True Ghost Stories Part 2: the Queer Vampire of Willernie, MN (857 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesRating: 2 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Icarus1987 (View user info) at 2004-07-27 10:40:29 EDT
With its dark mobster dark, mysterious catacombs, and flamboyant restroom ghosts, the small town of Willernie, Minnesota is truly the Transylvania of the upper midwest. After our ghostly encounter in the restroom of a prominent service station (for those who have not read the prelude to this adventure, please tolerate this link whoreage: <http://www.ubersite.com/cgi-bin/message_get.cgi?message=109086570079492853>), many may wonder why we would again ventury into such an evil-shrouded locale. Well, friends, I say it was the spirit of adventure and the yearning to break free from our diurnal 9-to-5 lives that led us to the Wildwood Bowl Pizza & Eatery that dark and stormy evening in early October.
As we stepped in, we could hear the rain patter down on the sheet metal roof. The room was poorly illuminated by the faint light filtered through tinter windows, and several rows of novelty hot pepper lights, but we could make out the furtive, brooding glares of the locals. I could swear that among them, in a booth towards the back, I spotted the man who, clad only in his fruit of the loom briefs, had savagely sodomized our rear signal light with his lawn flamingo during out last Willernian adventure (see the link above for part one.)
We sat down at a booth before a window, watching the vague, hazy outline of the cars going by on the street outside. It was strange to think that we were a block, not even a block, from Dick's Service, that strange and eon-haunted service station where our last adventure had climaxed.
"What is this?" Brian said, looking over the menu. "would you look at some of the items on this menu?"
Indeed, Willernie folk had straneg and blasphemous tastes as pizza toppings went; pickles, dragonfly nymphs, hog knuckles, and three kinds of sauce.
"Dude," says Brian, "I bet one of these sauces are made with goat's blood, or the blood of an unbaptized child?"
Indeed, it would, I had to admit, make sense. Rumor had it that Willernie's strange folk were born of inseminated leaf piles in the catacomb-sewers, and that only the most "normal" were ever allowed to live on the surface. No doubt this combination pizza bowling alley had a hub in this subterannnean, that, though their front was above ground, much of their business was done in the catacombs; and who knew what or WHOM the less-than-normal Willernie folk prefered to eat.
"What will you have?" A girl looked down past the glowing tip of a cigarette at us. Her long, dishwater blond hair was held back in a ponytail, save for a few stray locks that were plastered to her forehead or neck, and there was an expecting belly bulged beneath her sauce-stained apron.
"What's good?" Says I.
"The 32-proof beer." Says she, scratching her back with a blackened spatula she had been holding under her right armpit. "But it's never enough to get me really wasted."
"Oh really," Says I, "Well, we are travelers. Perhaps you could provide us with some information."
"I'd love to guys, but I'm on the clock." Says she. Brian nodded at me, and we each slipped a five spot, in plain view, on the table.
"Alright," She says sitting down, "it was just about my lunch break anyways. What do you guys want to know."
"We've heard strange stories." Says I.
"About us?"
"About you."
"Well, who hasn't." She laughed. "You probably think you've heard 'em all. The tunnels that run from house to house, the cult of Paddington road, the ghost at Dick's Service, the real reason the massage parlor got shut down. I'm telling you,though, most people don't even know the worst of it."
"And you do?"
"I know something pretty bad." She blew out a puff of smoke. Her swamp-green eyes scanned over the gathering of customers, and she leaned in towards us. "Something the police and the mayor have been trying real hard to cover up for years. My boyfriend lives in one of the apartments on Forest Ave, though, so I've heard lots of things."
I ponied up another five spot. "What kind of things?"
The story our waitress told us was almost unbelievable, even for the Willernie mythos, yet she swore throughout the telling that it was true, and she seemed genuinely concerned for the well-being of her boyfriend. Suffice to say, we left the establishment more hungry than ever for the truth behind Willernie's aura of brooding menace. We did our footwork, checking with locals and contacts within the police and hall of records. I assure you that everything in her story checked out. In the end, we became so obsessed in our quest for the truth, that Brian, our friend Jose, and myself ended up renting one of the apartments on Forest Ave for a week, though that is a story for another time (which I will include soon, with pictures).
