Ginger Monsters

The sound of plates smashing, furniture being upturned, and guttural, echoing roars, finally subsided as an uneasy peace drifted through the Skarion household, replacing the previous turmoil. It was a case of the calm coming after the storm.

Standing around the dishevelled dining table in the storm’s wake, was Roger Skarion, his wife Barbara, Roger’s mother, Emily, and a very uncomfortable-looking seven-feet tall male creature of seemingly unknown origin, covered from head to toe in shaggy, matted ginger fur.

“That is enough!” Scolded the petite Barbara in a stern but commanding voice. “It may not seem like it now, but family time around the dinner table is for us all to come together in family unity, sharing a meal that I take great lengths to make. This is one of the last bastions of where we all learn the nuances of being decent human beings. My goodness, what will the neighbours think of the racket you just made?”

Head bowed from the chastisement, the hairy one shuffled his large unshod feet uncomfortably from side to side, creating a swaying motion that reverberated up through his body.

“Stop swaying!” The older Mrs. Skarion snapped. “You need to grow up, young man. Follow your father’s lead and practice some self-control. Tell him, son.”

Not to be the ogre, Roger attempted to sooth the situation.

“Now, let’s all calm down, everyone. Shouting at the boy doesn’t do any good.”

“It did with you, Roger.” His mother reminded him. “And look how you turned out.”

“Yes,” muttered Barbara. “Brow beaten and tamed.”

“He turned out a fine specimen of a man. Just like his father,” Emily added.

“Dad was a monster,” Roger declared. “Are you comparing me to him?”

“My darling boy. Your father wasn’t always the way he was when you were young. I remember a time when he projected himself as a dashing young man sweeping me off my feet and carrying me away to his den to ravage me.”

“Mother. I don’t need to know that. Your grandson doesn’t need to know that.”

“I’m sorry that monstromy skipped a generation,” Emily noted. “The old books talk of such a happening, but until you came along, I thought it was just an old wive’s fairy tale.”

“Father thought I was hideous.”

“But he grew to love you, my sweet angel.”

“So, why did he never take me to the family gatherings?”

Clearing some broken crockery from her chair, Emily sat down as she explained.

“As I said, skipping a generation was new to us all. No-one had ever experienced it with their own brood. It was common knowledge that the females of our species were born more human-like and that males normally came out looking like big colourful fur coats. With your smooth, pink skin, taking you to the new pup introductions would have caused a stir amongst the packs. They may have attacked you out of fear. So, your father and I agreed that you would be brought up as human, go to human schools, and become human. That never hurt you, did it?”

“No, Mother. But your absence at parent-teacher conferences was noted. The school nearly reported me to social services as being orphaned.”

“That’s why we hired the best actors to portray us, remember?”

“That only worked until the man playing my father ran off with the school principal. That’s when things got messy for me with the endless teasing of Your father is a shaggy shagger.”

“There’s an old saying in Transylvania that says, Never trust a man that carries his own mirror.”

“Is that because vampires can’t throw a reflection?”

“No, son. It means that they are vain and self-centred. He turned out to be a typical actor. In love with himself. And there’s no such thing as vampires.”

“Just monsters,” Barbara quickly slotted in.

With a loud bellowing roar, the shaggy son of Roger, voiced his impetuous adolescent opposition to the conversation.

“Stop talking about me!”

“Easy boy,” Roger calmed. “Not all discussions of monsters are about you.”

“Of course, they are,” he argued. “I’m a monster, so mentioning monsters is referring to my cursed appearance.”

“Darling,” Barbara interrupted. “You are not a monster. There is a perfectly good explanation for the way you look.”

“Barbara!” Emily interrupted. “Too soon!”

Wrapped up in his own dilemma, the ginger beast ignored his mother’s comment and prattled on about his monstrous appearance.

