling shaky.

He entered his room, his wife still peacefully snoozing in their bed, and collapsed onto his side. It felt as if the entire room were spinning around him, all while being pitched slowly from side to side. He teetered on the verge of rising to get sick again, but finally fell into a pitiful doze. He awoke in what felt like no time at all, opening his eyes to see that his wife was fully dressed and putting earrings in her ears.

"Oh, good, you're up," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder in the mirror. "You need to get dressed so we can go to dinner."

"Urrgghhhhh." He had intended to say something to the effect of, "I'm not feeling well, please give me a moment to regain my composure before rising to get dressed for dinner", but 'urrgghhhh' was all that came out.

"I told you that running was a bad idea," she said as she shook her head.

"You didn't say it was a bad idea... you just implied it," Mykonos said, his head throbbing.

"Let's not argue. Just get up and get ready, honey."

Mykonos willed himself to roll out of the bed and put on his fanciest tunic. Dinners were a formal affair on the Cryptid Cruiseliner. They were also served very late at night for some reason. Mykonos was in the habit of eating early in the evening, so this had not agreed with him for the duration of the trip. They entered the vast dining hall, surrounded by formally dressed cryptids of all varieties, and were ushered to their seats by a young sea monster wearing a tuxedo.

"Welcome! Welcome all to dinner on the third night of our voyage," a voice boomed over the dining hall. It was the captain of the entire Cryptid Cruiseliner, an old merman wearing a captain's hat and sitting in a tub of saltwater that had to be wheeled about wherever he wanted to go on the boat. "We have smooth seas ahead of us, friends. Take your time, enjoy your meals. Bon appétit!" concluded the insufferably cheerful merman, raising a glass of champagne above his head, as all the other diners aside from Mykonos did the same.

"Should the captain of a cruiseliner really be drinking?" Mykonos said to his wife in a hushed voice. She merely rolled her eyes at him.

"Your first course is our special French Onion Soup. Enjoy!" a sasquatch waitress told them as she placed a bowl of soup before each of them. The sight of it made Mykonos' stomach turn. Hilary began dipping her spoon into her own bowl almost immediately. She eyed Mykonos as he stared down at his own, and he decided it was in his best interest to go ahead and try to eat it. It really did taste fantastic, but it was not what he needed at that moment. He was seasick and he was tired.

"What's wrong?" Hilary asked in a sigh, the tone of exasperation already apparent in her voice.

"Just not feeling too well at the moment," Mykonos said, looking up from his wobbling soup bowl.

"Shouldn't have gone for that run..."

"Maybe so, but it's not just that. You know, it's three in the morning in our time zone... I don't normally eat dinner at three in the morning, so my body is having trouble."

Hilary sighed again. "That may be true, but it's only ten at night here, and it is dinner time."

"Who even eats dinner at ten, for crying out loud?" he asked wildly, in a voice much louder than he intended to. Several of the diners at the surrounding tables turned to look at them. He continued in a whisper, "We usually eat at six, so I think you might understand why my body is having trouble adjusting."

"Mine isn't! You're on vacation, for goodness' sake. Try something new... and by all means, try to have fun," she said sternly. Mykonos had never been able to have fun in a situation where he had been sternly instructed to do so, but he loved Hilary and did not want to argue with her on their vacation, so he ate what he could of his soup.

"Your second course... Chicken. It was baked along with our chef's signature blend of spices and seasonings and garnished with pineapple. Enjoy!" the sasquatch waitress said as she placed plates before Hilary and Mykonos, taking away his half eaten soup in the process. He eyed the slab of chicken wearily, pacing himself and, though he hated to acknowledge he was doing so, psyching himself up for eating the delicious second course of their meal. It was a grueling process, but he did it. He was quite proud of himself for being able to finish the chicken as well as being able to maintain conversation with his wife all while being on the verge of throwing up everywhere. He had finally done it. He had made it all the way through a meal on the Cryptid Cruiseliner without getting sick. Or at least he thought he had... He had forgotten about dessert.

"Your third course is a chocolate - ," the sasquatch waitress began before Hilary cut her off.

"I'm absolutely stuffed. I think we'll be skipping dessert this evening. Is that alright with you Mykonos?" she asked.