I will now repeat the story she told us. We have submitted it, and gotten it published under the pseudonym B. Brucestofski at the University of Wisconsin, River Falls. The names have been changed, and the events have been dramatized for your enjoyment, but I assure you that this story is based on historical facts.
The Big, Fat Blasphemous Horror
By B. Brucestofski
The fog crept in like a big, fat, drunk prostitute. It staggered and swaggered, making its way slovenly down the alleys and sidewalks of Willernie, Minnesota on broken high heels, tripping over strewn trash and beer cans, wearing the ugliest gray chiffon dress you've ever seen. It was as thick as bad cologne; a funeral shroud which muffled the sounds of automobiles in the streets and distorted the blue and brimstone red neon lights of the Holiday Station into vague, hazy shapes.
"Baseball Cap" Joe sighed as he pulled his beaten 87 sky blue Buick Skylark into the service station. He flipped open the gas cap and shoved the hard nozzle of the gas pump into the eager orifice of the car's gas tank.
An eerie wind whispered through the maples that lined Stillwater Rd; their skeletal boughs not yet bare of leaves that were now red and orange --candy corn that shivered in the cold and crisp October wind. Joe leaned back against his car as the cold, hard nozzle gushed fluid into his hungry gas tank, pulling his Buccaneers coat tight against his tall, taut heterosexual frame. The gas station, with its warm neon lights was comforting like an angora sweater. Wait, what on earth was he thinking? He didn't like angora. He took his mind back to the gas station. It was one Joe had been to many times before, around which many of his daily heterosexual rituals were centered; this is where he filled his tank, bought his smokes and JD and girly magazines, and hung with his home boys picking up hoochies.
Its comfort was lost on Joe tonight, though, just as Joe was lost in thought. He thought of the strange changes coming over him just as the mist spread over the gas station. Joe worked as a coach for the Willernie Wolverines; the tee-ball team at the local old-folk's home. Every time one of 'the boys' scored, Joe would slap them on their buttocks. At first it was a quick and chummy slap, but he slowly found his hand being more and more prone to incorporate a friendly squeeze into this bonding ritual, and found his eyes more and more likely to stray over their seasoned, sarcoma-spotted, nude flesh as they washed and cajoled and brushed up against one another in the locker rooms afterwards. It was like a phantom slowly possessing his body --a gay homosexual phantom who was very scary.
"Cold as th' devuhl t'night." An eerie voice observed from behind Joe.
Joe, not expecting the voice to come behind him as he had been deep in thought about his own sexual orientation, jumped and spun around, looking for the unseen source of the phantom voice. A wizened old man stood at the pump behind him, gassing up his Subaru. He had whispy white hair, a crooked nose, and a beardless wrinkly face like a rotting pumpkin. Bushy brows hid two sickly yellow eyes that regarded Joe with cold, sardonic amusement. His cracked lips were set into a stolid scowl, and there was a scar or birthmark or possibly a cancerous mole on his
chin. He wore a black trenchcoat that ruffled in the screaming October wind, and white socks.
"Yeah cold." Joe muttered.
"Not a night t' be caught out. No sir. Not fer man ner beast!" The old man's voice was nasal and raspy in a gravely sort of way. He seemed to have an accent, as though he were from Hungary or Los Angeles, or possibly Lithuania. He was also chewing tobacco, which he spit, which was a bad habit. Joe was suddenly glad he didn't smoke or chew tobacco, and that he wasn't fat. The old guy also had an eyepatch and a beard like a rhododendron.
"Yeah." Joe muttered as if he cared.
"Y' know they say that on nights like this, right 'round Hallereen, that the Foog creeps inter Willernah."
"The Fog?" Joe asked.
The old man cackled. His wizened old hand darted up to wipe some of the chaw juice off his chin. It was disgusting, and Joe was really glad that even though he might be gay, he was at least not into cigarettes or chaw.
"You ain't nevuh heard o' it, boy? Well, let Ol' Bruce tell ye. Thirteen years ago t' this night, Reg'nuld Braflofski wuz livin' in the very same apartment up on Bates Avenue that yer livin' in terday! He was gettin' involved in sum hanky-panky with his man-friend in the bathtub when a water main blew, shootin' boiling hot water on to them both.
