Curse of the Alligator: ACT 1

An Alligator's Dirty Dishes

That sensation of new skin replastered across my muscles. No matter how much I rack my brain, the change can't be remembered, a liminal space. My belly is wholly flesh, and I am left naked with trembling hands and fluid dried in my hair. The remains of the monster melted into goo. I've tucked deep between a gap of missing cinderblocks inside the overpass wall. I squeeze out of the space, scraping my skin. The lube from the goo hasn't helped. I fall onto the concrete, reborn as myself. This summer seemed sustainable, but my path is now splattered with roadkill. More rain is coming, and there is so much housecleaning to do.

The overpass roars above as each car drives by. The ground feels like it's shaking beneath me, but judging from an unmoved puddle of water, it's vertigo. Suppose I could get this ringing out of my ears, shit. A tent is set up at the other end. There are better times to get spotted than now. I slide back into my corner and peek through a missing screw-hole on the steel beam. This man must be hitchhiking somewhere; I don't recognize his face. He looks my way and double-takes my position.

"Are you watching me?" The homeless man says after rolling his crackers back into the box.

I emerge from my standing with one hand covering my dick. I know this will freak him out, but I have no other option. He'll think I'm the naked, crazy man of Candle, Texas. Maybe he'll be somewhat accepting with his disheveled Jesus of Nazareth attire—a 50/50 shot.

"Okay, I wasn't expecting that." The homeless man anxiously says and steps back. "Please, go about your business and keep ass over there." He is shy enough not to stare.

"If you couldn't tell, I'm in a dire situation and need help. Do you have any spare clothes on you? This isn't normal, but it was a bad acid trip. I ended up in a pasture." I speak to his good nature, keeping my hand tightly gripped on my piece.

"I'm not playing with you. I understand you're going through some shit, but I don't play around. No jokes, boy. Keep your ass over there!" The man grabs a knife and protects his tent.

Desperate people will survive, especially a cowboy. I test the waters and approach. The homeless man points his knife at me. In reaction, I lift my hand off my balls and surrender with palms in the air. He adverts his eyes. I take another step forward. He slices at my throat but doesn't look where he is swinging. I dodge, grab his shirt, and roll down the slanted concrete. Cars zoom above and below; if anyone notices us, they'll call the police immediately. I adjust to a chokehold. He attempts to plunge the blade into my side, but I hook the arm and constrict. His face turns blue. Tighter, his hand drops to the ground. Tighter, his mouth drips foam. Despite the monster I've become, I am scared; I can't let go. Tighter, his struggle ends.

His pulse is soft, but I can't tell if he's alive or dead. I didn't want him to die. He needs to go to the ER ASAP. Under different circumstances, I would throw him in my truck and peel out. Right now, the truth is he ain't my responsibility. I disrobe his trench coat and wrap my bare ass. I borrow his combat boots; they're snug, but they do the job. This works to my advantage; the extra tracks will throw anyone off my trail. His tent is full of garbage.

I run across the highway, masking my face; Candle knows everyone. Someone driving about 80 mph is approaching. The car passes with that long-neck, big-body busybody Cheyenne Foster trying to get a peek at me. Keep moving; she better not say jack-shit. Following her is a clunky, beige Oldsmobile. Watch out; it swerves into the shoulder to dodge me! What was their problem?

I return to the creek and hear police sirens in the distance. Someone could have found one of the bodies, but hopefully, it was a report on all the chaos at the overpass. Three fresh kills in the sewer. One is eaten, another flushed, and the final remains. The girl must have washed out of the sewer and down the creek. There are bite marks on her leg, but it is easy to mistake as a coyote. She will float far enough down the stream, miles away. The best-case scenario is that it looks like a drowning incident. From what I remember, the one in the sewer is missing a limb. That's right; he wore a green ski mask. I must retrieve him.