Month: June 2023

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

At first, shortly after it happened, after the funerals, I didn’t care what caused my leg to fall apart. I blamed myself. If only I had reacted more calmly. If only I hadn’t lost control of the vehicle. I could have used my other leg to drive, after all. If only I had just hit the brakes. Coasted onto the side of the road. Parked my vehicle. My parents would still be alive.

For the first few months I was just too busy blaming myself. Blaming oneself is time consuming. Every time you do it, it’s hard to move. It’s like your body slows down. A heavy weight encumbers your movements. Everything takes longer to finish. And then you blame yourself again, and then again, and it gets more severe. It’s like chains pulling you down, down, heavier with every action.

Which isn’t to mean I never wondered about the “disappearing death virus.” But not even the doctors could figure out what that was. I guess for that reason I thought there was no way someone like me could figure it out. It just seemed like someone cast a spell on me, like the “virus” was really black magic or some kind of curse.

And I felt that way about the appearance of Warbell also. It wasn’t natural for a dinosaur to just appear on my doorstep. Why wouldn’t I be suspicious?

Plus there were the Dinosaur Yacht Slaughter movies. They taught me a lot about dinosaurs. In those films, due to pollution and a sun cycle that only comes once every 100 million years, the birds in a particular part of the ocean start to de-evolve into dinosaurs and as a consequence fall from the air and smash all the local ships and boats except a yacht driven by a rich paraplegic and five super models. All those bird-dinosaurs were really evil, even the brontosaurus that fell on a battleship and then stuffed entire human bodies down its throat like a boa constrictor. One of the best scenes is when the bronto uses its lumpy neck like a club to engage in an intense fight against a military tank with inflatable treads cruising across the ocean waves.

Gosh, I love those films. But they also taught me never to trust a dinosaur.

Those were some of the things I was thinking about several weeks after Warbell moved out. I sat at home and watched Dinosaur Yacht Slaughter 8: the Bermuda Triceratops. I was having a hard time concentrating on the plot—the titular triceratops had just appeared in the cabin of a pirate ship and was shooting spinning fireballs from its horns or something. The actor playing Captain Scrapstache was really good, though—he had three peg legs and made it believable.

And I kept thinking about what Colander had said. I had to at least admit the idea of Warbell causing widespread death and destruction seemed highly implausible. But I just kind of wanted to hate someone other than myself for a while.

At about that time my phone buzzed. I nearly lost it when I saw it was a text from Colander.

“Channel 7! Right now!” it read. “Warbell is going to box Punchface!”

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

The rest of the conversation kind of unraveled from there. What I had been hoping would be a nice conversation, a way to unwind, maybe even something more, turned into a tense and awkward confrontation. By the end, Colander touched the back of my quivering hand and said she hoped I could find peace in this situation but told me not to blame someone else for my pain.

And really that just made me hurt more. Because I had been blaming myself all this time. And as I sat in the Molten Java Café, the events of that day erupted through my mind once again.

April 22, 2015. I was traveling with my parents across the country. We were going to attend my older sister’s wedding in Chicago, but at the time we didn’t have enough money to buy plane tickets. I was the one driving in my new pickup truck I had purchased for my electrician business.

I was proud of that truck. Because I thought it was big, tough. Safe.

I don’t know what happened, really, and the more I thought about it, the less I understood it. We were going down the highway through Iowa, highway 35. Seventy miles an hour. My mom and dad were riding next to me, bickering about whether or not they had turned out the lights in the bathrooms—they were forever forgetting. I was laughing, teasing them that I could install a clapper. It was 4:36 in the afternoon. I remember there were a lot of cars out on the road, and we had hit quite a few grasshoppers bouncing through the crisp spring air. I still remember the little popping sounds as they hit the windshield

Because that sound was one of the last I heard before it happened. The splat of a grasshopper, then something burning in my leg. Pain. So much pain. Just suddenly, consuming me. And blood, streaming, staining my pant leg.

In that moment, in my panic, I lost control of the big, tough truck I was driving. We jerked, skidded, flew off the road, into the ditch, flipped, spun. Everything whirled around me, screams swirling into my ears, then impact, cracking, silence.