“So, who’s reflection stares back at me in the bathroom mirror each morning? Who do the neighbourhood kids call Yeti and Sasquatch? Who do the Scottish family on the corner call, Jimmy, while adding that my hair alone could adorn a thousand clans’ sporrans? Then there’s the spectrum kid at the end of the road. He sees me and just yells, MONSTER at the top of his lungs, every time I pass his house. Even the bus driver announces Standing room only for gingers - when I get on.”

“You need to understand that monsters are defined by their actions, not their looks,” Barbara tried to sooth her son’s inner turmoil.

“You even gave me a monster’s name,” he concluded.

“That was your father’s doing. Cyclops was always meant to be a pet nickname. Nothing more.”

“But I have TWO EYES, Mother!”

“That was my fault,” Roger chimed in. “You were born with so much matted fur on your head, that some of it had stuck hugging tightly to your right eyelid, concealing it and preventing it from opening. We had to run you through a late-night car wash to realise the mistake.”

Roger paused, as if he had not meant to say that, then looked for support from his wife and mother – who bit their lower lips, preventing them from further comment that might insult the boy. But Barbara composed herself to insert some motherly love, in the attempt to allay her son’s quandary.

“You were such a cute ball of sticky fur, when you were little,” Barbara complimented, almost teasingly – confusing her son as to why. “So, we shortened your name to Cy.”

“Cy Skarion,” Cy repeated. “So, how did Dad get the name, Roger?”

“My name has also been regenerated,” Roger spoke up.

“What was it before?”

“It was… Rogon, the Restless,” Roger replied, like he had just been reminded of his past.

“What, mine was just Cyclops? No title?”

Nervously fidgeting, Roger attempted to evade the question, while he contemplated his answer.

“Well?” Cy waited for a logical explanation.

“Tell the boy,” Emily prompted.

“…You were to be known as, Cyclops the Dreaded,” Roger sighed.

Waiting for the natural teenage outburst, all were surprised – if not relieved – to see Cy smiling and responding in a calm manner. To most, a teenager smiling at his parents was completely unheard of and quite unsettling, but Roger weathered the unexpected response.

“Cyclops, the Dreaded,” Cy repeated out loud. “That’s not so bad. In fact, that’s quite terrifying.”

Grandmother Emily let out a guffawed chuckle, insinuating a more practical explanation.

“What?” Cy suspiciously enquired.

“The boy needs to know the real answer,” Emily amusedly huffed.

“Then, you tell him, mother,” Roger instructed.

Addressing her grandson directly, Emily stifled the desire to giggle as she explained.

“It was my idea, dear Grandson of mine. You came into this world so furry, that it had matted in your mother’s pouch. Your whole head looked like a cross between a Rastafarian and the old child movie star, Shirley Temple - who had a golden mop of curly locks of hair on her head. Except, yours was a mop of tangled ginger. I suggested the title but plurally - as in the letter S being added to the end. Cyclops, the Dreads, is what I suggested, but your father insisted on naming you to be compliant with monster naming recommendations.”

Taking a moment to digest the information, Cy began to hyperventilate, as another wave of anger overtook him.

“But if I am not to be presented at any gatherings, then I don’t want to be a monster anymore. I want to be human!”

“It’s not that easy,” Grandmother Emily interjected. “We will have to shear you.”

“So?” Came the expectant petulant reply.

“So, you’ll be pinker than pink underneath that rug, like your father.”

“That’s hardly a solution, Emily, is it.” Barbara argued. “He’d have to be sheered every day to pass as human. And what would we do with the ginger mop on his head?”

“Carpet dye!” Emily blurted out. “Roger’s father used to do that on a regular basis, until age negated the need to.”

“I think regular hair bleaching would be more convincing, and some blonde curls would be very attractive,” Barbara suggested. “Less monstrous.”

“We live in modern times,” said Emily. “The days of mythical monsters have passed. The humans have managed to take up that nom-de-plume mantle with their endless wars, incessant greed, and a vanity that makes them think they are entitled to things not earned.”

