The Prophet Cometh

By Johnny Apocalypse
BSchin2188@aol.com

Return to Part I

After haranguing the cops to let me out of my driveway, I took the short drive to work and parked outside building two. It was still early enough in the morning to get a decent spot.

I strolled into the office as non-chalant as I could, figuring that if I was relaxed then maybe it would rub off on the boss.

Tony and Ray were sitting at the boss's desk, scratching their heads in confusion. When Tony saw me, he waved me over. Ray greeted me with a cup of coffee and the stink-eye. I accepted the Styrofoam cup, shot him the evil-eye and pulled up a chair.

"Well, Justin, I'm glad you could make it," the boss began. "We're having a little trouble with your report from last night."

I eased back in my chair and crossed my legs. Playing it mellow. "That's what I hear. Did I misspell something?"

"No, not quite. I pulled the tape of he phone calls from last night."

It was no secret that the dispatcher's calls were recorded. "Sounds like a reasonable place to start."

"Well, that's the problem. We don't know where to go with this. Here, listen."

Tony punched a button on the computer and a sound file started playing.

"Security, this is Justin,"

Then a garbled, quiet hissing came over the speakers. I leaned forward in my seat.

"What? Who is this? Is this some kind of a joke?"

Then the speakers went silent.

"Play it louder," I said.

"I tried that," Tony answered. "I also played it faster, slower, even in reverse. Nothing."

I dropped back in my chair. Ray was now giving me the shifty-eyes.

Tony spoke up again, "Justin, is this a joke you're playing? If you tell me now, then I'll just delete the report. If you say it's not and I find out otherwise, then I'll have to reprimand you."

I shook my head. "It's no joke. The voice told me that I would hear screeching metal, that that three would be hurt and -"

None would die.

The car crash. Three were injured, no one died.

Ray broke the silence. "What?"

"Nothing," I said. "Stomach trouble."

Tony nodded. "Ray, would you excuse us for a minute?"

The dispatcher stood up and took my coffee cup. "I'll get us a refill."

Once Ray had left the room, I asked "Does that guy ever sleep?"

Tony, despite himself, laughed. "Probably not. Back to the matter at hand, though; is this related to what happened in building three?"

Several months ago, Building Three had been infested with teddy bears and Gumby dolls, plotting revolution. Chris, Beth and I had taken care of it, but Tony knew that something had happened, just not the specifics.

"No. I don't think so. I think it's something different."

"What made you cut your sentence off? I know it wasn't stomach trouble."

I took a deep breath. "It came true. Right when I woke up, there was a car wreck outside my house. Three people got hurt, but no one died."

The boss leaned back. "What's going on?"

"I don't know yet. I'm a damn magnet for trouble, I'm sure I'll find out."

"You need any help?"

I thought for a moment. "Not really," I said. "Just call me if any more phone calls come in."

Ray came back in, coffee in hand. I hung around and chatted long enough to finish it, then headed home.

***

When the going gets tough and the impossible starts to happen, I go to my personal adviser, Chris the pothead.

I walked in the front door of my house, already calling for my friend.

The house was empty.

Figuring that my friend was taking a nap, I checked the bedrooms and living room, but to no avail. Then I noticed Chris sitting on the patio in the boxers and socks.

Before heading outside, I grabbed a bagel from the fridge and started a fresh pot of java. I had a large bite of bread in my mouth as I stepped into the backyard.

Chris was sitting in a lawn chair in minimal dress, visibly relaxed. There was no mistaking the slight scent of marijuana. He held a writing tablet and a pen. Once I stepped outside Chris looked up and grinned.

"You're right, bro, this is comfortable."

I thought about telling him to get the hell inside, but I can enjoy the luxury, why couldn't he.

"How's the writing?" I asked.

"Great! Listen to this: Bit of knowledge number three-twenty-five; Don't smoke a joint and drink coffee at the same time. If you do, you might stir your coffee with the joint and try to smoke your spoon."

I had the distinct feeling that if I looked in the sink, I would find a soggy roach sitting in a coffee mug.