And when the doctors tried to figure out what had happened, when they took a look at my leg, parts of the skin and muscle and even bits of the bone were just missing. Not broken off, not in pieces in the car, just gone. Patches had vanished from other parts of my body as well. The medics had a terrible time trying to stop the blood loss, but they managed it.

The doctors said it was a miracle that I survived.

But no one else in the truck had a miracle that day.

And I wasn’t the only person who suddenly, inexplicably lost parts of their body at that moment. Many across the nation experienced something similar. Bits and pieces of peoples’ bodies—sometimes muscle, sometimes bone, sometimes most of an internal organ—just disappeared, causing pain, confusion, death. Colander lost her sight in one eye, but luckily didn’t lose anything else.

That wasn’t the last time it happened, or even the first time really. There were other incidents as well, sometimes involving people from Final Pumpkin, though not always. Of course Murdock was just the latest, but there were many other incidents around the country and around the globe. But the doctors couldn’t figure out how these occurrences came about, and the theories became wilder and crazier every day.

Flesh-eating viruses.

Radiation.

Body-melting invisible death rays.

Miniature momentary black holes.

Of course I wanted to know what had caused the incidents (dubbed the “disappearing death virus” by excitable journalists). But much more than that, I was just shocked, stunned, terrified it would happen again.

My insurance honored their contract and gave me a new truck not long after my life was totaled.

For some reason, I don’t drive it very much.

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

“So what is it you want to talk about?” asked Colander, sipping her hot water.

We were at the Molten Java, a volcano-themed coffee joint wherein the coffee mugs came in the shape of volcanoes and the side dishes were rock candy and pastries with lots of strawberry jam. Colander, as usual according to her, had just ordered a hot water (“It tastes better than coffee!”) and a choco-cherry chunk cruller. Today her eyepatch had an image of her grandfather, since it was apparently the old feller’s birthday.

I had asked her out to chat, something I had been wanting to do for months really. The split with Warbell was enough of an excuse to finally kick me into action. And besides having an excuse to hang out with the most interesting bachelorette in Final Pumpkin, I really needed to talk.

“I’m not the official king tyrannosaurus ambassador anymore,” I said.

“Yeah, I know,” she replied, nibbling at her cruller. “You and your tyrannosaurus ex are like gossip topic number one around here these days. As the librarian, I get to hear every conspiracy theory. Someone assumed you had fallen in love with Warbell, but things didn’t work out. The prevailing guess was because it’s hard to kiss lips that big.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sometimes,” Colander said. “And there really was a patron who came to the library, and really did put forth the theory I just explained. I thought it was plausible.”

“What do you mean?! I’m not in love with…”

Colander was smiling, and I stopped.

“No, I didn’t think it was plausible you were in love with a dinosaur,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I just thought it’s true that it would be hard to kiss if you’re dating a t-rex. So, what happened? Is that what you wanted to talk about? Personally, I would love to be roomies with a dinosaur. I’d learn so much!”

“He admitted it, Colander,” I said. “Warbell had something to do with the disappearing death virus.”

“You mean researching it?” she asked.

 “Not research,” I said, my voice rising. “He said he caused it. The whole disease happened because of him!”

“But he hasn’t even been here for very long. A few weeks, tops. The disease…”

“Colander, he said that it was his fault! This is what I was afraid of all along, this…”

“Walter, how? That doesn’t even make any sense! Warbell saved Murdock’s life!”

She looked at me sternly before continuing, and she emphasized each word in turn:

“Warbell. Didn’t. Kill. Your. Family.”

Read your next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

I ran for my rifle, stumbling, a mess of rage. I found the weapon in my closet, pulled it out, struggled with the cloth zip cover. I finally managed to rip off the covering, grabbed the stock awkwardly, stumbled towards the door, tripped and banged against the wall. By the time I was out the door, I thought Warbell would be long gone.

He was still there. He had not moved since I dashed into the house. I felt hot tears in my eyes, burning, and I knuckled them away. I had brought my rifle outside in the bright morning light, despite the security team, despite the absurdity of trying to kill a full-sized tyrannosaurus with a single rifle. My anger dissolved my rationality. One of the security men came running my way. My rifle was still pointing at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Warbell said. “I have to finish this.”

I dropped my rifle before the security guard could yank it from my hands. I pointed a finger at the old lizard before me.

