Story 3

2 HOURS - From Today Into Tomorrow

The boy is in front of his laptop again...

He ponders whether he should involve his personal being in the stories to come, among other things. He had developed a new strategy for his storytelling, which involves the random article button on Wikipedia. He did it last time, and the boy thinks it turned out better than the one hour non-story he had written the morning before the night time actual story. Perhaps this technique is actually perfect. It provides an intellectual challenge while keeping the boy's blog about the stories themselves.

He takes a bite out of his chicken leg and begins...

Seven dead bodies were strewn across the White House lawn, all of them shrouded in bloody stamps. Investigator Dave was completely at a loss. It was George Washington's birthday again, and normally this would be considered insignificant to the case... But after speaking with a representative for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Dave was not so sure.

Every year, on George Washington's birthday, the seven House members whose remains were on the White House lawn would receive death threats. This has nothing to do with the policies they supported, no. This is because they were stamp collectors.

Seven dead cats lie strewn across the floor of Tabatha's kitchen. It was breakfast time and she was cooking eggs on her skillet. Her entire Kansas house was painted in one color: eggshell white with red throned roses decorating the walls. She inherited this house from her parents who inherited the house from their parents who inherited the house from their parents. One could smell the memories upon entering this old, old house.

Tabatha scoops her scrambled eggs on her plate just as the blueberry Pop-Tarts she had been toasting pop out of the toaster. This was her staple breakfast. The timing of her cooking of these items was mastered to perfection. She was never off.

Tabatha sets up her splintery dinner tray that her grandfather made and sits her plate and fork down. She turns on the television and watches the news of the seven dead House representatives. She has no desire to hide her smirk of success because she lives alone in her ancient house. Serves them right she thought.

Tabatha tosses her empty plate into the sink and goes to her room up the creaky wooden stairs. There is a giant green photo book sitting under her bed at the foot. She pulls it out and opens it, sitting cross legged on the cold, sandpaper floor.

Stamps, stamps stamps. Different sizes. Different colors. Different prices.

She flips through the pages of this makeshift textbook and she finds the one missing puzzle piece in her vast canvas on patriotic color. Today is the day, she thought.

Tabatha was an adamant collector of stamps. Each stamp was a memory for her. The time she mapped out a cab driver's usual route to track him down. The time she stole from the Museum of Modern Art. The time she had to pass the bar exam simply to take the stamp off of her congratulating letter. It was all there. A bestselling autobiography, written not with words, but stamps.

But today's stunt seemed a little overboard for her. Tabatha had barely gotten sleep last night, all because of this 1932 Washington Bicentennial Stamp. It was the final piece to her puzzle and she had been searching for years for this one. She even had to sell cocaine in order to get enough money to fly to Brazil, just to come back without the stamp.

Investigator Dave found himself in Kansas, he had followed the fingerprints on the stamps to a number of specific people in the state. These people belonged to a stamp collecting group that would meet in the Kennedy Public Library every weekend to discuss their passion: stamps. He figured he was going to attend a meeting today.

"There is this one stamp that I have just been killing myself trying to find!" Tabatha is sitting in the meeting with her furrowed brow, a symbol of frustration and exhaustion. When she expressed that the stamp she was looking for was the 1932 Washington Bicentennial, the room fell into a deep silence.

"The stamp is cursed. Keep your book empty." These were the words of Tyler, a man in his late 20's who appears not to have escaped from his 1993 goth phase. "Just don't do it."

The meeting had continued as always that day, but Tabatha was determined. After the meeting Tabatha approached Tyler in the parking lot of the library. Tyler, hating people, sped up his walk towards his car, but Tabatha was too fast.

"Why can't I get the stamp?"

"You just can't okay!"

"Is there a way I can get it there totally is what aren't you telling me?!"

"You're speaking to fast! Why do you even want it so badly?!"

"Because my husband... Look just give me the details."

Tabatha had gone through an incredibly rocky divorce. The stamp collection served as the rock of their entire relationship. On the day of their marriage, they went to the store and bought the book together. they had vowed to each other to have collected thirty stamps each before every anniversary; and they would always put them in the book together. It was a ritual. When he left, he left that space in the book of stamps. He left a tiny hole that needed to be filled. A tiny hole that was so deep, at times Tabatha could not ever see herself climbing out.

This stamp was her ladder.

Tyler could see the tears beginning to well in Tabatha's eyes, and he didn't feel like dealing with people, let alone this psychotic stamp collector on the verge of tears.

