(A story for older children and adults. Fiction)
“%#!#! (curse word), what is that smell, John?”
Long pause. “Stepped in something, I guess.”
“%#!#!, it’s on your shoes. %#!#!.” She purses her lips, shakes her fists and pantomimes a scream. Very long pause. “Do you know how hard I work to keep this carpet clean?”
“Course, Baby, I know. I know,” said in kinder voice than usual. He couldn’t believe the stench; and worse, he couldn’t believe he didn’t notice before entering the trailer.
“John, something’s moving. Something’s crawling off your boot. Oh, #!%&!! Oh #!%&!!”
As the two scrambled to remove the six-foot-five’s slimy, smelly footwear, the noisy forest around their camp trailer fell silent. They easily determined the strong-smelling mess was scat of some sort. Bev’s eyes filled with hot tears. She dashed them away before John noticed. The big man felt helpless when she wept and so he hated it.
She worked to keep the trailer as clean as the day it rolled off the sales lot. And now the green carpet was probably permanently stained with foul-smelling #@%!.
“#$%!,” she said, loudly. She stamped her bare foot, making not a sound.
“Bev, Baby, now stop it.” He laughed, while scraping the scat and shiny beetle into a pile with a sharp-edged flat stone that he’d just retrieved from the ground outside in stocking feet.
“Yuk! Yuk! It stinks.” She was now also laughing as she handed him a sloshing bowl of soapy hot water, with a tattered rag to scrub the dirty spot.
“@#$&!. Great, I need to level the jacks. Why’s the trailer shaking so much?”
“Something’s out there, John! Look! Something’s at the window. Lock the door! John, lock the door.”
The thick glass broke and flew inward as a hairy black hand pushed through the opening. A stream of blood ran down the inside wall from a deep gash on the hairy forearm.
“Hit it with the frying pan Bev!”
“No, you do it. Here.” She threw a large black iron pan at him. Warm bacon grease left a line of dark drops across the light-green velvet couch that was under the broken window. “Oh, the couch. %#!#!,” she whimpered. Bev would often look back on this frightening experience and wonder why she bemoaned the ruined couch when a monster was breaking into their trailer.
Cursing nonstop, John hammered the grimy hand and hairy arm, breaking bones. The animal made no sound that they could determine.
Again and again, the iron skillet clanged down on the narrow metal window sill and thudded softly when contacting with the animal’s flesh. Finally, whatever it was withdrew its arm, caught the edge of the window opening and rocked the trailer. Fearing the trailer would tip over, John drew back and heaved the pan at the grayish face, so manlike. They ducked below the window, thinking the pan could be hurled back at them.
No noise came from outside for a time. The married pair rose cautiously. From the jagged glass-edged window opening, they watched in disbelief as a bigfoot pounded off into the deep shadowed forest, on all fours. Thick drops of blood trailed behind the animal. That evening, they both several times asked the same question: “Think it’ll bleed out?”
Pointing to the blood on the wall, John said, “
Later, when the moon came out John said, “Come here, Baby. Look.” He pointed to the edge of the forest. There stood two adult bigfoots, one holding the hand of a much smaller one. Bev grabbed their camera and filled the memory card to its limit.
With scat, with blood and skin, and with numerous photos of the bigfoot family, the Rayburns became well known the world around for their part in “finding bigfoot.” John Rayburn now allows his wife the luxury of a good cry once in a while, for she’s the one that snapped all those great bigfoot photos. If she hadn’t had the presence of mind to grab the camera and snap the photos, for a certainty he’d now be the one with the weeping habit. As it is, both Rayburns laugh easily these days. The photos made them wealthy. And unlike before, they are now bigfoot believers.