"Well, whenever you've wrapped up your brainstorming session, I need to consult you on something."

"Cool, be there in a minute."

I took my place at the kitchen table and finished my bagel. Chris had left me a note saying that my girlfriend Beth had called.

She answered on the first ring.

"Hey, baby," I said. "What's going on?"

"Not much," she said. "How was work?"

I groaned. "Long and strange. Listen, hon, you're going to have to answer your phone when work calls once in a while. I keep getting screwed into a lot of overtime."

We chatted for a bit, and she agreed to watch Phantom with me and Chris before she went to work tonight. After a few more minutes we said our good-byes and hung up.

Chris came inside and sat down across from me. I got us each a cup of java and told him about the events of last night and this morning.

"That's pretty far-out, man," he said once I had finished. "I wish I could predict the future."

As usual, he'd kind of missed the point.

"That's not quite what I'm getting at. It looks like another metaphysical motherfucker may be starting some shit."

"Very well, then. I shall challenge him to battle axes at dawn."

Chris' statement was further proof that Lord of the Rings has ruined the world. And while I had seen my friend do some handy fighting with a golf club, I doubted that he could even lift a battle axe.

"We don't even know what we're up against," I said. "What if it's a psychic Bigfoot? He would hand you your ass on a battle axe."

"No way. I could take Bigfoot."

Confidence can be a wonderful thing. In the hands of the right person, it can earn a million dollars, win a war, and supposedly women find it sexy. But in the hands of a chronic pot smoker, it's deadly. "Tell you what, why don't you leave the planning to me and you can be my trusty side-kick?"

Chris liked the idea. "Just call me Tonto!"

Wonderful. My right hand man was Tonto Descartes- legendary philosopher and second banana extraordinaire.

***

The end credits began to roll on Brian DePalma's cult masterpiece, and Beth was the first one to speak.

"Why the hell do you watch this weird stuff?"

The day had gone easily enough. I had spent most of my time trying to deduce what I was up against and chugging coffee at an alarming rate. Chris had worked on his book and crafted a shoddy Native American headdress out of construction paper. Beth and Frankie, Chris' girlfriend, had arrived at seven o'clock, and we had all watched the movie together in my living room.

"Why do I like this weird movie, or why weird movies in general?"

"Both," Beth answered.

"Well, I like this movie for the music, and the fact that DePalma wasn't mimicking Hitchcock the whole way through. I like cult films because they're different. Someone's trying to take film in their own direction, and not everyone's going to like it."

I could tell be the way Beth was looking at me that she wasn't entirely sold on the idea. Maybe if I showed her Dark Star, she would see some of the appeal.

Then again, maybe not.

"Well," she said, standing up, "I've got to go to work. I'll come back over when I get off."

I told her that was fine, walked her to the door and kissed her good-night.

When I came back to the living room, Chris was writing again, Frankie intently peering over his shoulder.

"Number four-hundred and sixteen, don't eat Lucky Charms after three in the morning, or you'll have really fucked up dreams."

Ah, the eternal wisdom of a marijuana addict.

I was about to open my third Guinness for the night when the phone rang.

"Paranormal investigations," I answered the call. "We'll get the spook if you let us snoop."

"Hey, wiseass, it's Tony. You think you could swing by in a few? Something else has come up."

"Do you need me to work?"

"No, just look into something. Ray got a strange phone call."

I was nearly elated. After all of his months of skepticism, the dispatcher had finally had his first brush with the supernatural.

"I'll be right down. Can I bring a friend?"

"Who, Chris? Yeah, as long as he doesn't smoke any dope on campus."

"I'll square him away," I promised, hanging up. I turned to my partner, "Regulators, mount up!"

Chris jumped out of his chair, nearly knocking Frankie off with him. "Woo hoo!" he cried. "You've been drinking, bro. I think I should drive."

"Sorry, Tonto never drives."

"Shit. I need to get a horse."

"Are you taking that headdress with you?"

