Author's Note: This story is based off a character in the X-Files role play my sisters and I had about half a year back. The characters are closely but not exactly based on those from The X-Files TV show, so don't get confused. After we ran out of sensible action/adventure sequences, it became comedic, ridiculous, and random, and thus created this… monster. Enjoy!
Chapter 1
My name is Coyote William Mulder. No, wait – it's Special Agent Coyote William Mulder with the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI!). But that's now, and if you want to know about now, look through a role-play spirit log, and watch the X-Files TV show (except the guy in that is named Fox. What a wussy name. He he.) I got to make out with my partner Kyra Scully a bit, too, and a lot of other awkward stuff. Anyhoo, I'm here to talk about my childhood... and me and my childhood start with a certain person known as… wait for it… MY GRANDMOTHER!
Okay, so you might think that all grannies are sweet and nice and love their grandchildren… sure, that's true for some of them, but the truth is, most are practically witches. Mine, you might wonder… what was she? A sweet granny or a barbaric monster? Well, truth be told, she was neither. She was a raving, snarling, beastly, hideous, ogre-like, giantess of a freaky alien from beyond mars, or even the 'final frontier' of space. She was the Boss Level Boss. The Boss.
She was – and still is, unfortunately – my mother's mother. Now that's just plain scary. Okay, so you get the big picture – I'm a little kid (7 years old when I first appear in this story… three years before… before… SAMANTHA! BWAHHHHHHHHH!) – with an evil of all evils grandmother, a stiff set of parents, and a little sister, who was 5 when this story starts.
Okay, so here we go. My grandmother was a kick-ass murderer on the race track with her cherry-red motorcycle when she met my grandfather. After they had kids (my mother being their daughter) my grandfather upset her and was locked in the basement, without any clothes on where the temperature ranged from 50 degrees below 0 Fahrenheit to around 100 below with the wind-chill. He froze to death, sadly, and my grandmother said he deserved it (the reason she was mad at him was because he forgot to add the motor oil in her coffee. Les ogress loves her motor oil, and can't live without it.)
Then my mother got all mixed up with the Smoking Bastard and had me or Samantha or someone. I think it was me, actually, and Sammy was the son… (sorry Samantha, that's mean to you) or daughter of me daddy, William Mulder.
Okay, so now in the story, I'm seven, my sister is five, and we're on the way to my grandmother's house. I glanced over at Sammy, and looking really nervous, prodded her in the side.
She poked me back, and said "Coyote, I'm scared of granny."
"Me too," I said. "But remember, Sammy, she likes you a lot. Maybe she'll let you watch your favorite show."
Sammy laughed. Her favorite show was "So you Think you can Dance?" Now, before I continue, there's something you must know about my grandmother. And that is that she hates, with all the loathing of hell, dancing (unless she's doing it herself). "Coyote," she said. "You're really stupid."
I started crying, because she was being mean to me again. She instantly looked sorry, and I felt an evil sensation of victory come over me, but I kept crying just to make her feel bad.
Finally we got there, and were greeted by… by… well, by this guy:
"How many kittens have you killed in your lifetime? I've got five to show for." Something like this was always the way my grandmother's old drunk neighbor engaged in a conversation. He held up his right hand, covered in cactus scratches from his "pet" he keeps by the open window (it's fallen out more times than I can count, but is somehow still alive). He always claims these battle wounds of his are from the warrior kittens he was eventually forced to drown in his bathtub after they raided his kitchen.
"Hi, dude." I say, because I don't what his name is, and I don't really want to. I think it's like Mr. Sneedle Grode or something. That was just the first random sounds that came to mind, so it might just work. Sneedle, I'll just call him then, held out his hand to shake. He has a lot of rumors about him buzzing around his head like a cloud of stinging wasps. So I didn't shake his hand; I just smiled and said the only kitten I'd killed was my granny's because I thought he was the devil and she always stuck him in our faces and told us he would kill us during the night if we misbehaved. So really it was Sammy's fault. Don't ask.
Sneedle finally left us alone, and we tentatively knocked on the witches door. I saw a looming eye through the keyhole. Then the door creaked slowly open, and the little gold chain from the inside of withdrawn, and well as about five other bolts and locks. I even heard her removing a nailed-on board with the end of a hammer. I think I remember something about that hammer.
It was one of those seemingly endless email loops… something like this.
Hi, honey,
This is your Grandmother. I got a new hammer. Here's a picture. [See attachment below.]
Granny.
Hi, Granster,
What IS that? Please don't tell me!
Kitty.
Hi, "Kitty",
That is my new hammer. I took a kid's eye out with it, and had to finish him off and bury him in the back yard to hide what the cops were guessing at… his mommy said it was "that old lady's grandson," so I took the opportunity to get away with my... hmmmm… fifty-seven-thousandth murder, I think?
Granny.
Freaky Killer Lady –
Here's a joke. An old lady walked into a bar with a hammer, and beat the bar senseless. Then she walked into a pig, and made some ham with her hammer. Get it? LOL!
Best Wishes (with a lot to myself),
Kitty.
Anyway, it went on for a while and I don't really want to see that murder weapon in real life, so I hung back from the door a good ways, until I heard her put away that hammer.
"Goddamn it!" She snapped, even though she knew it was us already, "You damn kids again!" For some reason, one her eyes looked yellowish and the other red. She had the appearance of a horror-movie mad scientist. "Where're you goddamn parents?" Her teeth rattled, and a little spit hit me in the face. I flinched, and felt a wee bit faint.
I heard her radio in the background (political drool!): "…back to work, so we can increase revenues, in help education. And to reduce corporate tax loopholes, we are the fifth state forty-six production of our student fulfill those jobs. Washington state is worthy of… I reform packages… great teacher in every classroom… why science technology… every child… dropping out of school…"
Hmmm… dropping out of school… great teacher in every classroom. That's reminds of something I need to tell you about very soon…
Anyway, my granny snapped and chewed my mum and papa 'til they looked as though they might puke, then told us we could sleep in the basement where our granddaddy died. How sweet. I had to run to the bathroom to comfort/be comforted by Samantha and puke from fear in the toilet (I'm not sure if granny is goffic or something, but the toilet already had some stuff in it… a little blood, a knife blade, a hand, some fake teeth (maybe they were fake, maybe not) and a couple of rotten fish.)
So I puked again.
Anyhoo (god I hate it when the granster says that)… about school. My grandmother, and yes, you read the correctly, my grandmother – taught my school class. I was in the first grade, even though I was seven, because granny thought I was real dumb (no offense to any people out there who are genuine idiotas, but yes, she thought she had a stupid grandson. Get over it, I say. I think I'm just creative… I'M SPECIALLY DIFFERENT, OKAY!) and she's mean.
OKAY, FLASHBACK TIME.