“Get out of my garage,” I said. “Get out of my life. I won’t be your stupid ambassador anymore. Get out of here!”

Then the security guards took away the rifle, grabbed my arms, roughed me over, had me on the ground in my pajamas as they yelled incoherent words I couldn’t understand through my wall of rage. But as one of the security guards shoved my head against the grass, I watched the old lizard, and the old lizard watched me.

Later that day everything was removed from my garage. All of Warbell’s things were taken out and moved somewhere, anywhere far away. I didn’t want to know where. I just wanted him gone. I know Warbell came and helped move things. I saw him come, but I huddled in my room, shutters pulled.

And I got remonstrated by Mayor Pilky, and at least one newspaper columnist criticized me roundly in the local paper later that week, though few details were given concerning the reasons for the drama. I couldn’t tell people that Warbell was the source of the disappearing death virus—there was no proof. What could I say? How could I prove anything? Yet on the other hand, I didn’t go to jail, despite the dinosaur being our “king.” Apparently the old lizard never pressed charges.

It had just lasted a few weeks, really, that I had a tyrannosaurus living in my garage.

Read the next chapter.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.
Click here to read from the beginning.

I marched over to the bushes and picked up one of the “dinosaur eggs” that I had been obsessing over and held it out towards Warbell with a scowl on my face.

“You are telling me this is a t-rex turd?” I asked.

“Maybe t-rex,” Warbell said. “It’s about the right size and shape. But other dinosaurs have similarly sized stools. Don’t worry, though; it’s fossilized so you won’t get stinky fingers from handling it.”

“Geez, what a waste of time,” I said, and threw the rock across the yard. It rolled onto the sidewalk, then plonked off the curb onto the street.

“Hey, I thought your people put things like that in museums,” Warbell said. “Maybe you should try and sell it.”

“Well, since you arrived, now all the paleontologists have as much fresh monster feces to study as they could ever want, right?” I said.

“True,” Warbell said. “That’s part of my income. Almost every day scientists come to purchase my poop. You should be thankful it’s not just all over your lawn.”

Trust me, I was grateful. I really was. But I was not in the mood to express my gratitude on that day. Instead, I asked him point blank the question that had been eating me up.

“Did you cause it?” I asked. “All those deaths and injuries. The disappearing death virus. Is that why you are trying to stick your big lizard nose into the personal lives of the people of Final Pumpkin?”

Warbell actually took a step away from me, shaking his head.

“Tell me the truth!” I yelled.

“No,” Warbell said. “I don’t know yet what happened.”

“You don’t know if you caused this?” I tapped my artificial leg as I spoke. “What do you mean, you don’t know? What do you mean that you don’t know if you ruined my life?”

“I am trying my best to find out what happened,” Warbell said. “Trust me.”

“Trust you?” I said “Trust you? Are you serious? You are keeping secrets from me. You won’t tell me why you are really here even though I let you live in my garage. You are talking with someone at night in your dinosaur language, too, right? Don’t think I can’t hear it. Who are you talking to? And now you’re saying that MAYBE you caused the deaths of hundreds, maybe thousands of people around the country? No one even knows how many people have succumbed to the disappearing death disease!”

Warbell looked me right in the eyes before speaking.

“Yes, I think that your mysterious deaths may be my fault, or I should say our fault,” he said. “But that’s—”

Even before Warbell could finish speaking, I just lost my mind.

“I’ll kill you!” I shouted. “I have a rifle! For what you did, you should die, you monster!”

Read the next chapter.

By me with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

Of course, there are complications when a fellow like me wants to determine whether a dinosaur is speaking dinosaur talk to someone late at night. As mentioned before, at first I had just thought he was snoring. It’s true that Warbell’s “snores” were unusually complicated with an astonishing multiplicity of grunts, growls, woots, and warbles. But then again, I have met some folks with some pretty strange snores (the perils of dorm life back in college), so I didn’t want to jump to conclusions too quickly. And I didn’t actually hear anyone respond to Warbell’s nocturnal monologues. Which could just mean Warbell had some kind of walkie-talkie, maybe built into one of his teeth.

Or he was just talking in his sleep.

