Roadside Crosses

Something about spring in Indiana really brings the roadside crosses to bloom. I mean that in the most respectful way possible.

Perhaps my having grown up in Dallas, the large and widely distributed city it was, made me unaware of the number of people getting their number pulled on the road each day. Maybe people in Dallas just don't make a big deal about it. Or maybe it's because everyone drives like an asshole with the beer shits, hastily en route to the nearest toilet, such that everyone is accustomed to dealing with the Pandora's Box of the highway with more skillful tact.

There is one roadside cross I will never forget.

I had to give up my car last year because finances simply could not keep up with the burden. This put me in the interesting situation of having to walk about three miles one way to the nearest bus stop. Considering the circumstances, paired with the reality that the nearest store of any variety was a mile away, I had to rely on friends and my roommate for the occasional beer run, McDonald's binge or grocery shopping.

Well this was one of those days. I bribed Andrew with the promise he could share the spoils if he would be so kind as to take me up to the store to grab some tasty domestic piss beer. It was a drinking kind of day. He agreed and so we proceeded to head out.

View Larger Map

That map was where we lived. And as you can probably tell, I could see all the way down to the intersection of the main road (Stop 18) pretty easily.

So as we got in the car, we noticed that there were several cars lined up leading to the exit. Considering there wasn't really ever any traffic on the road, we were both a bit curious as to what exactly was going on. Little did we know that our timing would bring us to a situation of helplessness and morbid imagery.

As you may have figured out, there was an accident. It just so happens that this accident involved a Ford Focus making a left turn and a helmet-less motorcyclist meeting the side of the Focus.

We pulled around the commotion and saw a body on the ground. People crying, some frantic on cell phones, several hunched over the body or on the ground trying to determine what they could do to help. We figured we had some obligation to make sure we did whatever we could to assist (mainly to make sure 911 had been dialed).

This guy was not dead. His face had taken a harsh beating and he was not moving a muscle. "He is barely breathing," announced one of the people. His head was drenched in blood, profuse bleeding continued through his nose. I will never forget that image- the blood was pulsing out of his nose and onto the gray pavement. The color was like a bucket of bright red paint, lightened by a bit of white- almost as if it were fake. Maybe it was fake? Maybe I was dreaming?

I was helpless. What the hell could I possibly do to help? I questioned the nearby people to make sure 911 had been called. Moments later I heard a siren, which I'd have thought would have happened sooner since we lived about one mile from the fire station.

It was then that I told Andrew we should move on. We had nothing to offer and would only be in the way. So, we did. And I felt guilty.

I was captive to my sympathies. From that moment on, I was trying to figure out if there was anything I could to help this guy. Was he even still alive? Could he pay his rent? Maybe I could help keep him from not having a home when he got out of the hospital? (I automatically assume everyone is broke like me and couldn't cover a day of rent without a job) I didn't even know him, how would I even find out? I had to do something.

I tried to call the nearby hospitals. I got one reply that was very vague, as expected. It seemed that he was in stable condition and that was all they would tell me, understandably.

Not a day went by that I didn't think about that guy. As it so happens, I had to pass this intersection every day to get to my bus. Not like someone in a car who can speed along to their destination. And not like most of the residents, who had no idea the event had occurred- they probably barely noticed the odd patch of crusty blond and dark-colored sand that the fire department used to clean up the scene.

I had to. I had no choice. I tried to play it out in my mind like some kind of detective. How in the hell did that guy manage to find himself in that dire of a situation on a quarter-mile road with clear visibility to the intersection?

And then I saw it. The start to the trail of doom. Narrow black streaks dug deep into the pores of the concrete, starting about four-hundred feet from the collision. He must have been speeding. But how fast could a motorcycle go in such a short notice? More importantly, why?

