Almond (ONC2021)

Chapter 8 - The Viking Potato

Following my stunning defeat in a gunfight with an unarmed Muppet, I retreated to the last room that had yet to be almondized—Beth's home office. I locked the door, blocked it with an end table, and then flopped into her desk chair.

I was rocking absentmindedly in the chair when I bumped the desk, shifted the mouse, and woke her computer up. I blinked at the sudden brightness of the Google screen and almost thumbed off the monitor. Instead, I typed in "almond monster".

The search was pretty pointless. I received results of almonds and monsters but no combinations. My first instinct was to give up, which is something I enjoy doing, but I was locked in my wife's office, in the middle of the night, and too terrified to sleep. Hence, I opted to keep searching various wordings of almond and monster.

After countless dead-ends, hilarious pictures, and some really weird pornography, I happened upon a website called Eaters of the Dumb. It chronicled the work and experiences of a paranormal researcher referred to as "Professor 'Spuds' Potet". It was mainly a collection of urban legends mixed with some cryptozoology folklore. The little evidence provided was dubious at best—grainy pictures, second-hand accounts, and rumors—but I felt my story would fit in here with just as much believability.

I skimmed through sections on Bloody Mary, the famous spirit who would appear in mirrors if her name was repeated. There was the Chupacabra, which was some kind of vampiric Mexican coyote or something. Following these were mythical mainstays Bigfoot and Loch Ness Monster. One that really caught my attention was a demonic spirit known as Pigman the Butcher. Apparently, people could unleash this violent demon on their enemies by tricking them into eating cursed bacon. The lists were as exhaustive as they were ridiculous. Or maybe not so ridiculous anymore I had to admit.

While there was no mention of a situation quite like mine, I figured it wasn't far off. I located an email address for the professor—thevikingpotato@gmail. It wasn't a handle that gave me much confidence, but I was pretty desperate and there weren't any other, more legit sources of help to turn to.

I fired off a probably-too-quickly-written email, detailing my experiences. I tried to not go too over-the-top, as I assumed this Professor received a lot of messages from crackpots and I wanted to seem believable but not insane. Hoping to speed up a response I included my phone number.

Apparently, Professor Potet didn't have much going on as my phone rang within the hour.

***

The professor had been very intrigued. So much so that he enthusiastically agreed to make the five-hour drive from Philadelphia just to meet with me. He had claimed that he had some knowledge of my particular situation that may be of use to me. In retrospect, I should have quizzed him more, but I was so exhausted, and it felt good to talk, even briefly, to someone who seemed to believe me.

So, five hours later I wandered into the agreed-upon coffee shop and spotted a giant of a man with a long, braided beard. He was the only one looking around like he was expecting someone, so I made my way to his table. He really did look like a Viking, so I understood his email address (although the potato thing still made no sense).

"Professor Potet?"

"Max O'Brien?"

Despite his looking like a Viking, there was something sloth-like about him. All of his physical mannerisms were just slightly slowed—the way he sipped his coffee, how he reached across the table to shake my hand—each just seemed to take too long. Even his blinks were inefficient. Instead of an immeasurably quick snap, his eyes would slide shut for one to two full seconds, which was maddeningly long for a blink.