The teacher had moved us into what was called the planetarium, a big dark room with special lights to simulate the stars in the night sky. He was lecturing on different constulations and their significant in different locations throughout the year. If you asked me to recall any of that, I couldn’t tell you. I was too busy trying to not injury myself while sleeping. That’s when it happened, like a terrible scene from a movie.
Randomly, the teacher says “…And ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ is a song about drugs.” It was short and simple, yet life altering. Up until that point in time, I really had believed the song was about a mystical reptile that was friendly, playful, and lived by the sea. But then again, it made sense. C’mon, think about it.
You see, the story I am about to tell may give you that same feeling that I had all them years ago. Its going to challenge what you have believed to be reality and the strange things that you have always believed (or hoped to believe) were fiction.
Honestly, contrary to the expressions of doubt that are on your face right now, I’m not nuts. I’m an ordinary (somewhat) guy like most of you, living and growing up in the same hometown my entire life. And I say somewhat after ordinary because if you lived in Martinsville, Indiana your whole life, you would be a little messed up too. I mean, c’mon, its a place where the Super Wal-Mart and a little family diner called Forky’s (that makes the best gravy-n-biscuits ever!!!!) are the town’s main attractions.
And I know what some of you knowledgable people are thinking, so I’m going to set the record straight. Because I live in Martinsville, I’m not a racist. I hate everyone the same…just kidding. But seriously, a couple of stupid people running around with white sheets on their head is not enough to label an entire town. If you looked hard enough, there is most certainly a nut job running around your hometown right now. Stop judging, and take the boulder out of your own eye.
Any who, our adventure started off harmless…kind of…well maybe a little deviant. You see, Chuckles had this stuffed dog that has crazy ex-girlfriend gave him. It was like their pretend kid or something, you know how women are. So we stopped out at Stepp Cemetery, a haunted graveyard out in the boondocks, to give the little dog-child-thing a fond farewell, using Chuckles’s bow of course.
It was a little before dark when we arrived, the sun had started to set behind the thick tree line. We parked on a little gravel patch, and got out of the “Good Ship Lolly Pop”, that’s the name of my white Oldsmobile (once again, don’t judge). The Human Hair Ball, aka HHB, Chuckles, and myself (they call me Ranger) headed down the old dirt path back to the RIP section.
HHB had flowing long blond hair and wore skinny jeans that made him look like a twelve your old girl trapped in a sixteen your old boy‘s body, but other than that he was your typical home schooled pastor’s kid. Chuckles, well, he was Chuckles. He was also home schooled, going through the almost to the fun age at twenty, and liked girls. Which ones you ask, all of them. Unfortunately, they didn’t share the same feelings. The problem was he had naturally curly blondish-colored hair, and a matching fuzzy patch on his chin because he couldn’t grow a real beard. As for me, well I was twenty-three years old (the one experienced at the struggles of life), devilishly good looking, and terribly clever. Also, I was an active member of the military, which made me fearless (or brainless). My training taught me how to kill you, heal you, and then kill you again. That’s all you need to know.
So we were standing in this old graveyard, that had been around since the early 1800s, and saw the perfect place to abandon the red and white heart covered pooch. The black lady’s stump. I would tell you more about it, but that would take too much time. Google it for yourself. Just know that its supposedly haunted, although we didn’t collect any evidence.
HHB took the pooch and held it facing the decaying seat of wood as Chuckles raised his bow and took aim. I know what you are thinking, this sounds dangerous. Don’t worry, HHB was in good hands with a certified combat medic and EMT in training standing by. Pulling the string back, Chuckles released the arrow and pinned the floppy eared companion. Unfortunately, he was a terrible shot, missing the entire body, barely managing to hit the paw.
“Well..” said Chuckles, starting to make excuses, “the leaves made it hard for me to get a good stance.”
“Stupid seasons,” joked HHB with his golden locks being tossed by the cool October breeze, “ruining our good plan. Do you hear me! Darn you, autumn.”
“Eh, its not so bad,” I piped in, “It makes it look like we have left it alive, only to struggle when the coyotes come around.” In all actuality, the goth kids would probably get him before the coyotes did. They were always out there trying to sacrifice a squirrel or offer up random things to the underworld.
We spent a few more minutes, laughing at our cleverness, checking the cool old gravestones, and monkeying around. But as darkness set in, it was time to set off for our real adventure.
See, there is this park located in Fort Wayne, Indiana that had a myth that we couldn’t pass up. Apparently, years ago, a little girl was playing on the swings and somehow got caught in the chains, then died. I know its sad, boohoo. The myth was that if you went to the playground and swung in the swing, something would push you out. We had to test this theory, scientifically of course.
So, abandoning Lulabelle ( I know, it’s a girly name for a dog, but what dog doesn’t have a stupid name) to whatever doom awaiting its stuffed furry hide, we piled in the car (aka Good Ship Lolly Pop, GSLP for short) and headed that way.
We made a quick pit stop where every adventure begins and ends, Walmart. Then almost three hours and a few….dozen empty monster cans later we were parked in a ritzy neighborhood, at the gates of our destination. The houses weren’t like mansions or anything, but you could tell the people living there were well off, or buried in a gigantic rolling snowball of debt. The park was enclosed by a fence, and looked like the people had taken care it. The swings looked newer, a big steel slide looked shiny, and there was newer playground equipment in between a small climbing wall and the swings.