Answers I would never know. Questions I would never stop asking, as two times a day I had to pass this intersection on foot. Staring at blood-caked sand and broken bits of glass and metal- that over the next couple of weeks would all disappear- leaving a tiny black stain on the ground that would eventually itself blend back into the color of pavement.

About two weeks later, a cross. No name. No message. Just a white cross with a white flower planted on the corner.

My friend, being the internet guru that he is, eventually found the obituary. I had scoured the internet for several days and couldn't find anything. Small town Indiana, eh?

As it turns out, our victim had just gotten his crotch rocket that day, and in a testicular show to his friends, he whipped his bike down that road at the speed of light (about 70 mph), only to find that in the few seconds it took him to see the focus turning left, he did not have enough time to stop. The driver of the Focus must have been making her turn right as he came into view. She didn't have time to get out of the way.

I still feel bad for that guy. But I don't have much respect for crotch rocket operators. They have no idea how easy it is to fuck up their life. And someone else's. I am sure that girl that was driving the Focus will never forget that day and never stop asking herself what she could have done different.

But in all fairness, I don't think she could have done anything.





Since I decided to finish my degree in English (creative writing focus), I realize that I have to deal with poetry. And I have made many attempts to write vague poetry. It is supposed to be about raw emotion and things you can relate to experience. One of my to-be instructors has said that if I cannot openly share my experiences, for better or for worse, what's the point of sharing them? We are who we are, having been where we have gone. So here goes:

It all started with a spark
as it always did.
A passion in the heart
like a snare drum echoing emotion.

Red was the color of his eyes
as fire ignited his intensity.
Not paying attention to the band
he made them follow his own beat.

Red was the color of his face
as exhaustion soon set in.
So overcome with sweat and heat
nearly passing out but strong
with determination.

Red was the color of his blood
as his aggression carried on.
Breaking the stick that empowered him
and punctured skin.
He no longer knew the song.
But traded old stick for new
and carried on.

Red was the color of his blindness
shifting the passion to his feet.
The double bass reverberated
unwilling, with protest,
but unable to escape.

Red was the color of the welts
left upon black bruised indentations of the head
of that snare drum that he beat on
and beat on and beat on
until there was no more red.

Red is the color of the memory
from all who attended that show.
They will never forget the passion in him
that day.
As in him red
was the only color they'd ever known.

(This is not about a drummer. But I use it because I love music and relate to a drummer's passion.)

Please note that if you get the symbolism, I am not asking for emotional charity. Just writing as a writer is supposed to do.


Real Ghost Stories

There is something about me that not many people know. The reason not many people know is that I'm always afraid they'll think I'm just plain bat-shit crazy. I'm not crazy, not really, but I do have a few senses that most people don't have. There are others like me and others similar, but I still feel weird about it. So, I'm going to share it with Splattercore. You might think I'm crazy, but most of you are probably as nuts as I am. 

Firstly, I see ghosts. Sometimes.

The first time I ever remember seeing a ghost was when I was only about three years old. My parents and I lived in a little house in Saxapahaw, North Carolina, and it was Easter morning. It was raining cats and dogs, and I desperately wanted to hunt eggs outside. My mom and dad told me no, and that no one was hunting eggs outside in the rain. I wasn't the only one inside. 

Boy, were they ever wrong. When I looked out their bedroom window, there was about twenty kids following behind one adult, in a perfect line, walking up to the top of the hill where the old textile mill was. In my mind, I just knew that they were hunting eggs without me!

The ruins of a late 1800's mill in Saxapahaw, picture taken present day :)
So, I pointed out the window, and made both of my parents come see all those kids out there, going up the hill to hunt eggs.

They didn't see a damn thing. 

"But, b-b-b-b-but they're right there!" I screamed at my parents for nearly ten minutes, pointing at all those kids. They were going to get my eggs, dammit! 

Again, my mom and dad gave me a weird look and assured me there were no kids out there. 