"Ummm, sure. Yes. That'll be fine this evening," he said, pretending as best as he could that the thought of eating another rich dish of food was the tempting in the slightest degree.

The pair of them left the dining hall hand in hand and walked to their cabin, pausing briefly so that Hilary could admire the moonlit sea while Mykonos vomited everything he had just eaten over the hand rails and into the ocean. She did not seem the least bit offended for some reason. Perhaps she had finally accepted that it was totally out of Mykonos' control. Regardless, they entered their room and settled into bed, ending their third day on the Cryptid Cruiseliner.

Mummy: Repairing an Air Conditioner

Almost every day of the past four thousand years had been quite comfortable for one particular mummy in a tomb located beneath the shifting sands of the vast Egyptian desert. That is, until this particular day. This day found the mummy sitting upon a carved stone easy chair, fanning himself with a wide sheet of hieroglyphic laden papyrus with one hand, while holding a cell phone to his bandaged ears with his other hand.

"...All of our representatives are currently busy. Please hold for a Cool Ghoul representative, or hang up and call again at a later time. Thank you for calling Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium. We appreciate your business!"

"If they really appreciated my business they would answer their phones," the mummy muttered to the still, arid air in the tomb. Although it was only a whisper, it echoed off the stone walls and furniture.

The mummy groaned and pushed a button on his cell phone with an exposed skeletal finger, ending the call. It took several attempts before the touch screen registered his bony finger. If the cell phone was made by a company with the slogan: "By mummies, for mummies", why was it still so hard to use? Did most mummies have more skin left on their fingers than he did?

His mummification had been performed rather haphazardly, he reflected. He had overspent on the tomb, and not left enough for the actual mummification process. That was of no real importance on this day though. What was important at the moment was that he got his air conditioner fixed as soon as possible. He was not really sure if he could die again but he would rather not risk it. Heat is what had caused his first death, and it certainly was a scorcher of a day, even by underground tomb standards.

The mummy drummed his bony fingers against the rocky armrest of his stone easy chair with one hand, and continued to fan his bandaged face with the other. He stopped briefly to see what he was fanning himself with. It was an invitation to a tomb party he had missed two thousand years previous. He could not remember exactly why he had not gone to the party as he read the invitation. It certainly sounded like quite the shindig. Live music, dancers, hors d'ouveres, beers and wines... He really needed to get out more, he decided. He missed out on too much because he was content with the comforts of his tomb.

He picked up his cell phone again and dialed the number for Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium. It rang several times and the mummy got more and more excited with each ring, hoping desperately that someone would answer, but...

"...All of our representatives are currently busy. Please hold for a Cool Ghoul representative, or hang up and call again at a later time. Thank you for calling Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium. We appreciate your business!"

"Uuurrrrgghhhh!" the mummy roared. He had quite an extensive vocabulary at his disposal, but he felt that no real words could adequately convey his frustration at the moment. He hung up the phone in a rage. This time it took at least ten tries poking and jabbing the touch screen before the call ended.

There had to be some sort of solution to the air conditioning problem, without having to wait until Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium was able to take his call. It was difficult to think in that kind of heat. He picked up his phone once more and called his father. He usually had decent advice when it came to matters of the tomb upkeep.

"Hello?"

"Hey dad. I've got a bit of a problem."

"Oh hey there, son! Can you make this quick? Your mother and I are kind of busy."

The mummy furrowed what remained of its brow underneath its face bandages. What could they be doing, and more importantly, did he really want to know the answer? "Uh, sure. But what are you two doing?"

"Sand sailing. It's exhilarating! You have to come with us next time." The mummy's father said jubilantly.

"Definitely, definitely. Wait, where do you sand sail around here?" the mummy asked, distracted from his original goal of asking about the air conditioning. He had never once heard about any mummies going sand sailing anywhere near them.

"Around here?" his father asked confusedly. "Well, it's everywhere around here."

"I think there's been a breakdown in communication... Where are you, exactly?"

"California. On the beach!" the mummy's father yelled over the sound of rushing wind and scraping sand.

"Wait, what? When did you and mom go to California?" wondering why his parents, the most boring mummies ever, would go halfway around the world to sand sail, let alone doing all of this without telling him. They usually called and told him anything. The most inconsequential occurrence was usually cause for an impromptu phone call from his parents.

