…you realise this isn’t a kids story, right?
Part 3][Part 5
I try to deny myself the pleasure of butchering the dead squirrels. That’s a bear I don’t want to be, but however hard I try, there’s always a catharsis to the dark toil of the workshop.
I don’t want you to think that I do this every night. I’m not a weirdo. There’s a message to be sent. The squirrels are ruthless and brutal; the message must be ruthless and brutal to make it through their stupid ears and into what passed for a brain.
In the early days I tried to stay hidden from them. I would keep moving, stay quiet and dark, leave as little evidence of my work as I could. Now, though, there are too many of them and too few of me. They know where I am now, but the ghost is great security and what he can’t achieve with a banana, I synthesizes with fear. You’ve seen Batman, right? Like that, except that I fully intend to kill as many of them as I can. When the furry fucks find their own shot with a quarrel tipped with the tooth of a fallen brother, they fear. When they are put on watch over my home here, the tails and skulls and skins teach them that I am not to be taken lightly. One of these days they’ll get their act together; a red tsunami will wash up the walls of my castle and when they realise I’m just one average bear, I will be beaten.
…but I’ll make them work for it.
Perhaps a little exposition is in order.
Next time you go shopping, perhaps you’ll pass one of those Fuzzy-Dermy shops. You know, you take your mewling brat there and they get to design their own teddy-bear. All fun and laughing and bright colour and oooooh! Well, look again. Those racks and racks of bear-skins, each and every one, used to be a real, living teddy-bear, used to have a kid that loved him, used to live their own life before they were rounded up by the Professor’s squads and taken off into the night. Dead and gutted, slaughtered in a room knee deep in the stuffing of their friends, innards ripped out and discarded so that their skins can grace the shelves of that oh-so-happy fucking shop.
And make no mistake, when your kid chooses a ‘heart’ to go in his new ‘friend’, his choice is immaterial. Each and every one is a stinking, dirty, squirrel slaved zombie heart. Oh sure, it’s all smiles and chuckles and hugs, but you wait. When the day comes…and it will…when the Professor decides the time is right and he finally presses that button…or pulls a lever, or whatever he does…every bear he’s been anywhere near will turn…nasty.
And when you see my skin hanging from a shelf with a price tag and a Fuzzy-Dermy label in my ear, you’ll know I finally lost…and that your day is coming.
Part 3][Part 5