I saw other things, too, but I don't remember many of them until I was in high school. My mom had just moved into the house that her father's father built from the ground up. She was excited with the move and loved the idea of being close to my grandma (who lived just a hop, skip, and a jump away), and she loved that she found old newspaper clippings in the walls when we moved in. 

I loved the history of that house, too. My great-grandfather was a moonshiner. During prohibition, many men (and women sometimes) made homemade hooch in stills they kept hidden from the law. My grandpappy was one of those hooch runners. Southern Appalachia was full of them, but it was a good way to get your alcohol and a good way to make money during the Great Depression some years later, too. On the mountain that he lived on, he was the only living soul there that had a vehicle during the depression. Oh, and he had horses and livestock that he didn't have to slaughter to survive-although, I know they did slaughter their own meat. They just didn't have to.

Well, my grandfather made his living moonshining for quite some time, and he married my Cherokee grandma, Betty. Betty was quite a looker. Tall, long dark Cherokee hair that hung down to her hips (like my moms and mine), beautiful big brown eyes, and really nice arms. My mom takes after my grandma Betty. They look exactly alike! 

Betty and my grandfather raised a small family in their little house up in the mountains. They had a young daughter and my grandfather and my grandfather's brothers. Well, when my grandfather was little, he was put in charge of watching my auntie (who was his little sister) while his parents were working outside. My grandfather was very little himself. Maybe seven or so...

Anyhow, he grabbed a rifle from his daddy's dresser and accidentally shot his baby sister. The bullet went through her and into a dresser behind her, bursting much of the wood from the end of the dresser. My great grandfather kept that damn dresser and my grandpa had to look at it every day until he left for overseas during WW2. 

Years later, when I was just fifteen, I saw my great auntie. I was watching a movie in the living room, and turned off the tv and vcr, then settled down to sleep on the loveseat. Before I got to sleep, the tv turned back on, then the vcr started making a noise. I looked up, and just beyond the tv stand, in the bathroom doorway, was my little auntie-but, I didn't even know she existed until a few days later. She was pretty. She had her hair in pigtail braids, very long and dark Cherokee hair. She had freckles on her face like my mama, and she was holding a kitten. She didn't speak, didn't smile, just stared at me. Later, my grandmother told me about her, and it gave me chills and I remember crying for about an hour over her death. My grandfather struggled with that for his entire life.

A few weeks later, I was sleeping in my bedroom, but heard a noise and thought I'd heard my mama calling for me. I looked into the doorway and there was a woman that looked like my mom, but wasn't her. She had long hair, braided to one side, dark Cherokee eyes, and I thought I was going to shit myself. Luckily, I didn't. It was my great grandma, Betty. 

I see ghosts from time to time, at the oddest times. I've seen miners walking home from the mine, carrying their axes and mining lights across the train tracks below my house. I've seen young, old, and in between. I'm sort of used to it now, but every time I see one, my heart leaps into my butt and I get chills.

I googled Saxpahaw, North Carolina a few days ago, though, and found out that the kids I saw were probably the children of Mill workers from the early 1900's. They went to school in the town and also worked in the Mill some, too. They were probably on their way up to the Mill when I saw them. I even found a picture. 

They took all my damn Easter eggs!


My Very Own Zombie

A good friend of mine is creating a new zombie image every day for the entire month of May. A few days ago, he made one just for me-a Clarke Gable Zombie (cause I love Gone With the Wind).

I wanted to share this zombie with you guys because I've never had my own zombie before!

The artist, David Naughton-Shires, even put my name in the poster...How about that? 

Anyhow, it got me thinking about what a zombie outbreak would really be like and if I could really have my own zombie version of Clarke Gable. What would I do with him? 
Here's one good idea: I'd tie him up in a shed in my backyard and feed people to him that I don't particularly care for. I'd take pictures with him and have him properly trained to fetch the paper. Then, I'd write a book about how to train your zombie. 