He looked at me like I was out of my mind. "Well, yeah."

"Wait one," I said.

I jogged over to the hall closet and began digging through the various hats and jackets. I finally found what I was looking for, an old deerstalker cap from a Halloween many years ago.

I slapped the hat over my head and came downstairs. "What do you think?"

"Sweet!" Chris yelled. "Sherlock Holmes and Tonto ride again!"

***

After seeing Frankie off, Chris and I drove to the campus. I stepped into Tony's office with a flourish of arrogance, just like Sherlock himself. My "Native American" partner followed me in, his headdress bobbing with his steps.

Tony looked up from his computer and his eyes went wide. "Jesus H. Christ, you started smoking weed too."

"Nonsense," I said with a British accent. "I'm as sober as ever."

"Bullshit. You're getting a piss test, first thing on Monday."

I suppressed a grimace. "Very well then. What seems to be the problem?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Ray got a phone call a bit ago, a voice just like the one you described. It said-"

"Maybe I should hear the words from the victim himself. Would you mind terribly if I let myself and my companion down to the control room?"

"That's fine, just make sure that Watson there doesn't wander off."

"Tonto," Chris said.

"Fuck, whatever. Just go do your thing."

Chris followed me out of the office, downstairs and down the long hallway to the dispatcher's office. When Ray saw Chris and myself, he gave us the same look Tony had.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Have you lost your mind?"

"Not at all, my good man," I said. "I have a few questions to ask about your phone call."

Ray stared at me for a moment then turned his eyes to Chris. "Since when does Watson wear a headdress?"

"Not Watson," Chris said. "Tonto."

"Right. Tonto." He turned back to me, "What do you want to know?"

"About what time did this call come in?"

"Half an hour ago, right around eleven."

"Are you filing a report on the incident?"

"I want to, but Tony said to hold off for a bit."

I began pacing the floor in front of Ray, rubbing my chin and humming to myself. I wished that I had a pipe to go with the cap.

I asked my final question. "What did this voice say to you? I will need the exact wording, if you please."

"It said 'the Indian will run out of herbs.'"

My eyes met Ray's as we struck upon the same epiphany. We both turned to Chris.

"Impossible," Chris said, reaching into his pocket. "I never run out of herbs." He yanked a plastic baggie out of his pocket. Ray and I saw it was empty before my friend did. When his eyes finally drifted to the bag, he screamed. "No! I'm down to stems and seeds!" He dropped to his knees and started rubbing his hands through his hair. "Damn this foul, cruel creature!"

"Hmm," I mused. "How unfortunate."

Chris's head whipped up and he gazed at the ceiling. "How can I duel battle axes at dawn if I'm out of weed?"

Ray looked at me. "Battle axes?"

"Quite so." Stepping forward, I pilfered a cup of coffee from Ray's pot. "I'll have to confiscate this, test it for hallucinogens and what-not."

The dispatcher wave his hand in the air. "Go ahead. I hope to God that I'm hallucinating all of this."

"Excellent. I will bid you good-day, sir." And with those parting words, I pivoted on my heels, took Chris by the arm and led him upstairs to the parking lot.

***

I had managed to get Chris seated in the car when Beth's security truck rounded the corner of a building. I waved at her and she flashed her headlights at me. The truck pulled to a stop next to my car and Beth popped out.

"Hey honey," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Ray got a funny phone call and Tony wanted me to check it out."

I gave her a short version of the tale, beginning with my call from last night. My lady was finally getting used to the supernatural nasties, and didn't seem too alarmed.

"You going to save the day again?" she asked, smiling.

I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close. "That I am, my dear."

She laid her head against my chest. "My hero. I like the hat."

"Thanks. Ray thinks I'm nuts now, and Tony wants me to do a drug test."

Beth leaned closer still, standing on her toes to reach my lips. "The hell with 'em," she whispered before kissing me.

We stood like that for nearly a minute, kissing and squeezing each other in the parking lot. I was considering taking things a step further and moving to the back of the security truck when a loud swooping noise arced the sky above us.