"Look there's a medium named Cathy her store is on Bourbon Street. You want the Washington Bicentennial, go to her."

Tyler had lied. Cathy wasn't a medium. She was a witch.

"Yeah, I know Tabatha. She was crazy!"

Investigator Dave looked around him. He was sitting in a very unkempt room. There were dead insects scattered across the floor. It was like there were black coffee stains on the carpeted floor, but instead the stains were the corpses of flies. He didn't know where to look except at Cathy, because along the walls were bleeding, gutted pigs hanging from the ceiling. Investigator Dave uncomfortably shifts in his seat.

"What did Tabatha come here for?"

"She wanted the 1932 Washington Bicentennial Stamp. The crazy fool, I told her it was not her place to dabble, but then she broke down in tears! Talking about her husband and their collection and frankly, I was not in the mood to deal with her shit so I gave her the dolls and left."

"Dolls?"

"Yeah. Voodoo dolls. You need to watch more scary movies."

"I don't understand. Why would you give her-"

"There's only one way to get that stamp hun."

Silence. Investigator Dave gestured that Cathy should go on.

"You need to kill seven members of the House of Representatives and lay out their bodies on the White House lawn."

Bingo.

A loud knock was heard at the door. Tabatha opened it to find a stocky man in a fancy hat.

"I'm Private Investigator Dave from-"

SLAM.

I didn't want to have to do this, Dave thought. He backed up to break down the door. Inside, Tabatha was haphazardly tossing clothes and bathroom condiments into a suitcase.

CRACK! The old door had completely broken from the hinges and fell with a sharp thud. Tabatha immediately whacked Dave in the head with her suitcase, and he was knocked out for an incredibly long time. He woke up, still laying on the door, and incredibly hungry. Nobody had bothered to call the police. The neighborhood was relatively poor, and everyone had assumed he was just another drunk.

Dave was just starting to remember what had happened when he turned his head to the left. There was a steady stream of blood spurting from his shoulder. This is new, he thought. Then, he remembered. the witch... THE DOLLS! Tabatha had wanted him to suffer for the damage he had done to her inherited home. The blood loss was the actual reason for Dave's feeling weak.

Dave shot up nonetheless when he made the realization. He frantically Tabatha's kitchen to find something, anything, to cover the hole to keep his blood inside his body. The blood shot out and landed on the door to the freezer and the window above the sink as he pulled the entire roll of paper towels off of the rack.

He went through the entire thing. Now there were blood soaked tissues scattered across the room. Dave was on his final strands of life now. One could now see the bones on his body rubbing on the skin from inside as he took his slow, fatal breaths.

By 10 PM he had given up on moving. At the stroke of midnight he had given up on living.

Tabatha was sitting in a stall of the bathroom at a local pub. She was drunk on many a whiskey, and she had the green photo book sitting on her lap. She was crying and sobbing uncontrollably. All those years of marriage and an incomplete divorce. She couldn't handle it. The whiskey made her brave enough to allow the river of tears to flow. She was taking turns sobbing into the book and sobbing into the stall's inner walls.

Tabatha was not upset about the divorce happening, she was upset about the Bicentennial Stamp. She felt a great amount of guilt for using the dark magic required to get it. A person needs to be in a very dark place to go to such great lengths to find personal closure.

Tabatha spends her time turning the page and sobbing, turning the page and sobbing, rinse, lather, repeat. A voodoo doll, made of burlap and stuffed with rice, sits on the floor on the bathroom next to her feet. A thumb tack has been stuck in the shoulder.

Tabatha stops sobbing. There are tears still staining her face, but there are no tears forming in her sockets.

The moment of truth.

Tabatha turns the page.



A red face is staring back at her. A red face is judging her for the people she has murdered. A new kind of emptiness grew inside of Tabatha. She had spent all this time thinking her closure would be satisfying and miraculous. George Washington's stern face only reminded her that the ends does not justify the means. Not this time.

Tabatha tossed the green book into the toilet. She didn't flush it with her feces. No. She was going to let everything that her marriage was built on wither in the shit. Because that was what was left of the marriage now.

Just a lot of smelly shit.

Story 2

1 HOUR 1 MINUTE - Morning

The boy had been traveling on the road with his father for a long time. 10 hours to be more precise. Unfortunately, the boy's headphones had decided to give in to the urge to peter out the day before, so no obscure musical recipes for him. Instead, the boy had a really cool book to read.