"Now I ain't no religious type, but I do listen to Billy Graham and Pat Rober'sin and send them e'ery other soshil secur'ty check. I know that gay homersex'yals don't go to neither heaven ner hell, but are doomed to walk th' urth 's the undead! Vampeers! Y'know boy that they kin change into bats and fog! It was said that 's they lifted Reg'nuld's nude, mangled corpse they hurd him say 'Because of yer incomputint plumbin' and lack of confermince t' the city building code, I will be back to haunt all who stay in this here room, and get my revenge on th' town of Salem's Point!' "Then he dun keeled o'er dead. Some say he was buried, but if you ask me, I say he turned into a flamboyeently gay foog and drifted awee oot the window. I wasn't there of cerse, but I read the hool thig in a newspaper in the Vee-Eff-Double'ya a week later.
"Ever since Reg'nuld flamed his last, nobody 'round here goes out on foogy days in October, and nobody who stays in them apartments lives long. Y'see, they cover it up, boy! Don't think they want yer knowin' boot the hauntin' of Reg'nuld?" He laughed. "They'd ne'er let out apartment three ninetern agin!"
Joe had purchased his sexy bachelor pad on Forest Ave for a very low price, and had heard nasty, whispered rumors among the locals regarding the nasty deaths of former tenants of apartment 320. The fat woman at the office had always faked epilepsy when he tried to get them to take care of the strange stains in the bath tub that looked like they could have been blood, or the ominous blood-dripping letters on the wall that read "DOOM", or the burned out lightbulb in his stove, but he had never suspected any cover-up.
He looked back, and saw that the old man had disappeared into the eerie foggy night as mysteriously as he had appeared. Maybe he was an apparition meant to foreshadow Joe's impending fate, or a guardian angel. Or maybe he had gassed up and driven away while Joe was standing around like a goon. Either way he was gone.
"What took so long?" Asked Bambi Petumpki, Joe's cosmetologist girlfriend who had been waiting in the car while Joe pumped gas and contemplated his sexual orientation and talked to imaginary old men.
"Nothin'." Joe said putting on his safety belt as he always did. "Let's go back to my place and make out, baby."
"Okay." Laughed Bambi. Though as they drove closer and closer to the apartment, and the fog got thicker and thicker, she seemed to lose her nerve. "Joey, I'm scared." She said, folding her arms over her red turtleneck sweater. An ex-cheerleader, Bambi was blonde and very thin. She had tan skin, painted her toenails, and Joe could see the outline of her double nipple piercing right through her sweater. They had been going out for four months. Joe had just met her parents a week before, and he thought her father was a prick. "Maybe it's just my feminine intuition, but I don't like how thick this fog is. It's like it's reaching out, Joey. Reaching out for you! Let's turn around, Joey! We haven't seen anybody on the road since we started from the gas station."
"Ha ha! You are just imagining things." Joe laughed, though the hairs were standing up on the back of his thick football player's neck. It was indeed true that they hadn't seen a soul since they'd made the left on Stillwater Ave. The way she folded her arms over her ample breasts made him horny.
"Joey," She said. "Let's go back to my parent's house and make out."
"I don't want to do that." Joe said, "Your dad is a prick."
"You are not the Joey I know." Bambi said. "Drop me off here and I will just walk home."
"C'mon babe!" He urged, "Let's go back to my place, make out on the couch, chug some brewskis, and just, y'know, talk about draperies!"
"Drop me off here!" She insisted. With a sigh, Joe pulled over, and watched as she stepped out of the car and stormed up the hill towards her house.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon!" He said. "Promise!"
He shook his head. He didn't know what she was going on about. He drove the rest of the way down the hill to his apartment building, and parked his car in the garage. As he stepped out into the parking lot, he found that the fog had grown even thicker. It was hot and musty like a pair of used gym shorts. As he walked to the main entrance, he seemed alone in the misty fog, and in its solitude, his mind was filled with swimming images of nude showering old men, dancing among a sea of yellow daffodils. Elton John music played softly in the background, like a sexy angora sweater. Their hips lightly bumped as the virile old men danced in a daisy chain, their leathery, liver spotted hands intertwined. He slammed the door to his apartment and sighed. Someone, probably the maintenance repair guy, had left the window open, and the floor was carpeted with swirling fog. He went to fix himself a half caf skinny mocha red eye over ice when he suddenly realized he had no idea what that was.