Beth pulled away suddenly. "What was that?"

I started looking around, "I don't know, babe."

Then my eye caught something. About 100 yards away, in the center of an empty parking lot, a tall, thin figure stood between two light poles. He must have been dressed entirely in black.

"Where did he come from?" Beth asked.

"He must have been here for a while. Let Ray know there's something fishy in the lot, I'll go check it out."

"Be careful."

Officially, by company policy, I wasn't supposed to interfere with any security issues. But I could fight better then Beth, and it might have something to do with the phone calls.

As I began strolling towards the figure, I reassumed my Sherlock Holmes mannerisms. "I say, wonderful weather we're having."

The figure didn't move, didn't speak.

"Fine night for a walk, don't you think?"

Again nothing. I had closed about twenty yards, and I was beginning to wonder if my eyes were just playing tricks on me.

"Do you know where I could find a good spot of tea this time of night?"

This was beginning to feel distinctly like talking to a brick wall. Of course, when Chris got really stoned, that was like talking to a brick wall too.

"By jove, Edwards should be removed from the Parliament."

I had closed half the distance to the figure when it finally moved. Two piercing, furious red eyes began glowing, looking directly through me. Two long shrouds spread from it's side, like a person opening a trench coat. With another great swoop, the shrouds closed and the figure shot into the night air.

My heart was pounding in my chest and my knees had grown weak, but at least I finally knew what I was up against.

Beth came running up beside me. "What was that?"

I had to catch my breath before I could answer. "That was the Mothman. I can handle the Mothman."

***

I wanted to go straight home and start planning, but Chris was in dire straits without any weed. He begged me to swing by his house so he could grab another baggie and eventually I conceded.

Instead of one bag, though, he brought out two and a blank sheet of typing paper. I guess he was jonesing pretty bad.

"What's with the paper?" I asked once he got back in my car.

"Watch and learn, Sherlock," he answered.

What I saw next I would have assumed to be impossible and borderline insane. Chris dumped an entire bag of weed into the center of the typing paper and began rearranging it into a generally straight line.

"Are you sure this is necessary?" I asked.

"Damn straight it is. I started seeing things in that parking lot. Some dude flying off into the sky."

"That wasn't a hallucination, Chris, that was the Mothman."

"Oh," my friend started rolling the paper together. "Did you tell him about the battle axes?"

"Sorry, must have escaped my mind."

Chris shrugged, licked the edge of the paper and did his final roll and twists. "Viola."

I took my eyes off the road long enough to view his creation. Without proper rolling papers and no glue to seal the edges, Chris had made the picture-perfect joint, a dozen or so times larger then the norm.

"You're going to smoke that whole thing?" I asked.

"Yep," Chris answered, reaching for his lighter.

"Hey, take that thing outside. I don't want the contact high from hell."

He nodded and rolled down the window. Once he got a decent light, he climbed out of his seat, pushed himself halfway out the window an sat on the door's arm rest.

This is good. My friend is hanging out the window of my car, smoking a King Kong sized blunt. Thank God I know enough back roads to properly avoid the police.

***

I pulled into the driveway five minutes later. Chris was halfway done with his joint. He didn't need to ask to know I wanted him in the backyard until he was finished with that monstrosity. He hopped the small chain-link fence and I let myself in the front door.

Before turning on the TV, I popped up to my bedroom and grabbed a well-watched copy of The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension. I hoped to draw some inspiration out of Buckaroo to properly defeat the Mothman.

Peter Weller had just finished driving his rocket car through a mountain when Chris came back inside. He was pretty damn blitzed and kept hugging the wall so he didn't fall over.

"Hey bro," he mumbled, "Can I have a beer?"

I've often been told that mixing marijuana and alcohol was a bad idea, something about making you more likely to flood your lungs with your own vomit. But Chris can hold his liquor pretty well and hold his grass even better, so I felt safe saying yes.

"Sure, just bring me one too."

