The Final Meeting of the Moon Watcher's Club

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The Moon Watchers Club chased a herd of 12 does and one buck over in rural Kane County this past full moon cycle. Before they tired, Snorewort picked up the scent of a cow despite his fever. The pack soon settled for a cow asleep in the Brickslobber's north forty. Daisy had wandered out of the barn earlier that evening, according Sheriff Ivan Wilson quoted in the Daily Hopper.

Henry J. Snorewort collapsed after he severed the cow's jugular vein. Ira Brickslobber found him in the morning. Henry lay next to the bloody remains of the half-eaten cow. The autopsy later revealed he died of Covid 19. From that night's gathering, six members of the Moon Watcher's Club spread the Corona virus to three high schools where they infected fellow staff members. No students were affected due to remote learning. The club members each served as assistant principals. Three other Moon Watchers Club associates spread Covid to 150 co-workers at the factories or warehouses that employed them. Four Evangelical Christian werewolves spread the Corona virus to more than 500 worshipers due to these conservative churches' refusal to shut down or require masks and social distancing. For some reason God chose not to protect these congregants when the werewolf members attended.

Thanks to the werewolves, not only did a Kane County cow part ways with the earth, but also the Moon Watchers wreaked havoc upon their home county. DuPage County's death count set records that moon cycle for new cases of the pandemic disease. The death of the members of the Moon Watchers Club rid the DuPage County forest preserve district of one of its most vexing problems, the large amount of wolf poo left on the forest preserve trails during the full moon along with any number of partially-devoured carcasses of small animals and late evening joggers.

Mrs. Snorewort collected on her late husband's million-dollar life insurance. She quit her job at Walmart, sold her Naperville home (one of those big jobs) and moved to Florida where she died of Covid three weeks after her arrival. No one bothered to track the body count from her move either in Florida or at the many stops she made along the drive. Her two adult children plan to use the Florida home as a getaway for winter vacations. For some reason, the kids never caught Covid. Yet.

THE END

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Werewolves in the Time of Corona

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Henry J. Snorewort sneezed for the first time in 32 years, the time since a pesky DuPage County lycanthrope bit him at age 23. Now 55 but as spry as a twenty-something, he sneezed into his mask like he was supposed to but yuck. Fortunately, Mrs. Snorewort insisted he carry a spare mask. He stuffed the besnotted cover into the left back pocket of his bluejeans and slipped the new mask out of the right. Four clean layers of cloth, including an American flag design printed on the outside layer, protected others from his fevered self.

By the time he arrived home with the groceries, Henry felt hot. Mrs. Snorewort confirmed his 104 degrees Fahrenheit fever. “Flu or Covid. Your choice,” said Mrs. Snorewort.

“You don't sound worried, my dear,” said Henry.

“Why should I worry? We have a million dollar life insurance policy on you.”

“True, dear, but you never know. You might get lucky.”

“If you can rid yourself of that fever, maybe we both can get lucky tonight.”

“I better lay down before I pass out.”

“Soup for dinner?”

“I doubt I can eat anything. Besides I have a meeting tonight.”

“Not another one of your Moon Watchers Club affairs?”

“Sorry, honey, but the full moon will rise tonight. I'll return early.”

“Harrumph. Early for moon watchers means five in the morning.”

“I can return from our usual lunacy sooner than that.”

They say you need silver to kill a werewolf. Otherwise, you have to chop off its head. Henry found a third way that evening. He joined his lycanthropic friends shortly before midnight, never mind his fever or his mask. It's not as if you can convince a werewolf to practice social distancing or worry about a buddy who sprays when he sneezes in the time of Covid. Besides, what good is a mask when you have a snout nearly a foot long from eyeball to fang overbite?

THE END?