Warbell and I were not talking to each other a great deal anyway at that point. In fact an eavesdropper might assume I was attempting to learn dino-speak given how often I would grunt or snort or otherwise make unpleasant noises when Warbell tried to engage me in conversation. The conversations might go something like this:

“How was your breakfast today?” asked Warbell

“Rowf,” I replied.

“Did you have a bowl of cereal?”

“Snort!”

And so on, with Warbell sometimes pretending to understand what I said until I was just quiet, lips zipped.

But for all my grumping and grouching, my sub-neanderthal conversations did not crush Warbell’s zeal for tracking down the truth of… whatever it was he was searching for. And in fact the dinosaur seemed to have been gathering a lot of great data for his project even before officially becoming a t-rex masseur.

I realized I’m really not a very clever person. I couldn’t seem to figure out what was really going on.

Of course, it also didn’t help that one day I just dumped the rocks I found underneath the house into the bushes at the front of the house. Sure enough, the next day I found Warb standing near the shrubbery.

“This is really interesting, Wal,” Warbell said. “Never thought I’d actually see one of these.”

“Ugh,” I said. “Grunt.”

Warb plucked out one of the rocks—the one that was still intact. He laughed as he turned it over.

“What’s so funny?” I asked testily.

“Oh, well,” said Warbell, the huge grin returning to his face. “You probably don’t want to hear this, but apparently at some point dinosaurs were using the space where your house is as a restroom.”

“Come again?”

“You have several pieces of fossilized dinosaur poop in your bushes,” said Warbell.

By me, with art by Sam Messerly.

Click here to read from the beginning.

Warbell was working with a masseur named Lilt Parley, a man who looked like a muscle mannequin lightly sprayed with skin-colored paint. Each day I would escort Warbell to his lesson, and there would be Parley in a Speedo stretching on the lawn outside his massage parlor (called “Everything You Knead Massage Parlor and Tanning”) folding himself in half or maybe cleaning his ears with his big toe or something. Often there was a crowd waiting, hoping to get a chance to have a tyrannosaurus knead the knots in their back into nothingness—or possibly just break their ribs. I used to watch the shenanigans sometimes, incredulous, because I found it so difficult to imagine a full-size alpha predator with those little chicken-arms actually massaging anything. My shoulders definitely had not felt better after Warbell carried me across the city to save the life of the bacon boy. Parley always talked with Warbell at the beginning of each day, worked him through a set of stretches (including tail stretches somehow), and even massaged Warbell’s arms and forearms carefully, slowly, deliberately—boringly. I had better things to do then gawp at a nearly naked fatless man tickle a t-rex. Plus I was still pretty mad at Warbell for looking into my past, into the history of my leg injury, without even asking me permission. What I mean to say is, I could only watch for so long before I wanted to kick something hard. Preferably with my prosthetic leg so that I didn’t break my toe.

Meanwhile, every day I was also checking the recordings of Warbell at night, recorded via the secret equipment installed in his room. I hadn’t found much yet. There were times when he would grunt and growl or something, but I was never quite sure if he was just snoring. Sometimes I would pick up sounds of him rolling over, smacking his lips, or farting—when he passed gas, it made a sound like the whomp of a tuba. But I never heard him say even a word in English.

I found myself talking over the issue with Colander on my break one day as she was fixing some book covers at the library. That day she had a mandala on her eyepatch, and it was really distracting.

“Of course, I am listening to the recordings on fast forward,” I said. “But listening to eight hours of snoring on fast forward is just like listening to chipmunk chirpy snoring for four hours instead. It’s still boring enough that I want to disconnect my ears for a while and turn them in for industrial strength medicine.”

“Well, that tears it,” Colander said.

I waited. When Colander didn’t offer an explanation, I couldn’t help but ask for clarification.

“What do you mean?” I said. “Something wrong?”

“Oh, when I hold the book like this, it tears,” Colander said. “This novel really needs some industrial strength repairs. That, and plus I was wondering something.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Why are you listening for English?” she said. “Doesn’t Warbell speak fluent dinosaur?”

My eyes widened.

That night I returned to my recordings and listened carefully to some of the sections I had thought were particularly noisy snoring. At least one of these from a few days ago had a great variety of blats and grunts and wheezes. And there did seem to be a pattern to it. Colander listened too when I texted her the audio file, and she agreed with me.

That didn’t sound like just an innocent snore. But who could Warbell be talking to late at night?