"This morning! It was a spur of the moment kind of thing. It's so much fun! We never do this kind of thing."

"Yeah, I know... But how - ,"

"Son, we really need to get back to the whole sand sailing thing we've got going on here. What did you need?" His father cut across him forcefully, but politely. It was something that only his father could pull off adequately.

"Right. Well, my air conditioner is not working, and I was just wondering who to - ,"

"Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium. They're the best. You're mom sends her love! Talk to you later, son."

The mummy continued to hold the phone to his ear while the dial tone rang continuously. His parents were sand sailing the beaches of California while he was sweating out what little moisture remained in his poorly preserved body in his red hot tomb. He really needed to get his afterlife together.

But first things first, he needed to solve the air conditioning conundrum. He tried to think of someone else to call, someone who had good air conditioning in their tomb. There was one mummy that sprang forcefully to the forefront of his mind, but it was the last mummy he wanted to call and ask advice from: his ex-girlfriend.

He actually did not even have her telephone number in his cell phone anymore. The temptation to call and text her regularly was too great. He did have her number written on a small scrap of papyrus that he kept hidden under the heavy stone sarcophagus in his bedroom. That way it took a great deal of effort to get to, which was usually enough of a deterrent to stop him from contacting her. It had been a fairly effective method thus far, barring a few isolated incidents such as a drunken late night call two thousand years or so previous in which he hung up almost immediately, and a text only a few decades ago in which he contacted her on the grounds of asking which mummified cat nip was best for his mummified cat. She had always been so good with mummified animals.

As though his mummified cat had sensed that he was thinking about her, she let out a meow through her bandages that sounded like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard. The mummy realized that he had not fed her in the past year or two, and went to his cupboard, fanning himself continuously, and searched for cat food. He found a literally ancient can of Pharaoh's Choice Tuna and placed it on the counter. A pharaoh winked heartily on the faded label. The cat, which was named Giza, leapt upon the counter and began to purr. Giza's purr sounded a bit like gears grinding on a missed shift in a car with manual transmission, but it was soothing to the mummy nonetheless.

He smiled through his bandages, put down the piece of papyrus he had been fanning himself with, and began to search for a can opener. He soon remembered that can openers had not been invented until several millennia after he had been buried, and that he had never personally purchased one. He used a ceremonial dagger instead.

With the tuna open and Giza munching away in a satisfied manner with what remained of her teeth, the mummy began to fan himself again.

"I'm thinking of calling Elaine and asking her what to do about the air conditioning. Good idea or bad idea?" the mummy asked his cat. He was not entirely sure whether or not the cat could understand him, but he got the impression that it was quite cognizant of the world and its surroundings. He sometimes even got the impression that the cat had a better handle on the ways of the world and the afterlife than he did.

The cat looked up at him, chewing its ancient Pharaoh's Choice brand tuna, and seemed to consider the question. After a few moments, the cat swallowed, with what looked like great difficulty, and reached out its paws and extended its claws, dragging them across the smooth stone countertop until the scratches spelled out the word "DON'T".

That seemed to settle whether or not the cat could understand him, but he was not pleased with the response. "I'm going to call her anyways. I don't have to listen to you. You're my cat for goodness' sake. Even if you are sacred to me, I shouldn't have to take your advice on ex-girlfriends... Besides, I thought you liked Elaine?"

Giza began to scratch the countertops again, spelling out: "SHE'S THE WORST".

"Oh, stop it! You're being insufferable. She was not that bad! And I'm going to get you a dry erase board so you won't ruin my countertops."

Giza meowed so hard that sand poured from her ancient mouth. The mummy picked her up and placed her gently back upon the floor. He tossed the can of Pharaoh's Choice Tuna in the trash can, and made a mental note to remember to put the trash by the curb of the tomb that evening, as trash pickup was the following morning.

He made his way through the torch lit halls of his tomb. He scowled beneath his face bandages as he passed the torches. Without them, he would not be able to see anything at all in his tomb, but they had to be at least partially responsible for the heat. He entered his bedroom and walked toward his sarcophagus, making a brief detour to turn off his television which just so happened to be airing a commercial for Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium. He cursed the television, hoping that it did not cause a literal mummy's curse because he quite enjoyed having a working television in his bedroom so that he could watch cartoons as he fell asleep, and turned it off. He reflected sadly how his inclination to watch cartoons as he fell asleep was one of Elaine's pet peeves during their relationship and he began to question again whether he should call her at all.

