The Creature From the Undeveloped Interstate Right-of-Way

Reggie for once had brought home a truly intriguing, unique gift. The Brennans nonetheless were wholly unappreciative, to Sir Reginald Fox’s bewilderment and consternation.

“Sweet holy FUCK!”

Reggie had never fully grasped that a gift once spurned has little chance the second or third or sixth pass. The chipmunk had sparked mild approbation; the first robin of spring amused horror. The rabbit on Good Friday morning had surely left some psychic scar tissue on the kids, and after the crow turned up Halloween, Gary was mightily afraid Reggie had embarked on some holiday-themed scavenger hunt. The one time Reggie’s foragings might have proven beneficial, Thanksgiving had passed without a tom or a hen on the welcome mat. Upon their return from a Black Friday jaunt to the Best Buy, Gary and the clan found a special black-and-white delivery on the patio, still fragrant from pre-mortem terror.

Gary thus approached Christmas with no small trepidation, and the thought of New Year’s Eve summoned, well, facetiously darker visions than he or his bride cared to entertain…

They stood over the gift, silently staring, looking to Reggie and then back to their new treasure in a way that triggered a tentative, hopeful twitch of the tail.When Coralyne slid the patio door open for a peek and shrieked in a register that chased the diehard December birds from the naked maples (not a Happy Loud), all ambiguity disappeared.

Anne rushed into the house to attend to the girl’s terror and contain her younger and elder siblings as Gary kneeled and examined Reginald’s gift at a respectful distance.

“Where’d you ever find this?” he murmured, looking directly into Reggie’s one brown and one blue eye. Realizing belatedly he had once more effectively screwed the pooch, Sir Reginald looked to the gift and then back into Gary’s uniform blue eyes in the way Gary’s brother had covetously eyed the Big Green Egg grill he’d presented Gary on his 30^th right before Anne unveiled the hubby’s new Land Rover.

“Oh, hell no,” Gary muttered, clotheslining Reggie with his forearm. Reg had regurgitated the squirrel on Arbor Day, on Anne’s newly feng shui’d Kathy Ireland rug, and aside from that, he was uncertain this was fit sustenance for man or beast. For that matter, but that it continued to pulse and leak where Reggie’s teeth had gained purchase, Gary might have debated to which of the top three great kingdoms known to Man this Brennan Bespoke Backdoor Booty of the Month belonged.

So Gary did what anyone with an ounce of hominid sentience might do, tugging Reggie by the collar into the house to helplessly watch Daddy return his ugly birthday tie, snap a dozen Galaxy shot for an “Ever seen one of these?” post, procure a hefty-duty contractor bag from the mower shed, and, over the subsequent 10 minutes, consider his best point of attack to avoid potential retaliation or his performing a Kathy Ireland in full view of the quartet now huddled at the dining room window.

The appendage flopping on the cement pad either in the final throes of a silent but melodramatic death or mustering strength toward a survivalist strike, appeared the best vehicle for a swift snatch-and-trash. Gary did what appeared to his loving family the hokey-pokey a dozen times before seizing the creature’s tail/tentacle/penis/antenna, holding the bag open with his teeth and a pinkie, and shot-putting it into the darkness. A triple knot, a ceremonial dance of relieved repulsion, and a few dozen precautionary swings against the foundation, and Gary disappeared around the house only to return empty-handed to a seemingly hurt Sir Reginald on the other side of the slider.

**

By breakfast, the post had scored a Brennan’s Best 107 Likes, divided into 52 standard thumbs-up, 26 gaping orbs, one pissed-AF orange emoji, and 26 bursting red hearts from friends, family, and neighbors loved the Brennans whatever they might next drag up from the depths of Hell or who’d scrolled past Braden’s soccer trophy or Teddy’s first steps or Coralyne’s and were now making up for lost icons. Anne had immediately IDed Pissed Emoji as Gary’s niece Bettanie from Indianapolis, who in her short tenure on the Friend list had meat-shamed Gary, vacc-shamed Anne and her trio of young enablers, and managed Islamophobia, antisemitism, and anti-Latino invective in a one-day sociopolitical fugue over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Gary again vowed to call his sister before the week was out, almost hoping for a comment that might clarify what he or Sir Reginald or the patriarchy or climate denial or bloated suburban 10 percenters had done now. 