And I guarantee that if I had my own zombie around here, I wouldn't have much of a problem with neighborhood dogs scaring the shit out of me and keeping me pretty much locked up in my own house. 


Into the Bloodied Maw We Stare

(Blog inspired by Rhiannon, colored by Nat Geo, and not-so-much Nat Geo)

So you finally graduated high school and decided to pursue your scholarly ambitions. Or maybe not. Perhaps you decided to revive old dreams of being in the circus and putting up an exhibition of amazing feats for all of childlike society to adore. Whatever your motivation, you ended up taking the world by storm and brought to our table (as it seems most of us eat dinner watching TV anymore) a new feat of strength sure to prove the girth of your testosterone cannon.

Well, if you make it out alive that is.

I am not sure what it is about humans, but we never cease to amaze and be amazed. We look at nature with her violent, scorned-woman beauty and say to each other "I can control that." Then we set out to take nature by the horns, so to speak, and she never fails to remind us who is boss.

We even have TV shows dedicated to the ferocity of nature in animal form; time and again we look into the abyss lacking fear only to discover the abyss looks back. Not only does it look back, but it displays all its aggression and prowess with adornments so vivid that no imagination can recreate. But despite the warnings, we advance in what can only be reasonably dubbed our own courtship routine.

Often, we find ourselves staring at her in exquisite form and she flaunts. She adores the attention. Surely she appreciates being the subject of our educational programming, folklore, religion and canvas. She poses, inquisitive as to what we will have learned through time, but knowing that in reality we've learned nothing. Time and again we prove this human shortcoming; yet time and again she tries to give us the benefit of the doubt.

And so we take advantage of her seeming innocence and naivety. We sit in the distance watching for when the moment is right. Stealthily we creep in attempting to get closer. With our tranquilizer loaded we reach the range of attack. With a subtle movement of muscle we wage war on her body- watching her fall helplessly to the ground; once majestic and almost godly, now just a slumbering beast helpless to the devices of our rapacious innovation and cages. We then try to tame her. Dress her. Personify her- perhaps the most dangerous of our conquests.

And she plays along. For a while. But then she puts us right back in our place reminding us that we are the ones who should be alert to the lurking danger within the tall grass of the Serengeti.

WARNING: This video is graphic and quite disturbing. Watch at your own risk. Splattercore neither finds this entertaining nor do we advocate the harming of animals- especially ones doing animal things despite our best efforts to conquer them. Video supplied for the purposes of better illustrating (a) our stupidity as people and (b) the unfortunate consequence of anything dealing with mankind in regards to "the cost of doing business" with mankind.

Sadly, as we do with each other, when nature reveals the provoked chaos beneath the beauty, we are quick to claim "foul" and seek out the hired hand of vindication to make right that which we so often forget we made wrong. However, despite our best efforts nature always wins.

For she knows our beginning and she knows- nay, she is- the mistress of our demise.


Choose Your Adventure!!! (HEY- pick one, not every page!!! Cheater.)

Evil children
Our love of blood
Crazed maniacal teddy bears with one eye
Lunatic figures of bloody history
Video game blood
Crazy teens fascinated with death
Half bleached dancers/musicians with epic videos....

This is a portion of where we have been in a few weeks. And I must admit, I am impressed with what this group is creating. Now, it is your turn to take the director's chair. Pretend like it's one of those awesome "choose your adventure books"- you know, the ones you had so many fingers in but eventually ran out and had to accept the literary death you created from bad choices (upon bad choices, upon bad choices)?

Maybe there is a great movie we need to watch and spread the word about. Or maybe a book. Or perhaps a crazy topic we've not yet covered. Whatever it is, post your blood thirst here and I am sure we will think of something to share with the rest of the Splattercore zombies.

Okay, unoriginal, I know. So propose some ideas for what you would like our following to be called.

Either way- give us some ideas. Or bring us a shrubbery. Either will be dandy and well and burns nicely in Hell.