"This is not about getting back together, or anything about our relationship for that matter," he said under his breath in his now commercial-free bedroom. "This is about air conditioning."

The mummy pried the bottom of his sarcophagus from the ground, taking great care not to tip it back too far, lest it fall to the ground and crack or completely shatter. Sarcophagi were expensive. He snatched the small scrap of papyrus from under the sarcophagus and leaned it back down to the floor carefully. His hand shook slightly as he looked down at the hieroglyphs written on the papyrus. He always got so nervous when it came to calling Elaine.

He dialed her hieroglyphic phone number: Jackal, Falcon, Jackal, Knife Facing Left, Knife Facing Right, Sun, taking great care to make sure each number was dialed correctly. He always got so flustered when he dialed a wrong number. He pressed the call button and raised a shaking hand to hold the phone to his bandaged ear. He waited and waited but the phone never started to ring. He withdrew the phone from his ear and noticed that he had not pressed the call button properly.

"I'm just going to text her," he said aloud to no one, shaking his head in a manic sort of way. "I don't care how long it takes me to type it out, I'm just going to text her. It's less formal that way, anyways."

He typed her phone number into a message and very slowly began to type out a text.

"Hey.... Elaine..." he whispered aloud as he tapped the buttons repeatedly. "I... was... just... wondering... who... services... your.... air..... conditioner......? .... Mine.... Is .... not.... working....... Thanks...."

The mummy read and re-read the text multiple times, both silently and aloud, but he was still too nervous to send it. "Giza!" he shouted, his sharp voice echoing off the stone walls. His cat gamboled into his bedroom, and hacked up a fur ball that was older than most modern civilizations.

"Giza, how does this text sound: Hey, Elaine. I was just wondering who services your air conditioner? Mine is not working. Thanks." Giza's eyes glared at him dully, as though she was bored and indifferent. "Is that alright? Does it sound good? I mean, it's casual right? And just about air conditioning, right? Should I keep the 'thanks' or should I just end it after saying that my air conditioning isn't working? Giza? Giza?"

Giza had run away while he was reading off the text. The mummy sighed a long, very dry sigh and pressed the send button.

He began to pace around his bedroom, fanning himself furiously with one hand and staring down at the screen of his phone that was resting in his other hand. He had probably paced two to three miles before he received a reply.

"Ghoul Cooler's House of Air Conditioners." He read aloud. Did she mean Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium? She had never been very detail oriented and her memory was somewhat lacking when it came to mostly inconsequential matters such as these.

He began to pace again. Should he text her to clarify? He did not want to be bothersome, or give her the impression that he was only using the situation as an excuse to talk to her. He decided to ask. The worst that could happen would be an ignored text message.

"Do you mean Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium?" he typed into a text message. He began his pacing regiment again, but this time he received a response almost instantly.

"No, Ghoul Cooler's House of Air Conditioners are Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioner Emporium's competitor. Their prices and service are way better, but they're a smaller company. Stay cool!" She ended the text with a smiley face emoticon. It was actually a hieroglyph of two stars aligned vertically next to a crescent moon. He knew that this smiley face hieroglyph emoticon would likely torment him for centuries to come. What did she mean by it? Did she mean anything at all? Was it just habit?

"No. No. No, I'm not doing this right now," he said to himself, shaking his head vigorously as he exited the text message. He tried to open the browser on his cell phone to look up the telephone number for Ghoul Cooler's House of Air Conditioners, but upon failing multiple times to click the browser icon with his bony finger, he walked to his living room to retrieve the phone book.

His phone book was covered in about an inch of dust and sand. He could not even recall the last occasion he had to use it. He flipped it open and it split in two directly down the middle. He closed his eyes in frustration and walked to the countertop and set down the two halves of the phone book.

"Why does everything have to be so difficult today, Giza?" he asked his heavily bandaged cat as it sat on the countertop once more, purring its low, guttural purr. The cat had no response other than continued sullen looks.

The mummy carefully turned each page of the broken phonebook half that would contain the air conditioner technicians. "Ghoul Cooler's!" he exclaimed as he finally ran his bony finger over the hieroglyph for Ghoul Cooler's House of Air Conditioners' phone number.