The boy is thinking about the future as he often is, and he is less worried then he usually is about it. He had a good dream last night. It was a dream that consisted of a lot of whispering shadows. Ah, yes. Life is a strange occurrence, thought the boy. It is all about what the whispering shadows are saying. The boy reflects on the many situations where he was reminded of the whispering shadows, and how he seems to have had a good track record keeping the shadows from whispering evil omens.

What are the whispering shadows? Well, they are the beliefs of the people around you. But that is not all. They are the beliefs that spread as a contagion and are passed along to others unbeknownst to the one who's actions perpetuate said belief.

It is always wise to be careful with your actions because the whispering shadows will always follow you, inhabit those you know, and influence the course of one's destiny in the most unexpected ways.

The boy is reminded of the internship he recently was granted. An internship to screen films and do critical analysis of their content helping in an actual distribution process. He remembers rubbing the lamp on his key chain, hoping that everything would work out. The boy remembers how carefully he framed the structure of his cover letter, how to best display his creative experience and fuse it with his academic endeavors. He remembers thinking "I did my best here, but film's not my major, so I dunno."

It was up to the jurisdiction of the whispering shadows at that point.

He remembers the first interview, noticing that the phone call was coming from the United Kingdom and not having enough time to demonstrate his shock. The boy picked up the phone, prepared to go to battle. Well, he didn't think of it as a battle then. He thought of it as being Batman. He had his words typed and had a prompt answer for any and every interview question he could think of, no matter the detail.

The Q&A paper was five pages long, mind you. For once the boy had is thoughts organized. Perhaps that's why he writes in the first place? The boy remembers turning the phone call into a conversation. This was an attempt to influence the whispering shadows.

The whispering shadows are creatures of the mind. They are compelled by memory. One of the boy's deepest desires is to keep the shadows whispering about good memories, in every context of his life. The boy could hear the emotion of camaraderie in the voice of the foreign inquirer once the conversation was sparked. However, he had no idea whether it sounded genuine or not. He could not see the facial expressions of the man on the other end.

The boy remembers being told to prepare for the second round of questioning. He remembers being told that only three will be chosen out of twenty. He remembers being surprised that they only chose twenty to interview in the first place! The boy remembers hoping the shadows were whispering in his favor on the other side of the planet.

Somehow, they were. The phone rings its shanty, and the boy had prepared all the extra material that was recommended at the end of the first interview. When he hears a voice coming from the mother country, it was a voice of celebration. The boy thought he was going to be questioned again, but instead, the first test was all they needed.

It was the shadows. The whispering shadows knew the boy was directly appealing to them for help, and they had granted him an opportunity no less than awesome; an opportunity that in itself mentions the impact of whispering shadows. The boy looks again at the contract he signed, the contract telling him not to steal intellectual property and other obvious things. He looks at the final paragraph once again.

"It is not promised, but depending on your performance, you could be elevated to a paid position."

A simple reminder that the shadows are still whispering, and that the boy would do well to appeal to their tastes.

No person can control the future. They can only influence the present. In many ways the present dictates the future, and the past chronicles the events of the present. The whispering shadows only exist in the present. They are seldom seen. The boy likes to imagine their home.

The whispering shadows exist behind the ears. They cannot be touched. They cannot be seen. They can only be experienced. They only show themselves when they inhabit the mind and the mouth. The whispering shadows that inhabit one's body never belong to the owner of that body, no. Behind the ears of one body are the whispering shadows of every memorable human that body has experienced. They usually enter the conversation when said human being is not physically present. They morph and mould the hardcore evaluations of character that happen behind closed doors.

No one really knows how they came into existence. Many people like to study individual kinds of shadows. Praise, Tolerance, Judgment; but the boy has yet to hear of them on a broader basis and stuff LECTURE OVER WE DONE 4 NOW.

59 MINUTES - Night

The boy sits in front of his laptop with a plate of juicy salmon, typing with one hand. He is desperate to finish this second hour before the stroke of midnight. While he does feel a slight pang of guilt for separating his time like this, he also finds comfort in the fact that his day was filled with enough goals to complete that he is at the tail end as we speak.

Speaking of tail ends, the boy has no idea what he was even typing this morning. It seemed less like a story and more like a lecture. It just goes to show you can take the boy out of college but you can't take college out of the boy.

The boy figured he had to end the day with a story at least. So he takes a deep breath and a quick bite of salmon...

The boy glanced at his Playstation 3 sitting in the corner of his bedroom. It was 10:18 PM. Almost 10:20.

Not today he thought. Absolutely not.