My Real Life Horror Story With A Panther

My mother grew up on a mountain (Barker's Ridge) in West Virginia, and we moved back up there when I was about 13. I moved first and lived with my Grandma and then a year later my mom followed and we moved into a house right below my Grandma's place. Mountain life was unlike anything I'd ever dreamed of before, and getting used to it was a big issue for me, but I took to it like a fish to water. Probably because mountain living is in my blood.

Contrary to popular belief, not everyone in West Virginia lives way back in the boogey woods. My dad's family lived on a hill-what others (not from WV) would call a mountain, but what mountaineers see as smaller than a real mountain. I live on that same hill now (in Itmann, right below one of my uncles and my paternal Grandmother), so life on a hill is even way different than life on a mountain.

Barker's Ridge has bears, deer, coyotes, and all kinds of other creepy critters, and that was a big adjustment too. I loved to walk from my Grandma's place (quite possibly the highest point inhabited on that mountain) to my great uncle's house below a bit, and then out the strip and back. That was a great work out! I hated, however, making the trek from my grandma's house to my great uncle's house in the dark at six in the morning to catch the school bus. Then, when I moved in with my mom, right below my grandma, it was basically the same walk, except that my mom lived in this little holler-closer to the woods and even more out of the way of modern society.

I got used to it and it got to the point that bats flying ahead sometimes and deer sometimes stirring in the woods didn't scare me. I could sometimes even hear the occasional bear moving around further into the woods. I learned to identify which sounds could be threatening and which ones weren't. Bobcats scared me the most, but I learned that if you stamped your foot at them - if you see one - they scurry back into the woods scared to death of you. Problem solved.

When I was in the 9th grade, though, something very different happened. Something I never expected, and no one even told me about until about two years ago-long after high school had ended.

I got up one morning at 4:30 as usual so that I could take a shower and blow dry my hair and get ready for school as usual, in time to be to the bus stop by 10 til 6 (so that gave me ten minutes to sneak and smoke in my uncle's driveway). At ten til, I walked out the door of my house and up the driveway, hem hawing around with my backpack and carefully avoiding mud puddles so that I didn't get my shoes dirty. I think I even stopped once or twice to adjust my shoes and shift my super heavy backpack around.

When I got to my uncle's house, he was waiting for me on his porch, shotgun in hand. Usually, he was asleep because he worked night shift in the coal mines. When I made it to his porch, he had already anticipated my arrival and had the sliding glass doors open, quickly ushered me inside, and then said, "There's a coyote in your driveway. Don't go out there this morning. There's a whole pack of 'em in the woods. Stay in here until the bus comes and I'll wait with you."

One coyote doesn't scare me nearly as much as a pack of them, so I listened. The idea of being ripped to shreds by a pack of wild dogs before school didn't appeal to me very much. When the bus came, I got on-with my uncle standing at the door with his gun at his side-and I went to school a little shaken by the news of the coyotes, but the next day I walked to the bus stop as usual and no coyote activity. That meant I could smoke outside in peace.

Years later, I learned the real story. Sure, I was there to experience this, but apparently there were things I didn't know.

Apparently, the real story went something like this...

I left my house, through the front door, as usual. I stopped in the driveway to adjust things, and stopped to do whatever it is teenage girls do. I hem hawed over puddles and through rocks in the road. Meanwhile, I was being stalked.

By a big freakin' cat.

I'm sure to him I'd be rather tasty...
I'd heard my mom and grandma talking about the panther sightings on the hill and I'd totally rolled my eyes at them. A panther? On the mountain? Nah...

I couldn't have been more wrong. My uncle watched it stalk me and he held his gun at the ready in case the damn thing tried to grab me. He didn't make a sound for fear of spooking the cat. If the cat were spooked, I would have been a goner for sure. Panthers are just gigantic kitty cats. They play with their food first. It would have grabbed me from behind, went for my neck, possibly snapped it, and then played with me while I tried to get away. It would have left a blood trail from the overgrown driveway into the woods, and my mom would have just thought somebody or a bear maybe had killed a deer there in the middle of the night. Until I didn't come home from school that night, she'd have no way of knowing what happened to me.