Chris stumbled over to the fridge, nearly fell over, opened the door, nearly fell again and managed to grab two bottles of Newcastle without swaying all over the place. When he reached the stairs he sat down on the top step and scooted down them one by one.

Sadly, I've seem him much worse then this.

He finally crashed into the easy chair and handed me my beer.

"Cheers, dude."

We clicked our bottles together and drank heavily.

"So, what are we going to do about this moth guy?" Chris asked.

"Some ideas are coming together," I said. "I'm thinking twenty-four hours until endgame, so we shouldn't stay up too late tonight."

I took another pull of beer, grabbed the phone and called Tony. When he answered, I told him that I needed a little help.

***

Twenty four hours had passed. I had gotten up a little later then I expected, had plenty of coffee and made a run to a hardware store and a toy store.

Chris was still wearing his headdress. I had decided to give the deerstalker a rest. I ran over the plan with Chris one last time.

"Give me about five to ten minutes, then sneak up to the second floor. When I give the word, come running inside and do your thing."

"No problem, my man. Tonto is on this."

Chris was holding a paper bag full of my supplies. I reached in, grabbed two items and climbed out of my car.

I started walking towards the main entrance of building five. Once upon a time, the computer company's stock was sitting pretty and they had decided to whip up another building on the campus. Most of the building was completed, but the stock crashed and the company halted construction. The end result- a dark, hollow building with no inside walls, no carpet and no ceiling tiles to cover the pipes and wiring. The building housed no workers and would likely remain that way for years to come. It was the perfect place for my plan to come together.

If Tony had done what I had asked him to do last night, he would have taken the emergency stairs up to the roof and left a message on the tiles.

Tomorrow night. Midnight. Second floor.

I just had to hope that Mr. Mothman got the message.

I swiped my access card through the reader and opened the door when it unlocked. I then slid my card under the doormat so Chris would have a way in.

The building was dark and silent. The maintenance crew had installed a minimal lighting system a few months back, but I left the first floor in darkness.

I knew this building by heart. The stairway was easy to find once you saw where the parking lot lights were shining through the second floor windows.

Once I reached the stairway, I did my best to walk up them quietly. Of course, if the Mothman was really psychic, he knew I was on my way, but I like to keep up on my ninja skills.

I reached the top of the stairway stealthily enough. It was time to break my cover. My hand fumbled against the pitted concrete pillar until I came upon the light switch. I flicked the lights on.

There was nothing. No carpet. No walls. No Mothman.

I strolled to the center of the floor and decided to wait. My right hand was holding a child's toy, and a backup weapon was stashed in the back pocket of my jeans.

It wasn't long before I heard the first footstep, a light squishing thump. I turned to face the noise, not wanting my enemy to see what was in my back pocket. Another footstep. Then another.

On the fourth step, the Mothman came directly into sight, behind the stairs I had come up. While I had tried to imagine what he might look like, I still wasn't prepared for the sight.

It was at least eight feet tall. It's wings were long, leathery and black, like a bat's, and were draped around it's body. The feet were thick and somewhat humanoid, but instead of toes it had long, curled claws that remained an inch off the ground. The worst feature was its face. Large red segmented eyes were positioned on the sides of its head. Instead of a nose, two long slit's the pulsed with each breath were in it's place. The mouth was human, but a long, thin black tube shot in and out between the lips. I was reminded of a mosquito's bloodsucker.

I tried to keep my composure. "How's it going?"

It stopped with its back to the stairs, just like I had hoped. Before speaking, Mothman gave a slight hiss. It's voice scratching and churning, "What do you want?"

"Simply a contest," I said. I held up the toy that I carried and showed it to the creature. "This is the Magic Eight-Ball. Humankind's finest piece of psychic hardware. I want to see just how good you really are, stacked against this thing."

Another hiss, longer and full of anger. "You will not waste my time."

"What, are you scared? Afraid that the Eight-ball will beat you?"

"My powers are supreme."

"Well, let's just see about that. I'll ask a yes-or-no question. You answer, then the Eight-Ball answers. I'll ask questions that I know the answers to, and give the proper answer once we have both responses. Deal?"