If Bettanie bore testament to the failings of modern American social studies education, then the Brennans’ verbal respondents showcased the glaring life sciences gap that had the U.S. presumably trailing the EU, Japan, and certainly Australia, the land of venomous, baby-snatching, pouched supercrabs. Straight-out “Nope”s and variants thereof topped the leader board, followed distantly by the expertise of those who, Anne suspected, would milk raccoons or really whatever might seem to possess a spout, if ever left to survivalist devices. Coming in third, in equal proportions, were Q-Anon theorists who suggested Protestant God was avenging drag shows and gun legislation with Boschean beasties and run-of-the-mill backseat cryptozoologists who seemingly couldn’t differentiate a chupacabra from a steaming pile of Sasquatch scat.

Coming in last were the inevitable party-pooping Doomsday Clockwatchers. They cited the recent introduction of flamingos into the Ohio riparian ecosystem, the proliferation of suburban coyotes and bobcats in correlation with a reported downturn in shitzhu and Pomeranian numbers, and the expectation that within the decade, polar bears would likely become part of Portland’s already hip and quirky scene and a top draw for jaded Venice Beach/Monterrey tourists. Gary unofficially wrapped the roundtable with a long-awaited summation:

BettanieR:

“…That’s not to mention the genetic permutations we’ll see because of Man’s hoobrus. We’re going to see new diseases as it gets hotter, and as more animals compete for national resources, we’ll be back on the food pyramid. As we get weaker, they’ll get stronger and bigger to adapt, which is probably good cause we fucked this shit up good anyway and they’ll be better off without us.”

“I’ll save the rest for the Ted Talk,” Anne critiqued, setting Gary’s Galaxy aside to dismember the rotisserie chicken under Sir Reginald’s unblinking scrutiny. “I mean, Bet’s not entirely wrong, if you look beyond spelling, grammar, and, well, pretty much everything else. I read where fish are mutating faster and faster to live in hotter water and heavy metals and all the, whatever, microplastics, and have you seen the size of the crows around here lately? Like fucking condors. I’m almost afraid to let Reggie use the doggie door any more. Braden! You did not hear that. We’re making superfish and pterodactyls, and I won’t be surprised when they convert the West Side Waterpark into a Jurassic Park. I swear I saw a squirrel eating a dead squirrel down the street the other day. And you can’t even mention Nutter Butters in front of Coralyne or Teddy without them breaking out. Hell, we had to take you to the Urgent Care for a 24-hour bug last spring.”

“And yet, that’s the biggest bird Kroger’s had?” Gary posed. “What?”

Anne displayed her platter of breast, thighs, and wings, framed by a trio of drumsticks.

“Hmm,” Gary frowned as the math sunk in, then shrugged. “Guess Man’s hoobrus got something right.”

**

“Saw your post,” Dr. Whitney murmured. Given where the OBGYN’s focus currently was — or should be — concentrated, and her own precarious positioning, Anne had to request a clarification.

“Facebook,” said, rising and slowly removing her gloves. “The thing, you know. The little Doggie DoorDash gift.”

“Yeah, great gift,” Anne snorted despite the ignominious circumstances. “An Instapot or maybe a Prada Cleo would have been nice.”

“I love mine,” Dr. Whitney said pleasantly, intensifying Anne’s concealed antipathy for the woman who knew her most intimate secrets from the inside-out. “I’m on the Millington Zoo board of trustees, and I ran the photo past every biologist on staff. Gotta admit, you stumped ‘em all. Anyone else venture an educated guess?”

Without being told, Anne assumed hide-and-seek was over and climbed down to tuck everything away.