"Jackal, Knife Pointing to the Right, Pyramid, Cat, Falcon, Falcon," he read aloud from the phonebook, smiling to himself as he properly activated each button properly on the first attempt. Maybe his luck was turning around after all...

The phone rang once and an automated message began to play. "We would like to inform our loyal customers, that after three thousand years in the air conditioning business, Ghoul Cooler's House of Air Conditioners has been bought out and merged with Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium. Please direct any future calls regarding air conditioner purchases or maintenance to Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium. Stay cool, ghouls!"

The mummy closed his eyes as the dial tone began to hum through the earpiece of his cell phone. Maybe his luck was not turning around after all. There was nothing left to do, he concluded, other than call Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium over and over until he was able to talk to a repair technician. He scrolled through his recent calls until he saw the hieroglyphs for Cool Ghoul's service hotline, and pressed the call button.

"...All of our representatives are currently busy. Please hold for a Cool Ghoul representative, or hang up and call again at a later time. Thank you for calling Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioning Emporium. We appreciate your business!"

He hung up and tried again immediately. The message began to play again and he repeated the process. The third time, the phone began to ring and the mummy became very nervous. His throat became tight, and he tried to swallow over and over to make sure he would be ready to speak when the time came, but was struggling due to the fact that he had not had a drink of water in several years.

"Good afternoon, this is Cool Ghoul's service technician hotline. Feel the cool, you ghoul! How may I help you?" a high pitched voice said on the other end of the line. The mummy was still trying to swallow, his throat felt as though it was locked shut. "Hello? Is anyone there?" the voice asked confusedly.

"Guuurchle." That was the only sound that the mummy was capable of making under the tension of having to greet the service technician on the telephone at that moment.

"We don't take kindly to prank callers at Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioner Emporium. We are very busy, sir or madam." The service technician hung up on him and he found that he was finally able to relax his throat.

He walked to his refrigerator, shaking his head the whole way and almost tripping over his mummified cat. He opened the door, ignoring the demented meows of Giza, and searched for something to drink. Since he no longer had appetites, or the organs to facilitate appetites in his body, he did not have a well-stocked refrigerator. He had some wine that he was saving just in case Elaine happened to show up for some reason. He had been saving that bottle for longer than he was willing to admit to anyone.

The only other item in the refrigerator was a jar of honey. He tipped the jar back and waited for the honey to pour into his mouth. He figured that it would be better than nothing. Due to the thick nature of honey, combined with the cold temperatures of the refrigerator, he had to stand still with his head tilted back and his mouth open beneath the honey jar for several minutes. He felt like a fool, and could feel his cat's mocking gaze upon him. He did concede, however, that it was pleasant to stand in front of the open refrigerator door. If it would not ruin the motor in the refrigerator, he would just lie on the floor in front of it instead of calling Cool Ghoul's again. With a fully mobilized throat, he called Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioner Emporium once more.

The phone began to ring, and although the mummy's heart currently resided in a jar in his living room, and not in his body, he was quite sure that he could feel it leaping for joy as a different high pitch voice answered on the other end of the line. "Good afternoon, this is Cool Ghoul's service technician hotline. Feel the cool, you ghoul! How may I help you?"

"Hello, I have a faulty air conditioning unit in my tomb," the mummy said, not even trying to hide the relief in his voice.

"Alright, we can have a service technician at your residence in eight to twelve hours."

The mummy could feel his heart slide back into the bottom of its jar where it usually resided, perhaps even lower. "Eight to twelve hours?" he asked in an outrage.

"Yes sir, we are very busy today. A lot of ghouls, goblins, and other creatures and beasts and such figures' air conditioning systems are malfunctioning today due to the workload. Do you want service or not?" the high pitched voice asked exasperatedly. It sounded like an elf.

"Of course I want it serviced," the mummy groaned into the telephone.

"Well, be at your tomb in eight to twelve hours and it will be serviced. Until then, stay cool, you ghoul!"

"Wait, wait, wait!" the mummy cried, sensing that the elf was about to hang up since it had repeated their slogan again. "Is there anything that could be done to speed up the process?"

A high pitched sigh on the other end of the line was followed by a lengthy silence. Finally the elf said, "I'll give you a call if a technician is freed up before then. It's unlikely though."