Mothman grunted. "Proceed."

"Yes or no," I began. "My middle name is Lawrence."

A pause, then "no."

I gave the Eight-Ball a little shake then flipped it over. Reading the answer out loud, "'Very doubtful'. You're both right, I don't have a middle name."

If the ball had said yes, I would have lied. That was my whole game plan, until I knew Chris was in position. Agree with the Eight-Ball, and hopefully keep Mothy distracted so he doesn't notice Tonto sneaking up on him.

"Next question," I said. "My girlfriend is a Sagitarius."

"No."

Beth was actually an Aquarius. I had the feeling that Mothman would be right, but I was hoping for a contradictory answer from the toy.

I got what I wished for. "'Signs point to yes'," I read. "The Eight-Ball's right."

Another angry hiss. "Your device is faulty!"

"Hey, the Magic Eight-Ball is never wrong. Generals consult it during war. Multi-billion dollar corporations base their strategies on it daily."

"Bah. Continue with your contest."

"My friend Chris smokes Acapulco Gold, and nothing but."

"Yes."

Shake. Flip.

"'My sources say no'."

"What sources are these?" Mothman demanded, taking a step forward.

"No one knows," I answered. "My dog's name is Truman."

"No."

Shake. Flip.

"'My reply is no'. His name is Gideon. My favorite beer is Bud-Lite."

"No."

Shake. Flip.

"'It's decidedly so'. Sorry, ball's right again."

Mothman took another two steps forward. He was three feet away from me, and his eyes were glowing malevolently. "You lie!" he cried. "You had your first and only Bud-Lite at sixteen and you hated it so much you couldn't finish it. You only drink dark beers. Your favorite is Guiness, but you also enjoy NewCastle and Killian's!"

Fuck. Man, did this guy know me. He was close enough that if he swiped at my head he would probably take it clean off. It was time to end the game, and I could only pray that Chris was ready.

"Okay," I said. "Final question. What's in my back pocket."

"That is not a yes-or-no question."

"Answer it. What's in my back pocket?"

A grunt. "An aerosol can."

"That's right," I said, "you win the prize!"

As quickly as I could, I pulled the can of Raid out, thumbed off the cap and closed the distance between us. I could see Mothman's arm coming up, claws ready, but I wanted to get a shot of bug killer in before I ducked. My arm was reaching out, my finger poised on the button. I pressed it for a split second before dropping to the ground. A short spray of fine mist reached Mothman's eyes as his wing brushed across my hair.

It worked. As I was coming back up, I was greeted with a guttural, piercing howl. I want to drop the can and cover my ears, but I needed to give him a bigger dose. I leaned forward and started coating the monster's face with the spray.

"Chris!" I screamed. "Chris, now!"

I wasn't waiting a full second before Chris bounded up the stairs, wearing his headdress, boxers and socks. He had war-paint lines across his face and chest. I guessed that Frankie was missing a tube of lipstick.

After more Raid hit the Mothman's face, he covered himself with his wings. I began coating them with the spray as well.

"Ai-yai-yai-yai!" Chris screamed a fierce Xena war cry. He held the last two items I had purchased, a couple of bug bombs. He pulled the pin on the first one and rolled it straight towards us. It bumped into the howling Mothman's foot. Popping the pin on the second bomb, he left it near the stairway and retreated back to the first floor.

I knew that I only had seconds to get out before the bombs filled the entire floor with their noxious fumes, but I was worried that the creature would recover enough to escape. I probably couldn't trip something this big, and I wasn't sure if I could kick it hard enough to knock it down.

My foot reached between Mothman's legs. I stepped on the bug bomb then put all my weight into a shoulder-check. The monster stumbled backwards and I deftly rolled the can under its foot.

Just as the can began to spray, the Mothman crashed onto the ground. I turned and ran, the creature's wail trailing behind me as I jumped down the stairs.