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Vampire Grass

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Every neighborhood of a certain age had one: the haunted house that sat empty for at least a generation. What spooky critters wandered the halls of the long dead house late at night? What goblins cast their shadows from the dilapidated porch in the moonlight? Why did the house whisper “Stay away” in the breeze? What prompted the front lawn to welcome you with its well trimmed, weedless demeanor? Who cut that lawn anyway? And why did it twinkle in the sunshine?

Snitch, the Harrison's bloodhound from down the block, could have cared less who trimmed the lawn or what made it twinkle. A well-twinkled lawn deserved a tinkle or two in the hound's mind. Those disheveled dogwood bushes by the leaning front porch worked for Snitch's micturation purposes.

Snitch tugged Daniel Harrison, attorney at law, who was attached to the other end of Snitch's chrome-plated steel leash. Daniel ignored the aged, weather-stained “Keep Off the Grass” sign as he followed his hound with plastic bag in hand ready to render damage control of the brown ball kind. While Snitch went about his business, Daniel stood by like a good master until he felt the snap on his shoes. A vise-like grip rooted him in place. He whimpered. Tiny pins penetrated everywhere. Blood drained from his body onto the bright green grass. The ground opened.

To the casual passerby, the lawn twinkled in perfection except perhaps for that swollen spot the size of a grave near the dogwood bushes in front of the dilapidated porch. Nearby, a hound dog waited for his master in vain. The driver of the lawn treatment chemical truck certainly qualified as a casual passerby as she stopped in front of the old house to admire the new mound in the lawn. She smiled a near toothless grin and cackled her best mwa-ha-ha.

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Why Marla Ansbury Peed in English Class

Abigail MacSnorter infuriated Marla Ansbury the day in April 1959 when Bob Saxon asked her to the prom. Abigail didn't know why Bob had chosen her. After all, she had average mousy brown hair, forgettable facial features and an ordinary body. She preferred to blend in rather than shine with the star quarterback.

Abigail asked, “Why me?”

“You're new this year and I figured you might not be asked, so I request your presence. Besides, you are far more beautiful than you look.” Bob smiled while Abigail contemplated what Bob could possibly mean by saying she was more beautiful than she looked.

Rather than make a fuss or draw attention to herself, Abigail accepted. Unfortunately, accepting a prom date when you're the new kid in school is just as likely to outrage the other girls as would a rejection. Accept and you discover the boy in question was already taken as far as the other girls were concerned. Refuse and you declare war on the rest of the senior class because the star quarterback with the movie star body somehow isn't good enough for you.

Marla Ansbury's fury derived from her position as head cheerleader, leading candidate for prom queen, and the class-designated future trophy wife of Bob Saxon. Marla believed these things but had some doubts since the night last summer when Bob dumped her. While Marla possessed most of the qualities a man could want from a girlfriend, he preferred girls on the college track which in 1959 actually required high performance in high school math, science, literature and several long dead languages.

Things quieted down until the Wednesday evening before the prom. Marla knocked on the door to Abigail's apartment where she lived with her grandmother. When Abigail opened the door, Marla fired both barrels of her dad's 12 gauge. The recoil knocked Marla on her butt in the hallway. Abigail flew back into her living room with a massive wound to her midsection. Blood splattered about the room and soaked the carpet. Without a word, Marla stood up and strolled out of the building.

The next day, Abigail sauntered into English class, smiled at Marla as if nothing had happened, and plopped onto her desk. Marla turned ashen. She peed through her skirt enough to form a large puddle under her seat.

If Marla had stayed longer the previous night, she would not have missed the show. Instead, she would have witnessed Abigail “Snipgridixz” MacSnorter's teenage alien hermaphrodite shapeshifter body reabsorb her blood. She may have seen Abigail's internal organs reshape into their proper alien form, which is somewhat different than human anatomy. However, she would not have observed much after Abigail's skin expanded to seal her massive wound.

Abigail never did figure out what Bob Saxon meant when he said, “You are far more beautiful than you look.” It was enough to make a girl wonder if ol' Bob knew more than he let on.