“Educated, no,” she grunted. “The predominant theory is Reggie found whatever the literal Hell was in the woods behind the junior high tennis courts and the dog park — we live about three streets in. Now we’re getting shit about letting him run loose, and the garbage guys refused to take ‘bio-waste.’ The county Animal Control said they don’t do carcasses or for that matter anything we haven’t bagged, tagged, and relocated personally. And then Gary’s watching some reality crap about urban myths and monsters on TLC the other night, and finds out they have a $10,000 reward for evidence of a real live ‘cryptid.’ So he’s out at 6 this morning trying to find the cornfield where he wound up tossing the thing, but his GPS abilities turn out to be about as sharp as his STEM skills.”

“Interesting,” Whitney nodded, diligently sanitizing as if medical-grade latex wasn’t protection enough from Mrs. Brennan’s cooch. “That’s the woods just under I-74, right? Near the University Street underpass?”

“Yeah…”

“So maybe your ‘cryptid’ literally fell off a truck. I’m going to write you a scrip for that inflammation—“

“What do you mean, off a truck? Like from some top-secret Stranger Things lab or a produce truck? ‘Cause I can tell you, that was no mutant cantaloupe or jumbo kiwi. Veggies don’t, you know, throb or slap their tentacle or for all I know dick on the ground.”

“Yeah, about that.” Dr. Whitney took a stool, and Anne eared she might be coming back for seconds. “I thought it looked familiar — only thing about it that did, which frankly was all the more disturbing. Then I looked closer at the photo, and realized why I recognized it. You can barely see the paired veins, though the artery is a bit more prominent…”

“It was a cock?”

Though it wasn’t her specialty, the doctor suppressed a professional smirk. “Quite the opposite — this one had a nutritional payload. You’ve seen one at least three times in your life, outside eighth-grade health class or those prenatal classes you didn’t seem to think were so important. Of course, seeing it outsidef human context like this…

“Wish your husband hadn’t been so quick to dispose of it. I’d liked to have studied it — I know my brother the vet would have. From the looks of it, the umbilicus was relatively fresh…”

“The what?” Mrs. Brennan demanded.

**

Sir Reginald was uncertain why He had decided on a late-afternoon detour through the woods beyond the dog park. Despite the furor when Reggie and a new arrival had attempted to take their zoomies to the next level, it had been a glorious day. For once, He’d seemed as excited as Reg over the Walk, and Reggie had felt none of the usual pressure to defecate at the corner to a mantra of “Just take a fucking dump already!”

The dank, dense rawness at the edge of some sort of senselessly cruel humans-only frisbee court reenergized Reggie. Instead of yanking and tugging Sir Reginald away from the staggering selection of dead pines and maples and poplars and oaks, He encouraged him to forge full-speed into the mythical Secret Source of All Squirrels, which had over the past few scorching summers greatly expanded its product line.

“That’s it, Boy!” He murmured as a low branch thwacked Him across his delicate human snout. He was Happy despite the pained grunt, and Reggie sprinted over the petrified mud and dead leaves toward The Place. It was at that moment Reggie realized he had, finally, found the perfect Gift.

Then Reg heard the unpleasant buzz that froze time, deferred pleasure, ended all good things. He brought Reggie short as he cursed and tugged the phone free of a tight zippered pocket.

“Yeah,” He barked. “We’ll be home in a— What?” Reggie strained slightly, then settled into the caressing leaf cover as He grunted periodically. “Yeah, yeah, that’s real interesting. Not sure what it means, and I’m freezing my nads off out here. Hey, I know what an umbili—, what that is! Why’s that so important it can’t wait until I get home. We’re still doing the pizza thing, right? Annie? ANNIE? Fuck.”

He glared at the phone, then down at Reggie with a sudden, peed-on-the-Kathy Ireland smile.

“Sorry, Dude,” He said softly, scatching Reginald’s skull. “Fucking tower service. Mommy had her fucking panties in a bunch, didn’t she, Buddy? Umbilicus. Some chick thing, right? Of course,you’re too stupid to know, rather be chowing down on some raccoon poop or humping the hot lady’s fucking Cockadoodle, right, Buddy? C’mon, my nads are numb — fucking climate change. PUT THAT DOWN! Jesus. C’mon.”

This was not Happy, but Reggie had learned that Happy generally was after Him and Her got what they wanted. It lasted generally for a week or two after that point, when Perfect began to fade, when high expectations began to crash with scratches and glitches and soiled rugs and overturned garbage and the warranty and quality assurance calls and the realization Perfect was actually a few more months off, with a huge launch campaign and long lines and a new crop of glitches and annoyances and expectations to come.