It didn't take me long to hit the front door. I was probably well out of the bomb's range, but I ran into the parking lot anyway.

Chris was doing a hopping, bouncing dance around my car, whooping in triumph. Beth was standing outside of her truck, screaming at him.

"Chris! Get dressed right now! This isn't funny!" she yelled.

I walked up next to her and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Ah, let him have his fun," I said. "It's not everyday he helps me defeat a psychic insect."

Beth planted a quick kiss on my lips. "Everything go okay?"

"Yep. Just have to wait two hours for the poison to settle, and then we'll take care of the body."

Chris overheard me and stopped in his tracks. "Trash can?"

As easy as it would have been, I'm pretty sure someone would notice an eight foot moth at the garbage dump, and the world may just not be ready for that sort of knowledge.

"Nah, let's do something original."

"Okay. Flush him down the toilet."

Yep, he was definitely stoned. "How are you going to fit that thing in the toilet?"

"Simple. Chop him up."

"With what? I didn't bring a machete."

Chris wiggled a finger at me. "Always be prepared, dude."

Using my car keys, Chris opened my trunk and produced a three-foot battle axe.

"And just where the hell did you get that thing?" I asked. "E-bay?"

Chris went back to dancing, battle axe in hand. "Tonto never reveals his secrets!"

Author's Note

When I saw the film The Mothman Prophecies, I was pretty well freaked out. The fact that it was based on a true story was the reason behind this. The hell with Bigfoot and Nessie, this fucker actually called people on the phone and predicted disasters!

After flirting with the idea of becoming a professional Mothman hunter, I decided it was a good idea to do some research into the case. I picked up John Keel's book, from which the film took it's title, and read it cover to cover. My discovery: the Mothman never actually called anyone. He didn't speak to people, predicting the crash of the bridge and how many would die. This was Hollywood invention.

The real story goes along these lines; Several people in a small town saw glowing red eyes in their back yards or near a field. One man's dog disappeared after chasing after the eyes. Several witnesses claimed to have seen an overly tall figure with red eyes that could take off into the sky without the flapping of wings. This becomes less an amazing phenomena and closer to Bigfoot sighting. Dozens of witnesses who have seen the same thing, but no concrete evidence of its existence. No phone calls. No prophecies from the bathroom sink. And if Mothman ever knew someone was holding Chapstick, he kept it to himself.

So, why did I choose to use Hollywood's Mothman instead of the witness accounts? Honestly it was for entertainment value. I also took into consideration the fact that more people have actually seen the movie then read the book, but I felt I could get a more interesting story and better jokes if Mothman spoke. Just look at the scene between Mothman and the Magic Eight-Ball. If Mothman didn't say anything, it would be a pretty dull scene.

In no way do I hope to downplay or poke fun at the witnesses who have seen Mothy. I remain skeptical on the issue, as I do with all supernatural phenomena. Although my mother and I saw a UFO many years ago, and I recently acquired reason to believe that I may have encountered a ghost, I won't flat out say that I have seen aliens or phantoms. Just not enough evidence to justify such a claim, plus the ghost experience I had could be rationally explained by better minds then mine. If anyone reading this story, or my others in this series, feels that I was being disrespectful and mocking of those who have witnessed such bizarre accounts, I apologize. That was never my intention. I'm just trying to get a few laughs and tell a good story.

Finally, I would like to announce that I will be taking a break from the Justin Taggart series for a bit. While all feedback I have gotten has been wonderful, I'm afraid that I'm running the idea a bit thin. Let's face it, it's been pretty formulaic so far. Security guard encounters supernatural entities, consults his pot-head friend and they beat the crap out of it. I do have other ideas for the series, including the possibility of a novel someday (God help us if that comes to fruition), but I'd like to put my energies towards other ideas and stories that I'm working on. I'll still continue to contribute to Acid Logic each month, but Justin's taking a sabbatical for a bit.

But he will return. Oh yes, he will return. To quote Doctor Who, "until then, go forth in all your beliefs, and make sure I am not mistaken in mine".

 





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