OMG creeped out, and Ficlet
just reading the FAQs about Twin Peaks creeped me out totally. I think I'll have to watch three hours of cartoons to scrub out the terror.
Dude, BOB scares the crap out of me. Knowing thatthe actor who played him died in 1996 makes me feel a little better (shut up! TERRIFIED!)
On that note:
Red Light
Oz had a hard time putting his finger on the smell when he rolled into town, but after he passed a gas station and the charred remains of a lumber mill, it hit him: scorched oil. Everything here had the faint smell of it, like some dude had washed his hands in it and then marked the entire town, here and there, by rubbing his palms all over windowsills and telephone poles.
And it was like bleach, in that after a while, it stained the nostrils. He had no idea if the pot roast he was eating smelled delicious, because his nose was in agony. The people at the next table over, though, seemed to think it was pretty okay, so he continued on with it.
Out of the blue he remembered that the few times he'd met the Mayor before, well, the teeth and the woah, he'd smelled dead snakeskin. Scorched oil couldn't be a good sign either. Or maybe logging towns just smelled like this.
He hadn't expected to see FBI here, but there the guy was, sitting at the counter, swilling coffee and extolling (really loud) the virtues of the diner's cherry pie. FBI was easy to spot. They moved like the military, and Oz had a little experience with that.
It made him want pie.
"You might want to be careful," said a voice beside him, and the lady he'd ignored when he came in, the one clutching the log to her chest, had migrated over to the stool next to him at the counter.
He glanced at the log. This was new. "Sorry?"
The lady stared unblinking. "My log has a message for you."
The girl behind the counter, Shelley, the one who'd been giving him the eye but who smelled like worn out sex, refilled his coffee and stayed within earshot. The FBI agent was still absorbed in his vast array of desserts. The jukebox was playing a song that he had never heard on any jukebox in like, ever, and probably should never be on any jukebox, like ever either.
He put down his fork and glanced at the log again. In the long and short of things, this wasn't too weird. He transformed into a man-beast three nights a month and had blown up his high school. The log was harmless, as long as she just, held it, and didn't, you know, swing it around.
"Okay then," he said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "Let's hear it."
The lady leaned forward as if to tell him a secret. "The trees will swallow your fur, if you let them. The forest is full of owls."
Oz raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Yeah, okay, I'll uh, take that under advisement." He turned to go back to his plate but the lady remained exactly as she was. He wondered if she wanted a tip, or if she was in some sort of meditative trance. He started to reach for his wallet.
She cocked her head. "The trees are impatient. You should go."
That wasn't cool. He hadn't even finished his pie. Or started it, rather. "I will," he said, "when I'm done here."
The lady reached out and touched his arm. "The moon will give you to the Lodge."
Suddenly he didn't want pie. The smell that had taken over his senses now became even stronger so that he was forced to notice it again. And the coffee smelled worse, acrid and thick, like…scorched oil.
He was thinking of saying something either very sarcastic, or terse, or both, but the music on the jukebox changed. Oz decided then and there that any diner that would carry what sounded like a creepified version of the fight between West Side Story's Sharks and Jets was some place that he didn't need to be. He fished money from his wallet, tossed it onto the counter, and walked around the lady with the log. The back of his neck felt her stare all the way to the van.
All the lights were red on his way out of town, but not even the cops stopped him when he blew through them all.
Dude, BOB scares the crap out of me. Knowing thatthe actor who played him died in 1996 makes me feel a little better (shut up! TERRIFIED!)
On that note:
Red Light
Oz had a hard time putting his finger on the smell when he rolled into town, but after he passed a gas station and the charred remains of a lumber mill, it hit him: scorched oil. Everything here had the faint smell of it, like some dude had washed his hands in it and then marked the entire town, here and there, by rubbing his palms all over windowsills and telephone poles.
And it was like bleach, in that after a while, it stained the nostrils. He had no idea if the pot roast he was eating smelled delicious, because his nose was in agony. The people at the next table over, though, seemed to think it was pretty okay, so he continued on with it.
Out of the blue he remembered that the few times he'd met the Mayor before, well, the teeth and the woah, he'd smelled dead snakeskin. Scorched oil couldn't be a good sign either. Or maybe logging towns just smelled like this.
He hadn't expected to see FBI here, but there the guy was, sitting at the counter, swilling coffee and extolling (really loud) the virtues of the diner's cherry pie. FBI was easy to spot. They moved like the military, and Oz had a little experience with that.
It made him want pie.
"You might want to be careful," said a voice beside him, and the lady he'd ignored when he came in, the one clutching the log to her chest, had migrated over to the stool next to him at the counter.
He glanced at the log. This was new. "Sorry?"
The lady stared unblinking. "My log has a message for you."
The girl behind the counter, Shelley, the one who'd been giving him the eye but who smelled like worn out sex, refilled his coffee and stayed within earshot. The FBI agent was still absorbed in his vast array of desserts. The jukebox was playing a song that he had never heard on any jukebox in like, ever, and probably should never be on any jukebox, like ever either.
He put down his fork and glanced at the log again. In the long and short of things, this wasn't too weird. He transformed into a man-beast three nights a month and had blown up his high school. The log was harmless, as long as she just, held it, and didn't, you know, swing it around.
"Okay then," he said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "Let's hear it."
The lady leaned forward as if to tell him a secret. "The trees will swallow your fur, if you let them. The forest is full of owls."
Oz raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Yeah, okay, I'll uh, take that under advisement." He turned to go back to his plate but the lady remained exactly as she was. He wondered if she wanted a tip, or if she was in some sort of meditative trance. He started to reach for his wallet.
She cocked her head. "The trees are impatient. You should go."
That wasn't cool. He hadn't even finished his pie. Or started it, rather. "I will," he said, "when I'm done here."
The lady reached out and touched his arm. "The moon will give you to the Lodge."
Suddenly he didn't want pie. The smell that had taken over his senses now became even stronger so that he was forced to notice it again. And the coffee smelled worse, acrid and thick, like…scorched oil.
He was thinking of saying something either very sarcastic, or terse, or both, but the music on the jukebox changed. Oz decided then and there that any diner that would carry what sounded like a creepified version of the fight between West Side Story's Sharks and Jets was some place that he didn't need to be. He fished money from his wallet, tossed it onto the counter, and walked around the lady with the log. The back of his neck felt her stare all the way to the van.
All the lights were red on his way out of town, but not even the cops stopped him when he blew through them all.