You see, five years ago the boy lived in suburban New York. The one thing that they never tell you about suburban New York is the fact that there are family owned businesses everywhere. Please do not misinterpret the meaning of family owned business.

We are talking FAMILY owned businesses. The Mafia. That kinda family.

What does this have to do with the PS3, you say? Well, it all started when the boy invited a girl named Tanya Lasagna to his 15th birthday party at Chuck E. Cheeses. The creepy animatronics were on stage doing their concert, the creepy animatronics were on the televisions doing cruddy music videos, the pizza was on the table, somehow tasting better than every other pizza in the vicinity.

But you see, Tanya Lasagna's aunt, Lotta Ricotta, owned a pizzeria right next to Chuck E. Cheeses, and was sick and tired of this Mickey Mouse rip off taking her money. The boy had no idea Tanya Lasagna had connections to the mob whatsoever. He was just happy to be turning fifteen at Chuck E. Cheeses.

But when Lotta Ricotta found out that one of her niece's classmates decided to have a birthday party at the specific Chuck E. Cheeses directly next to her pizzeria INSTEAD of AT her pizzeria, she decided to go to the freakin DON because Lotta was famously known as an "overreactor".

One time she assassinated a Shop Rite cashier because the tomatoes were out of season. Yeah.

Tanya Lasagna had gifted the boy with a PS3, the thing he expected his parents to get him because it was the one hella expensive gift he wanted. Little did he know, this PS3 spat fire.

During the first week of owning said PS3, the boy found its rap lyrics very cute and he did not mind that the PS3 was constantly speaking. He didn't even mind when it played the Jamaican air horn sound at 3 AM. That shit was hilarious!

However, after three months, the boy was on the verge of death. He could not sleep because his PS3 would not stop spitting fire, and he had no clue when it came to finding a solution. He attempted a google search on the matter, but all he found were mothers complaining about their children spitting on other pedestrians. Which was gross but incredibly hilarious. No seriously. If some kid came up to the boy and decided to spit on him, he would probably laugh. It's not a big deal the boy thought. We're all made of the same stuff.

When the boy could not find the solution on the 10th page of Google, he knew there was no hope left whatsoever when it came to finding a practical way to solve the issue of the rapping console. The boy did what any boy would do when a Google search failed: he wrote a letter to Beyonce. It read:

"Dear, Queen The Black One Not The Band,

I know you're kind of busy running a lemonade stand for charity or whatever, but I need your help. You see, my PS3 is lit af, and there is nothing I can do to get it in formation. Google has failed me. I think you are the single lady that could help.

Sincerely,

A Survivor That Is Not Going To Give Up"

Beyonce was at the boy's front door about a month after receiving the letter. She remembers being in the crypt of the earth goddess with her sisters when she was young. The goddess of the earth, with elegant vines for arms and a fabulously strong tree trunk torso sat with winced eyes glaring at the children before her.

The goddess of the earth touched Beyonce on the shoulder gently. A milky, motherly voice slowly ebbed and flowed through the liquid inside her skull. "You are the child of destiny," the tree whispered.

Beyonce was reminded of this just as she was entering the household. As soon as she opened the door she heard the constant rhythmic noise, and she was not deterred. The boy, shocked that Beyonce pretty much entered his house without even knocking began wagging his finger.

Beyonce yawned, revealing her shark-like teeth. She brushes way too often and way too well the boy thought. After thinking this, he promptly and nervously put his hand into his pocket, and wagged his finger from there.

All Beyonce did was touch the PS3 on the top surface and it stopped spitting fire indefinitely. Now it was just a normal PS3. The Mafia's plot on the boy's life had been stopped, and the boy could sleep comfortably once more...

THE END!  

Story 1

2 HOURS - Morning

The boy had an idea last night. He decided he was going to start blogging once more. For two hours every day for as long as he could muster. He also decided to do this in third person, to make things I dunno spiffy!


The boy does this with the intention of making his blogging experience kind of like one of those "based on a true story" movies. This would be on an everyday basis. "Based on a true day", if you will. He grinds his teeth, anxiously hoping that he can at least keep this habit up until the last day of summer. Will plane trips deter him? One cannot tell.

So now he sets the stage for this story that he shall write for two hours. TWO WHOLE HOURS. Alrighty then.