"Thank you so much!"

"Uh huh. Stay cool, you ghoul."

The dial tone began to ring and the mummy hung up his cell phone and placed it between a fold in his bandages around his waist. Now he just had to decide what to do for the next eight to twelve hours until the service technician arrived. Of course, someone could come sooner, but he did not want to get his hopes up.

He picked up his piece of papyrus he had been fanning himself with and began again. It split in half immediately. He looked around his tomb for another makeshift fan, but only saw the phonebook. He decided that he did not want to destroy it any further, so as not to make it any more difficult to find telephone numbers. There would, however, be a newspaper outside of the tomb entrance. In his preoccupation due to the heat, he had completely forgotten to retrieve it that morning.

The mummy walked to the doorway, his cat close at his heels, and opened the door. Giza rushed out, and the mummy was glad to be rid of her for a while. He bent over and grasped his newspaper, his bones grinding and crunching against each other as he did so.

As he sat down in his stone easy chair, he extracted the finance section of the Tomb Times newspaper and began to fan himself with it. He did not care much for the finance section, and frankly did not understand why it was important to get rich during the afterlife. Although, he had thought the same thing during his regular life. As he looked around his tomb, he realized that maybe if he had saved and invested wisely he could have a nicer tomb. He decided to read the finance section after he finished the rest of the paper.

While flipping through the newspaper in search of the local news section, he spotted the movie schedule for the local cinema and was struck with an idea. Why had he not thought of this before now? The theater was always air conditioned! It was even within walking distance from his tomb.

He did not even look at what movies were playing or what times they were starting. He just got up and went. The truth was, he could care less about what movie was playing. He was solely in it for the air conditioning today. Unless there was a cartoon movie playing of course. In that case he would choose the cartoon.

As he walked, he thought back once again on how his ex-girlfriend Elaine had been so annoyed by his interest in cartoons. What was so bad about a mummy enjoying cartoons? He even recalled that Elaine had drunkenly texted him to "grow up" after he posted a photo on Mummygram of his newly acquired VHS collection of The Mumnuts cartoons several years previous. She had apologized the next morning, but he had never forgotten what she said or the way it had made him feel. The spring in his step faded a bit, and he began to wonder if he should see a cartoon movie after all.

The marquee of the cinema, ironically called the Aztec Pyramid, even though it was within sight of The Great Pyramids of Giza, had come into view. The mummy was simultaneously relieved and saddened by the lack of cartoon film titles being displayed on the enormous white board. At least he would not have to decide if today would be the day he "grew up".

"One un-dead adult ticket for 'Dances with Werewolves' please," the mummy said to the goblin behind the ticket window. "How is it?"

"Meh..." the goblin said as it handed him the ticket. The mummy did not care that the movie was, as the goblin had so eloquently put it – 'meh'. All he cared about now was that he was about to be immersed in artificially cooled air.

He forewent the snack counter and trudged straight into the theater that was showing 'Dances with Werewolves'. He sat down in the empty theater and sank deeply into his seat. It was perfect. He had never felt more comfortable than he did in this moment. The chair was soft, the air was cold, and the theater was empty. Even if the movie never started he would consider this trip a success. He looked up and saw that the air conditioner vents were directly above him. He interlocked his thin, bony fingers across his chest and closed his eyes in ecstasy, until...

"Excuse me," a gruff, dry voice grumbled, causing him to snap open his eyes. Another mummy was trying to get past him, but he was reclined too far.

"Sorry," he said, sitting up so that the other mummy could pass. He had a date with him. For one horrifying moment he thought that it was Elaine, but as the dim light reflecting from the previews on the screen reflected off of her bandaged body, he saw that she was much taller than Elaine. For some reason, they sat only two seats down from him on the row. He looked around the theater, and saw that the theater was completely empty except for the three of them. Why did they pick those seats when the whole theater was available? Did they not want privacy? Did they not realize that he might want privacy?

The mummy sat up a little straighter in his seat as the other two mummies settled into their own seats. The previews ended shortly after, and the movie began. The goblin was right. "Meh" was truly the best way to describe the movie. There were werewolves and they danced. Sometimes they danced with each other, other times they did not. There was some historical and political subtext, but it was not interesting or well developed enough to be compelling. As the mummy began to reflect on this, his cell phone began to ring loudly.