About two years ago, my uncles finally told me about the story. I thought they were kidding at first, but then my mom confirmed that it was true and that they didn't tell me cause they didn't want me to freak out and never go to school again. It makes me wonder if they kept an eye on me after that, though lol. I'm sure that they did. I think...


I Told You It Came From Hell!!!!

This post is rated 1986 for colorful descriptions of morbid things and excessive use of the words "fuck" and "shit".

It was the 80s and back then, as I'd imagine it is now, there were toys that everyone had to get for their kids. These people would flock to their nearest store, beat the shit out of each other to get to the front of the line and then proceed to trample the remaining shit out of people to get to the stack of glorious toys.

Then they would beat the shit out of each other at the toy mecca. Sometimes they would take the toys and impale each other. Other times they would strap bombs to their tits and threaten to turn everyone into a steamy pile of cannibal's goulash if they didn't back the fuck off her toy, yo?

Yeah, not much has changed. Except now it seems we give kids guns as presents- so those grueling battles at the store are probably really interesting sometimes...

Well, as I was saying, it was the 80's and one fateful Christmas, my mother decided to do me the biggest favor she could: she bought me one of those toys. We're not exactly sure who told parents that this toy was the hottest item that year. We never really are. But, for some reason, parents were going ape shit to get their hands on one so they could be the hero for their little tyke who would shower them with a myriad of sentiments like "I hate you" and "stay the fuck out of my room" in only a few years.

So anyway, this toy ended up in my possession. My mom later recounts that she has no idea why she got me one. She knew nothing good would come of it- and it even scared the shit out of her. Nonetheless, I now share this experience with you from start to finish, hoping that in the therapeutic embrace of blogging and reading responses, we can all purge our minds of terrible childhood toys.

"Oh mother," I'd say, "thank ye so much for this fine specimen of toy. I shall indeed be the talk of the school when show-and-tell comes along. We'll dance, we'll chant, we'll giggle and rant. Why indeed it will be marvelous and I will be the envy of the lot! Thank ye much, mother."

Yes, I was an arrogant, well-spoken British chap at the age of Kindergarten.

Now, since a lot of you reading this are like ten and stuff, I figure I should explain. Teddy Ruxpin was a bear. Not just any bear, but a magic bear. He came with a book. Now, since this was the 80's and most of us didn't know how to read at that age, except for me because I was a bad ass, Teddy would do it for you.

Yes, Mr. Ruxpin was able to read along with you. His eyes would move, his mouth would flap, and he had a pleasant voice that would tell you of magical things and places.

In order to get him to talk, we had to use those D sized batteries and tapes. No, I will not explain to you what a tape is. But I will show you a wonderful commercial that will help fill in the imagination blanks:

I wish I could say that I would have become the most popular kid at school from the event, like that poor little fuck in the commercial. But pretty much if you grew up in a trailer park like I did, your parents beat the shit out of each other at the nearest Wal-mart and got you one too. So, when school finally started back up, needless to say, the popular kids were the pricks whose parents had a time machine, went to the year 2003 and bought their kids an iPod, then ventured back in time to make sure that they could prove their love with something no other kid was sure to have gotten.


So show-and-tell was basically a waste of time. And that was just the beginning.

Sometimes, late at night, Teddy Ruxpin didn't want to go to sleep. No, he had business to tend to. People to tie up and disembowel. Pentagrams to draw. Demons to summon. Unicorns to ride. Blood of virgins to smear on his face so he could become the most powerful wizard ever. You know, typical bear shit that most only dream of, but Teddy Ruxpin went out and got.