THE END

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When Tom Stone Failed to Impress

When Tom Stone failed to impress his chemistry teacher, Mr. Boron ordered him under the class emergency shower. Tom obliged, clothes and all. Within a minute he began to sing America the Beautiful. The usual wiseguys joined in until Mr. Boron ordered silence. “Rush to the nurses office,” he ordered Tom.

“It's okay, Mr. Boron. My hands are better.” Tom held them out for inspection.

Mr. Boron checked Tom's hands, front and back. “Impossible. You spilled sulfuric acid. Your shirtsleeves are half eaten away so should the skin on your wrists and forearms, but they're not. You splashed sulfuric acid on your shirt and pants. Your clothes have the holes to prove it, yet you have no burns. How is that possible?”

“Somebody watered down the acid?” Tom suggested.

Mr. Boron issued the final word on spilled sulfuric acid. “Nonsense. Head down to the nurse's office this instant, young man. Tell her what happened. Go.”

It was the final word for Tom Stone. He padded down the hall out of the science wing headed for the front entrance of Claymore High School in the tiny town of the same name located a few miles northeast of Madison, Wisconsin. The year was 1952. Tom preferred to stay until graduation, but he knew from experience that Miss Atkins, the school nurse, would ask too many questions. She was inquisitive that way. Meanwhile, Mr. Boron would research the possibilities for the instant healing from acid burns. Sooner or later he would run across rumors of shapeshifters walking the earth and men in black.

Back home, Snipgridixz removed his wet clothes and shifted his Tom Stone body in the female direction. Small teenage boobs popped out on his chest. Strange things happened down below. Since she lacked clothes appropriate to a teenage girl, Snipgridixz changed into one of her “Grandma” outfits and morphed into her sixty-something Grandma persona. Her boobs sagged, her hips spread, her knees bent low and her old lady clothes fit. Her hair turned gray and frizzy, her face wrinkled. “Perfect,” Snipgridixz said.

On the way out, she couldn't help but notice the black 1951 Dodge sedan cruise into the parking lot. Four tall thin men stepped out. They wore black suits, white shirts, black neck ties, black shoes and black hats. They had covered their eyes with sunglasses. “Excuse me, ma'am,” shouted one of the men. “Have you seen this young man. He lives in this apartment complex.”

Snipgridixz Grandma stepped close to the men. She smiled to reveal cracked teeth and receding gums with many gaps. “I know the boy. He should be in school at this time of day.” Her words included enough spittle to spot the closest man's sunglasses.

The men gagged on Grandma's breath. “Thanks, ma'am.” The men shuffled into the apartment building.

Snipgridixz Grandma drove off in the direction of the afternoon sun. She glanced at the empty seat next to her. “Don't worry, dear, you're so pretty and Grandma will buy new outfits for when you begin high school in our new hometown in Arizona.”

THE END

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Middle-Aged Teenage Alien Hermaphrodite Shapeshifter

The young male strapped naked to the autopsy table widened his orange eyeball. He followed with his green one. “You'd really remove my brain and replace it later?”

The doctor's breath carried the aroma of Milwaukee's finest beer combined with Wisconsin bratwurst. The medical practitioner waved a scalpel over his victim. A long female face appeared next to him.

“Fred, my name is Doctor, well, we don't reveal our names in the laboratory of the black dress code, but I don't suppose your name is Fred either. Much too earther. I'm delighted to confirm our plan to borrow your brain. We'll store it in a large glass jar filled with formaldehyde to preserve it. As I mentioned before, you don't have to worry. I'll replace it when I'm finished with my studies.”

The doctor and his female companion backed away as “Fred” reshaped his body to free himself from his restraints. The doctor and his assistant continued to step back when Fred morphed into his normal blue-gray alien body with the giant eyes and tiny mouth on a triangle shaped head. When he stepped toward the physician and his assistant, the doctor tripped over his feet. He landed hard on the blood-red enamel-painted concrete floor. His assistant tumbled down with him.