This morning the boy was on hand and knee. No he was not being attacked by another human or an animal, nor was he cleaning... well he was, but not like the orphan Annie. The boy was on the floor of his dorm: hand picking the most miniscule pieces of trash that had accumulated over the past academic year. All this because he was too lazy to find a vacuum and the Resident Advisors in all of their authority had the power to fine him... Well, his parents... The boy figured his parents are in enough pain enabling his preference for delivered food over cafeteria nonsense: not to mention the whole paying a private institution over ten thousand dollars for his diploma. But who can blame them, the boy will have a better life for it according to statistics!

The boy freezes as he is cleaning. There is a dark red blotch on the floor that at first glance once would assume is simply catsup. The Resident Advisors will never know that it's goats blood. Being that it was a solidified liquid, the boy could not pick it up with his lenghy, pointed digits. He figured he would leave the bloody stain: it's not like they can fine him over one stain, right? One measily stain of goats blood? Right??

The boy remembers the day of the goat stabbing quite vividly. At first, it started with a benign miscommunication. The boy enjoyed observing normal human behavior because none of it is normal to him. He views himself as a strange being among stranger beings. There he was sitting on the bus, attending an early morning recitation, (a class to make sure you know what's going on in class. I know, it's absurd, but the graduate students need some kind of busywork I guess.) and he was watching the people mingling and silently eavesdropping on their misadventures. Normally, he would have his headphones in loudly and proudly displaying and enjoying his rather obscure musical recipes.

But not today. He left them at home. Friday mornings were musical enough as is anyway! Tales of pillaging and complaints and hangovers. All were fun things to hear! Even the woman who was casually speaking Latin was-wait? Latin? On a school bus? The boy had to take a look!

The woman looked about his age. Early 20's. She had long black hair that had an edge like uncooked spaghetti strands. She was lackadaisically slouched all the way in the back of the bus, staring at the ad for the abortion clinic that headlined certain buses at the time. Her hands were in the pockets of her baggy neon green sweatshirt... and she was speaking the Latin in a low hum... almost a whisper...

The boy recognized the language only because he was both literally and metaphorically a choir boy in high school. In Europe they wrote a helluva lotta Latin songs about that Jesus guy. Granted, they were some pretty lit songs. But this girl in the green sweatshirt... He was infinitely curious. What the hell had happened to her to put her in a Latin-atonic state? And why was she staring at the poster for the abortion clinic? Latin was in a lot of Jesus music, so does this mean she was pro-life? But Latin was also in a lot of Satan music too. The boy was super confused, so he kept silently watching to find out more.

Then his stop came, and there was no shift in position or change in behavior from sweatshirt girl whatsoever. Boring ol' recitation was in five minutes, and the boy had to go and endure it for attendance sake.

By the end of the rather unnecessary hour and a half, he came back to his dorm room to quite a surprise. A dead goat to be more precise. A dead goat with a small stab wound that was oozing out a rather small amount of blood for such a large goat, making the stain he noticed this morning.

The first thing the boy did was move the dead goat into the neighboring dorm. This seemed like a wise decision because

A) The door was always left open.
B) He had very good rapport with the neighbor.
and
C) He was used to playing pranks on the citizens of his floor. He even got a couple of them to believe he was a Satanist during the first week of school! So the boy knew his neighbor would not be surprised in the least to find a dead goat in his dorm room. A little bit peeved, maybe, but it was a forgivable offense, so long as there was no evidence of its happening after the fact.

The boy used the first aid kit his parents gave him the day he moved in and placed a large waterproof bandage on the stab wound. Before dragging the dead goat into his neighbor's dorm, the boy dragged it into the bathroom. He had an unreasonably large number of bars of soap, so he figured why not wash a goat corpse today. Getting the goat in the shower was no big ordeal for him: he was used to being called by his dad to help him carry furniture around the house. His slender arms were deceptively strong... This goat was nothing.

He had his Crocs on because he did not trust the floor of a shared shower, and he was gently washing the corpse of a goat, in a manner that an anatomy intern would wash a corpse for dissection. The goat's fur absorbed a surprising amount of the water, and for a moment the boy felt a comical twing of envy. It would be so cool to have skin that could absorb fluids he thought. I could drink soda by pouring it on my knees he thought. Wow, what a weird thought he thought.

The goat was clean now. It did not smell of the pasture anymore. He turned off the shower and dragged it out of the bathroom only to be spotted by the architecture major from down the hall. There was a stunned silence. The boy was holding his breath and his heart was in his throat.

"What are you doing?"

"I cleaned the goat."

"Why?"

"The abortion clinic."