The only thing Teddy couldn't do was open a closet door. So, that's where the little fucker went. In the closet, at the bottom of anything I could pile on top of him. Batteries and tape removed. Closet door shut. I stopped putting my clothes up...

But I think I was wrong. About two months later, there was a story about some kid down the road who was thirteen and was found hanging from a tree by his intestines, scalp removed, odd markings all over his body, his blood dripping down his face. Police found a video tape of the murder. It went down like this:

Kid: (Playing Ghost Busters and stuff) Have no fear, the Ghost Busters are here!

Teddy: (lurking in the bushes) .

Kid: AAHHH! There's one right there!

Teddy: (now out of the bushes, right behind kid) You ain't afraid of no ghosts, but I'm a whole different motherfucker!

Kid: (turns around) Who said that? (looks down) AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK?!! OH FUCK! OH SHIT! OH FUCK! OH FUCKSHIT!

Teddy: Scream all you want, but I'm Teddy Ruxpin and I'm going to eat your dinner now.

Kid: (stops screaming) What? You're going to eat my dinner now?

Teddy: (licks lips) Yes. Your bitch of a mother was too lazy to cook, so she made you one of those TV dinners that are all the rage now. You had chicken fried steak, corn and mashed potatoes made by Swanson. Quite delicious, albeit rubbery. Anyways, I am going to cut your gut now, and feast on your food that is partially digested. This is something that I have to do because as you can see, I have no teeth.

Kid: (backing away slowly) Um... What the...

Teddy: (advancing towards kid, pulling a Teddy Ruxpin-sized knife out of pocket) Don't run little man, I really hate chasing people.

Kid: (starting to run, Teddy in hot pursuit) GET AWAY FROM ME! MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

Teddy: HUZZAH! (slices kid's Achilles heel, kid falls to ground immobilized)

And basically Teddy did what he said he'd do. Pretty damn gross. He literally cut the kids stomach open, inserted a straw, started slurping out mushy chicken fried steak, corn and mashed potatoes and then lassoed the kid's intestine over a tree branch and hoisted him up.

The rest of the details are just too much to describe here. I am trying to keep this post rated "PG-13". No, not 1986 "PG-13", where uttering a curse word was enough to land you an "R" rating. Rather, "2011 "PG-13.

So, back to my story.

Once I learned of this, I did the only thing I knew I could do: I attempted to make Teddy blind, by gouging out his eyes. The only problem was that I underestimated Teddy's will to carry on.

We got into a tussle, Teddy started choking me. I punched him in the testicles. He whimpered, then went into a rage and started to bite my ear. Then he realized he was having no luck (because he doesn't have teeth, remember?) and started pleading for me to let him go. I caved, because I am a sucker for pleading. Set Teddy down, and made him promise he would never do evil again.

He looked at me with his remaining eye, tears streaming, Teddy-blood flowing from the empty socket, and promised he'd never do no evil again.

As you can see, Teddy's creepy factor went up ten-fold. I had no choice but to retire him to the closet again. He said he fully understood.

But what I didn't really understand at that naive age was the implications of a double-negative. For you see, when Teddy said "never do no", he did so intentionally to take advantage of my trusting mind. Having said that, he might as well have said "Hahahahahaha, I am going to kill you in your sleep and eat your dinner!", because that is in essence what he meant.

Stupid kids.

Anyway, mom remembers finding the disfigured toy in my closet once. We never talked about it again. He stayed there for the longest time. Until a few years later, when we were packing up to move, and I discovered that he was no longer there.....

So if you happen to be a parent, especially one in that suburb of Dallas I grew up in, two things: (a) Please don't buy your kid these shitty toys and (b) if you see an eyeless, two-foot tall demon bear in your house, kill it with fire! Unless you have kids like the ones I blogged about last week, in which case you should let them fight each other and catch it on film and post it on youtube for Splattercore to blog about.


PS: I am not kidding. That bastard disappeared and to this day no one knows how or why.