Cap sank down on the couch, turning on a local sporting event to try to take his spinning mind off Broadway musicals and interior design.
Big Fat Rubbery Gay Vampire Bat Reginald was flopping about in the sky on the way to a Cher concert when he spotted young Baseball Cap Joe watching a televised sporting event in a small straight bachelor pad below. He could see him, of course, as he had sonar. And he had bright red eyes that shone like hellish coals. That helped too.
Reginald swooped down to the patio and returned to fat vampire form. His purple sequined cape was very gay, as were his yellow hot pants and queer rhinestone boots.
FWOOSH!
He opened the patio door
SHWOOP!
and crouched behind the blinds
CROUCH!
and clandestinely sashayed across the room and hid himself beside the big straight pizza boxes and girly magazines on the coffee table
SASHAY!
Big Fat Gay Rubbery Gay Vampire Bat Reginald capered in front of the TV as Joe dipped his hand into a bag of straight Fritos and hid beside the couch.
CARDAMON!
And stealthily pranced in front of the TV again and skulked behind a floor lamp on the other side of the TV.
TINKYWINKY!
"VWA!"
Said Big Fat Gay Vampire Reginald in a deep and ominous voice, pouncing ambiguously from his gay hiding place. Lightning flashed and there was a very scary musical sting.
"VWA!"
Joe lept from his butt groove in abject heterosexual horror. "AIE! Is my heretofore unquestioned sexual orientation about to be compromised in some dastardly yet unquestionably arousing homosexual erotica?"
"Yes!" Replied Reginald. He loomed with ambiguous eeriness above Joe, feeling the raw heterosexual life force emanating from the young man, beckoning him like a queer cashmere sweater in a bargain bin at the yarn barn. "But first try this!" He held something out in the palm of his hand. It looked brown and crusty.
"What is it?" Cap asked.
"A raspberry cream truffle!" Reginald replied.
"No!" Cap shouted, "God no! Jesus in Heaven no! No please no! Somebody help! Someone please save me!"
"Shout as you like," Reginald gloated, "But in the fog no one will hear you! They have all run! Run away from the fog! You can feel it inside yourself, Joe! You can feel it moving, carressing the insides of your skin like an angora sweater! You can feel the urge to make beautiful sweet nookie with those little softball hotties! You are tortured with the undying urge to wear a fanny pack and listen to boybands! Come with me, Joe, you can be a Queen of the Night!"
Joe suddenly found himself entranced by this shimmering world of homoerotic bliss, where he could explore all the tantalizing, exotic fruits of the male body; hairy, well-rounded man breasts, firm six-packs glistening like peaches in syrup. He sunk into a dark, warm underworld of tantalizing fantasy and freedom, where he could express his love of color coordination and gourmet cooking without fear of bitter reproach.
"Maybe we'll start you out with something that isn't too fruity." The Big Fat Vampire said, "Like a little nipsy-poo in the neck."
"Yuh, I s'pose that'd be cool." Joe managed to mutter.
Reginald closed in slowly, casting Joe in his shadow, scooping his victim up in an intimate embrace. His lips brushed Joe's neck, and his sharp fangs sunk into Joe's waiting jugular. Blood rushed up like an energized metallic stream and Reginald lapped it like a hungry kitten. Joe lingered on the edge of mortal sanity, savoring the nauseous feeling of utter release as his hot, beating life force gushed down his attacker's hungry throat with a sick, sucking sound. As his eyes closed he felt himself falling, falling into a deep sea of ennui, and the purple cashmere of the night opened up and swallowed him whole.
User Reviews
Submitted by lexington_bongos at 2004-07-28 23:47:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i am from maplewood minnesota. i've been to willernie mn with my church's bowling league and we actually played at the willernie pizza bowling alley. it was like mid october and some of the locals told us they had a good ghost story. they would neveer tell us though. interesting to now know the truth!!! thanks for gathering this one and it was very entertaning, though i do find your use of the word "blasphemous" suspicious i do see the point that it is from the main character's (joe's) perspective and as such would seem blasphemous to his hetereosexual worldview.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2004-07-27 11:15:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
A bit stereotypical, but amusing.