The architecture major's eyes widened. Then, she chuckled, shook her head, and left the building, using her legs to pole vault over the goat corpse in the hallway. The boy knew she would give up her line of questioning at this point. Everyone on the boy's floor was well aware of his cryptic, yet pointed way of speaking. For a moment he thought about how that was how it has always been, and felt comfort in the fact that he accepted how that was pretty much how it was always going to be. In situations where speech adjustment was necessary, he could do it. But he doesn't feel the internal need to elaborate much. In fact, he normally has trouble elaborating exactly what he's thinking because none of his thoughts are all that exact to begin with. It's what makes his sense of humor unique as well. He tells the end of the joke and lets everyone else connect the dots on their own. If they don't get it now, they will figure it out next month.

He tests the door to his neighbors dorm, it's open, per usual. He pulls the goat corpse in, first propping the door open with his foot and dragging the body through the entrance. Nobody's home. Good. He leaves the goat corpse in the center of the dorm room. It looks especially comical here, because the center of the dorm room is the least cluttered space in the room.

Around the edges he sees a speaker system and extension cables and a microwave and a mini fridge and an Xbox 360 and game cases for the Xbox 360 and men's shampoo and books and posters on the wall and one of those rainbow plastic disco balls and the whole perimeter of the room just seemed like one long run-on sentence. One could tell two men lived here. Maybe that's the reason why the center was so clear.

The boy hears footsteps on the stairs. Someone is clearly climbing them or else the tempo would be increased. The boy rushes outside the room hoping to the Greek gods that it wasn't his neighbor. Luckily it wasn't. It was the animal lover from across the hall. Her face had an expressionless quality that allowed for her deadpan humor to make the boy laugh at every non-verbal comment she makes.

"Okay, that is not your room, wwwwhat are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Are you sure? You're looking hella guilty right now!"

She was chuckling. The boy's look of guilt, at least when it came to his antics, was a cheesy, cheesy smile and a tentative glance to the bottom corner of the room. However, this was an ordeal, the boy would have to play his cards right, or the animal lover would become willful and demand to see what he was up to.

"You'll see."

The point was so that she wouldn't literally see the goat corpse. She would simply hear the story second hand. The boy knew that as an animal lover, seeing the corpse of an animal would be too intense for the girl, so he decided to deliver the premonition instead.

There was an uncertain pause.

"Well, I'm gonna go study for my test soooo see ya later."

Crisis averted. It was the early afternoon and the animal lover had just gotten back from class, so she wasn't feeling particularly willful at this time of day. Had it been 11 PM or later, it would have been a different story entirely.

The boy sighed, he knew he had gotten away with murder. No, wait, he didn't do the killing. He just tampered with the crime scene, which required breaking and entering into his neighbor's abode. The only explanation that he could come up with was the neon sweatshirt girl on the bus. How could she have noticed him, he thought. She was staring at the abortion poster the entire bus ride! Did she notice him in the periphery? The boy couldn't tell, she was staring pretty intently.

He was laying in bed racking his brain about the incident. The boy couldn't help but think of this episode of Lost Tapes he saw when the show was on Animal Planet. The episode was a found footage mockumentary, like all the others. The actors were playing a Mexican family, attempting to cross the American border. But they get abandoned by their smuggler, then it gets dark, and they get attacked by the chupacabra. This action was interrupted by interjections from smart professor people talking about the harsh realities of the US-Mexican border alongside the legend of the chupacabra. It's a combination of liberal messaging and goatsuckers. Now that's some quality TV content right there.

"Goat sucker" is the literal meaning of the word "chupacabra". The boy didn't know what to think about this. He's seen pictures of the supposed chupacabra attacks on animals, but there is no physical evidence that the animal truly exists. The boy was laying in bed pondering this, and he thinks that girl on the bus in the sweatshirt was probably a chupacabra. This realization did not scare him like one would think. In fact, he thinks it's pretty cool that he saw one in the flesh. He didn't know if the wound on the goat was actually a stab wound cuz he's never seen anyone get stabbed in his life! The boy wondered of everyone who notices the girl in the green shirt gets a goat corpse in their dorm...

Perhaps a more logical explanation would be that she's a mob boss? The boy has also seen The Godfather. Maybe she was trying to scare him because the staring was seen as an insult to her character or something. If so, it didn't work. But she doesn't need to know that, the boy thought.

"WHAT THE FAWCK!"

That Long Island accent was undeniable. The boy heard shocked laughter from adjacent room. Then a pause.

"Only one person coulda fuckin done this."

The boy smirked.