Reggie, of course, hadn’t the slightest concept. Perfection was everywhere to the unevolved, from the smell of change on every hydrant, shrub, post, and fertilized patch of suburban turf to the scent of new rubber or residual marrow or the squeak or jingle that promised a canine window of perfect Happy. The tingle, the flush of dormant instincts reawakened with the gift of fortuitous prey or fresh death for presentation.

“Dumbass dog,” He muttered, stumbling over a gnarled exposed red maple root, scuffing, ruining the new Hoka Kohas he’d broken out for this cryptid hunt. Happy would come fleetingly at the end of the trail, and the insult merely propelled Reggie deeper into the thicket.Sir Reginald’s tail wagged violently, his heart raced, as the familiar sightsoundsmellsense beckoned.

“You got it, Boy?” He cried. Happy, or something within that spectrum. Reggie’s claws dug into the composting leaves, into the humus, into the untamed snarl ahead, and when he pulled up short, He nearly sustained a concussion on the rock flanking the…the…

Gary could summon no words for, well, the nothing which had materialized behind the Northern Millington Park tennis courts and frisbee course. Discomfited at being unable to theoretically quantify it or the absence of it, he focused instead on the tangible, the palpable. The trio of things tethered above the Nothing like fleshy, membranous mylar balloons at a quincenera hosted by Ridley Scott or Cthulhu. Seemingly tethered, that is, as Gary could discern no connection point. Just rigidly hanging. No.

Dangling. Gary’s legs wobbled under the illusion of landing on the wrong side of gravity, then gave way as the roar erupted from the…nothing and ripped through the forest. Gary found his mobility as the wrenching cry dribbled off and the tethers securing the Clive Barker piñatas snapped free, and scuttled beyond a spray of viscous fluid. The alien funbags simply dropped to the woodland floor with a nauseating, sloshing, inert thump.

After a moment, they began pulsing, swatting, flailing their tethers. Gary’s legs had again kicked into neutral, and he tensed as Reggie approached one of the sacs, tail flopping, paws dancing like the first of the Blue Buffalo had plopped into his shiny chrome bowl.

“NO!” Gary bellowed as the true millennial horror set in. “Don’t you even think about it!! Bad! Bad Reggie!”

The Nothing, which had been dematerializing (?) back into dirt and plant tissue and oxygen and nitrogen and argon, flared (?) into a full-fledged void, and something now seemed to be poking its ass out of the Nothing. Or, as it dawned on Gary, merely the smallest bit of something…

Sir Reginald paused to regard the Jumbo Fully-Loaded SLE version of his latest prize as it paused to contemplate Gary. Gary wretched as Reggie clamped onto the tether, the cord…

The cord. Gary flashed on that moment the first time in the St. Mark’s birthing suite before he’d passed out.

“Buddy?” He implored weakly as Reggie metaphorically took his ball and headed home.

**

It was officially forbidden to bring foreign materials or bodies back through the transdimensional reproductive surplus portals. As the Authorities could be roughly translated as pounding home, Your Reach May Become Their Grasp.

Of course, the concept of reaching or grasping was a construct limited to one of the 235, 237 tops, biologically inhabited planets in the known universe. Who knew? Transdimensional redistribution had been the perfect solution for a world once poised at the brink of civil war over population management and perinatal health and autonomy, and had hydrogen and oxygen commingled in such a state in their solar system, the technology might have been likened to pissing in a city pool with an infinite deep end.

The glut of imported exotic companion species had been the first Unintended Consequence, if you didn’t listen to the whacks who thought transdimensional contraction was responsible for thicker membranes and increased necrocannibalism. Erosion of the space-time continuum was an unopened can, as no one had yet realized they were ovipositing not only across light-years but also over millennia and eons and the birth and death of stars.

The microcluster that provided a Forever Home for Gary thus had no idea it had snapped up the human equivalent of a mastodon or a mosasaur or trilobite, but He was a gift nonetheless, despite some early issues...