Grandmother Emily was a cantankerous old woman who liked to argue everything presented to her. But in her gruff observation; to her, the day of stereotypical monsters had disappeared and been replaced by man’s own inhumanity toward his genetic brethren. The term, Despot replaced dictator and ethnic cleansing replaced genocide. But a re-branding of evil is like re-painting the halls of Hades, red. It’s still Hell, and nothing could convince her otherwise.

“Monsters are no longer distinguishable by their appearance - as in days of old,” Emily continued. “As my own mother used to say, The monster you cannot see, is the monster most dangerous.”

“I thought she used to say that it’s not the dead you should be afraid of, it’s the living,” Roger queried.

“Same thing, you eejit!”

“Okay, didn’t realise you spoke double-entendre.”

“Roger, darling,” Barbara interjected. “We’re getting off-topic.”

“Yes, thank you, Babs.” Roger appreciatively replied. “Back to the subject of who gets the honour of humanising young Cy.”

“It should be a father’s duty,” Emily pointed out.

“Think of it as a bonding session between father and son, darling,” added Barbara. “Besides, he’s almost a man. He needs a certain male privacy, at this stage of life.”

“If you insist,” Roger acquiesced. “Cy, are you ready to become human?”

“I am, Father! More than anything.”

“Excellent! I still have the electric shearing scissors in the upstairs bathroom. They will make short work of the process.”

“But what about the upcoming gathering?”

“It is not for us, my son,” Roger emphatically stated. “As Smoothies, we are to turn our backs on the pride and follow the path of the humans. So, I ask you once more, are you ready to transition to the furless side?”

Almost in tears, Cy’s emotional response shouted, “Hell, yes, Father!”

“Then, let us ascend to the chamber of re-genesis.”

Guiding his son out into the hallway and up the stairs toward the bathroom, Roger flashed a knowing wink back towards his wife and mother.

Upon hearing a door closing upstairs, Barbara filled two tea mugs from the freshly boiled kettle in the adjoining kitchen, returned it to its electric cradle, and chuckled to herself.

“Do you think he bought all that monster nonsense?” She asked her mother-in-law.

“That boy has been gullible since he first could walk,” Emily replied. “Imagine at five years old refusing to have his hair cut, because he watched some old video of Bob Marley and other Reggae artists stomping around a stage.”

“Yes,” Barbara chuckled again. “It’s taken us years to talk him into cutting it all off. I thought it near to impossible to convince him that it’s unhealthy to not wash your hair.”

“You both played your parts quite well,” Emily congratulated.

“And you too, Emily,” Barbara reciprocated. “Those nights at the Amdram Society have certainly paid off. Bravo,” she added while feigning applause. “I mean, he’s starting high school next week. That ginger mess of knotted hair would have been ridiculed in this Baptist town we now find ourselves living in, and what he doesn’t need are small town bigotries directed at Gingers – especially abnormally tall Gingers. Best to instil a little abstract reality into his life. God knows, he needs something to snap him out of his Rastafarian fantasy world and become a productive member of society.”

“I blame those video games he’s always playing,” Emily bluntly stated.

“They call it virtual reality,” Barbara explained. “Where they live in what’s called the world of Sim.”

“More like, a world of sin,” Emily countered. “There’s only one reality, and that’s the one staring you in the face,” she undeniably stated.

“Too true, Emily. We have come to realise that we have indulged our boys’ selfish requirements for too long and it has reached a point beyond any reasonable tolerance, so his father and I thought it was time to finally put our foot down and not let him get his way all the time.”

“What happens when he finds out you deceived him?”

“That’s easy. We’ll just tell him that monsters do what monsters do. They lie.”

“But aren’t you worried that you’ll now become the real monsters in his life?”

“Let’s face it, Emily. Until he’s done with his teens, his parents will always be the ogres on his path to independence. We can only hope that when he reaches that turning point in life, he won’t be so fucking naïve…”