"Shhhh!" the other two mummies shushed him at once.

"Sorry!" he replied, silencing the cell phone and answering it as quietly as he could. "Hello?"

"A service technician in your area finished early and was dispatched to your tomb. They will be there in twenty five minutes," a high pitched voice said without taking a breath.

"That's great!" the mummy exclaimed, completely forgetting to be quiet.

"Are you kidding me?" the other mummy's date asked angrily.

"You two could have sat anywhere in the theater! Besides, this is the most 'meh' movie I've ever seen!" the mummy said in a loud whisper which included air quotes around the word 'meh'.

"Hello? Will you be there?" the voice asked on the other end of the telephone line.

"I absolutely will," he said as he hung up the phone.

"Good. Stay cool, you ghoul."

He wondered briefly if there was enough time to stay until the end of the movie, but then decided that he did not care enough about the ending to risk missing his air conditioner service technician. Plus, the two mummies in his row glared at him until he got up to leave.

"Hey, excellent review of 'Dances with Werewolves'", the mummy said to the ticket goblin as he exited the theater. "Totally 'meh'."

"Thank you, sir. I try to broadcast my wit via brevity," the goblin said with pride.

"Brevity... I've never been very good at brevity. You're right though, it certainly can convey the true spirit of something when the proper words are chosen. You know, I might try my hand at being brief in my descriptions."

"You're off to a bad start," the goblin said with a deadpan glare.

The mummy smiled at him, but it could not be seen through his bandages. That certainly was a witty goblin. Before he knew it, he found himself outside the front door of his tomb. Giza was waiting on him, flailing her tail back and forth listlessly and meowing. He let her in, and as soon as he turned to close the door to his tomb, a ghoul wearing a blue and white striped uniform had appeared at his doorstep.

"Cool Ghoul's Air Conditioner Emporium Service Technician, here. I'm told that there is an air conditioner in this tomb that requires service?" the ghoul said with a professional manner.

"Yes, indeed there is. Come in, come in," the mummy said, shutting the door as the ghoul entered. "I'm so glad you were able to make it here. They told me on the telephone that I would have to wait eight to twelve hours."

"Oh, customer service never knows what's really going on," the ghoul said. He sounded annoyed.

"Why is that?" the mummy asked curiously.

"The company outsourced the customer service department to save money, so the elves that work for customer service aren't really even employees. They're actually in the North Pole, I believe."

"Interesting," the mummy said, although this was not entirely true. Now that he was back inside of his overheated tomb, his focus was shifting back on getting the air conditioner working as soon as possible. The ghoul seemed to have read his mind.

"Where is your fuse box?" the ghoul asked.

"I believe it's in the cupboard."

The ghoul traipsed to the cupboard, opened the door, and then opened the fuse box. He flipped a switch and the mummy could hear his air conditioner start.

"Wait... That's it? It was just a thrown switch the whole time?" the mummy asked, dumbfounded.

"Yep. It happens quite often when systems like these are overloaded. We'll send you a bill in the mail," the ghoul explained as he closed the door to the fuse box.

"Well, thank you. But, also, will I still be receiving a full bill? I mean, not to split hairs or anything, but you didn't really have to do much work..."

"If you have a complaint, you can call the customer service line."

"Now wait just a minute!" the mummy cried out angrily.

The ghoul disappeared before it even reached the front door.

"That's how they get you... They give you the run around, then they send someone out to do an easy fix they could have just explained over the telephone, and finally, they give you the regular bill for half a minute of work," he said to Giza, who had tried to follow the ghoul out of the tomb and now stood staring yearningly at the door.

The mummy finally settled into his easy chair. With the cool air blowing over his bandages, he decided that paying full price for a service technician to flip a switch was hardly as bad as the alternative of not having any air conditioning at all. Now he could focus all of his thoughts on the hieroglyph smiley face emoticon his ex-girlfriend had sent him earlier that day.

What could she possibly mean by it?
A Brief Note to the Reader

I just want to take a moment to thank you so much for purchasing and reading my book! I hope that you enjoyed it, and that you will check out some of the other books and stories that I have written, such as Lonely Out in Space, Starship Delirium, Horror in the Hallways, The Leak, and Off-Beat Christmas Tales. Stay tuned for more!