“He's knocked out,” said the assistant after she checked on the physician.

Fred approached her. “Please give me your clothes.”

“Pardon me?”

“Su clothes, por favor. Now.” Fred placed a hand on the assistant's shoulder. She either fainted or faked it. Either way, Fred caught her in mid-collapse. He stripped her before he strapped her naked on the autopsy table. After dressing in her clothes, underwear and all, he morphed into the exact likeness of the female assistant, except for an oversized butt, third boob and six bellybuttons. He adjusted his chest but failed to notice his very noticeable butt. Fred, now Frieda, placed a surgical saw in the physician's hand before she left the building.

The lab was housed in the basement so Frieda had to find the stairwell. She exited the stairs on the first floor where she came out at the back of a large office of black-suited bureaucrats. Several people greeted her as Mona. Frieda changed her name to Mona to accommodate. She felt an urge that she couldn't identify until she noticed the Ladies room sign. What the heck, she thought, earthers might prefer privacy when they eliminate.

Later, Mona tried the female assistant's car key in every automobile in the building parking lot before she decided the woman must have parked in another location. Besides, she had no idea how to operate an earther vehicle. The stranger meandered down the street with a grin. It was a brisk, sunny November afternoon in 1946, and it must have been payday on earth for the stolen purse contained a large wad of greenbacks. “I simply must learn my human anatomy,” Mona said aloud to no one as she set out on her next adventure on a her new planet.

THE END

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Brainless Alien?

Four tall, thin men dressed in black suits and fedoras arrested the quiet stranger teenager Elizabeth Stockmeyer and her mother called “Fred.” Sheriff Winslow Tate sipped Mrs. Stockmeyer's fresh coffee with his back to the arrest by the outsiders. He stared at the kitchen counter as the four agents from who-knew-what federal agency handcuffed and hauled the young man out to their black late model Ford sedan. As far as the sheriff could tell, the only crime the lad committed, other than his odd looks, including a left arm that was a foot longer than his right, was to pop out of the woods buck naked earlier that morning and thereby expose himself to an innocent young Wisconsin teenager on a cold November morning. The year was 1946. Sheriff Tate knew if it was up to him, he'd haul the young man to the state line and turn him loose with the warning never to show his butt in Grant county again. He couldn't even look Mrs. Stockmeyer in the eye when she moaned, “What the hell.” Sixteen-year-old Elizabeth explained that the boy was a fugging Nazi spy. Her mother scolded her for her language.

The four agents drove “Fred” to Madison where they parked in back of a nondescript four-story office structure that could have been a state government building or something else. Within minutes, the men had taken “Fred” to a basement laboratory and strapped him down on an autopsy table, but as a stranger from a far distant place, Fred did not recognize it as such.

The four black suits left the room. Another few minutes passed when a middle aged plump man entered accompanied by a woman, also middle aged. She was tall and thin, an apparent sister to the black suits. She and the man wore black lab coats, surgical masks and head coverings.

“Do you understand English?” the big man asked.

“Si,” replied “Fred.”

“What's your real name?” the woman asked.

“They call me Fred.”

“But your real name is?” asked the rotund man as he rolled a cart filled with surgical instruments up to the autopsy table.

“Fred.”

“Well, Fred, your name is of no matter. Welcome to earth, to America, the land of the free and home of the brave. We would love to interview you in depth about your advanced alien science, but we simply don't have time. Our superiors want us to learn everything about your biology and they want to know immediately. Something about not wanting to unleash alien bacteria and such on America. We're delighted to see that you look like us, with a few weird exceptions like your orange and green eyes, purple hair and one arm longer than the other. It'll make our living autopsy easier. I'll begin by removing your brain for examination. Don't worry, I'll put it back when I'm finished. You don't mind, do you?”

The man and the woman both bellowed their best rendition of an evil mwa-ha-ha laugh.

THE END

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