Excitedly, we grabbed our flashlights and walked toward the swings. Chuckles tried to say he wasn’t going to swing, but he was swinging. There were six swings divided into three sets of two, we needed someone in each set. After some coaxing, Chuckles took the swing closes to the exit. HHB, being the youngest member, grabbed the second swing in the middle. And I haphazardly hopped in the only annoyingly squeaky swing on the very end, facing the playground equipment, purposely in the opposite direction of the other two.
“I have never scientifically swung before,” said HHB, gently going back and forth.”
“Me either. Nothing is going to happen though,” I replied, which I would have never believed to be the understatement of the year, “What ever harm came from just a swingin?” I tried to sound like Forrest Gump.
“Do you guys feel like your being watched?” asked Chuckles, looking over his back shoulder.
“It all in your head,” I said.
“Now that you mention, I kind of do,” said HHB, “Its an eerie feeling. Not to mention that its extra cold out here.” I started to tell him that it was October, late at night, and that’s why its cold, but then I thought, who am I to burst their imagination bubble?
“Well, maybe the spirit of a demonic little girl is jealous of you,” I smirked.
“Jealous of me, why?” asked HHB.
“Because you have better hair,” I answered. He and Chuckles both laughed.
“And probably because you can fit in those pants and she can’t,” added Chuckles. “Chicks get upset about those kind of things.”
“They get upset for all kinds of other reasons too,” said HHB.
“Like what?” asked Chuckles, always trying to find a new way to push a girl’s buttons. I’m not going to lie, I enjoy pushing their buttons too They just get so cute when they are mad. Unless they get violent, but no pain no gain.
“Yeah,” I began to insult Chuckles, “they really get upset when they see your ugly face.”
“Hey, my mom says I have a cute and adorable face,” rebutted Chuckles, HHB looked at him laughed and then covered his eyes as if he just went to the zoo and saw the baboons intentionally mooning everyone. “And she says my fuzz patch makes me look older and more mature.” Chuckles had set himself up like a ball at kids t-ball game, I had to swing for the fences.
“I think it makes you look homeless,” I said, but being in the military, I learned through muscle memory to shave everyday. “And I wouldn’t put too much stock in what your mom says. She is about as smart as a little kid coloring a blank printer sheet with a white crayon.”
“Wait a second,” said HHB, almost looking serious, “Is that racist joke? White crayon?” We all laughed and continued to joke, swinging back and forth. Soon, we forgot all about the mission and started swinging higher. I was thinking about jumping out at the highest arc, but HHB beat me to it. Or so I thought.
“Whoa…” he shouted, laughing, as he was launched forward in the swing. I looked back long enough to see that he had gone from the perfect landing into a belly bruising noodle buster. Turning my head away, I waited to hear the soon coming thud of the ground, but it never came. Disappointed, because its always funny until someone gets hurt, then its hilarious. I blamed the squeaking swing and continued on.
Except for the cars zipping down the nearby highway, and the swing of course, there was silence. I started to say something, but Chuckles started squawking.
“Where did HHB go?” asked Chuckles, dead serious.
“What do you mean, where did he go? He’s should be the one lying on the ground, laughing but breathless in pain,” I said, still oblivious to the situation.
“He’s not there.”
“What do you mean, he’s not there?” Curious, I turned around. And sure enough, he wasn’t there. Nothing was there except the brown grass where he should have been. His swing was still going, but obviously he wasn’t in that. I slowed the swing and jumped out. Chuckles did the same, and much like two guys looking down at an empty and unsuccessful mouse trap, there we stood.
“Well, this isn’t good,” I said, the second understatement of the year.
“No, it isn‘t.” We continued staring at the ground, looking up at the sky occasionally. Somehow, I had managed to loose the preacher’s kid. That would not go over well, considering I was suppose to be the responsible adult.
“What am I going to tell Pastor Jerry?” I asked.
“Three options,” began Chuckles, “One, you tell him the truth. Which he won’t believe us. Two, he was abducted by aliens. Which is less believable than option one. Three, we say some guy kidnapped him, which is slightly more believable.”
Before I could consider the options, I heard a ferocious growl, then lots of angry barking. I whirled around to see a large black blur charging towards us. Doing what every good postal carrier should do in that situation, I turned and ran. Chuckles took a few seconds to catch on, but his eyes got classically basketball-size before he started running.
I darted up the playground equipment and climbed on top the roof of a slide. Perhaps that wasn’t the best place, if the dog could jump at all, but I was counting on its species well known intelligence levels. Besides, it would be a hilarious story if the dog went crashing down the slide after me.
I looked across to see that Chuckles had made it to safety. He had climbed on top of the rock wall, just in the nick of time. A huge growling, black German Sheppard stalking back and forth at the bottom. I started to go down and help, but it must of heard me scrambling about and started back toward me. Quickly, I went back to my original position.
Listening to its nasty growl, and seeing its rows of flesh tearing teeth, I decided to stay put. It was at that moment when I was treed like a raccoon, I realized we were in a bit of a pickle.
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