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Whoops-A-Doodle

Dedicated to the memory and spirit of Fredrick Brown

            Mot moved down the Eternal Hallway with an effortless glide. He was tall, 8 foot 2 and a half inches to be precise, dressed in a black cloak, hood over his head, obscuring all facial features. In his bony left hand, he carried a long scythe parallel to his body. 

            Mot had been moving down the hall for somewhere between 750 and 900 years, give or take a decade or two. He wasn’t exactly sure as he hadn’t checked time before embarking on his journey. Time isn’t relevant to an Angel of Death.

            Screams, throat rattles, and guttural moans from the eternally tortured were piped into the Eternal Hallway like Muzac in a suburban mall. Mot hummed along to his meeting wondering how long he had been traveling because he knew Bilé would chastise him if he were tardy. While it was impossible for Mot to be tardy, existing outside of time and all, Pwcca would burn him nonetheless. It was what Tezcatlipoca did, burn and torture and other things unspeakable. 

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            Mot was also going through the innumerable names of Yaotzin. He had so danged many. Besides Bilé, Pwcca, Tezcatlipoca, and Yaotzin, other favorites were Adramalech, Apollyon, Mantus, Melek Taus, Mictian, Moloch, Nergal, Nihasa, Samnu, Sedit, Yen-lo-Wang, and many more unnavigable with a human tongue. His friends often called him Hoof. 

            Mot was not his friend, so choosing a name with which to address him was a befuddling task.

            Several hundred years later Mot arrived at his destination. Standing in front of the door he removed the round, yellow smiley face pin from his cloak and dropped it in his pocket. “You got to go in the pocket for a while, Ted.” He had named the smiley face pin Ted. “Just for a little while.” 

            Uniform accessories were forbidden and Samnu was a stickler for dress code. Mot checked his breath to make sure it was putrid, shook his bony arms to relax and loosen up, then finally grabbed the handle, turned the knob, opened the door, and walked in. 

            The door creaked open like a rusty castle drawbridge. Mot glided into the outer office and stood in front of the secretary’s government surplus metal desk. 

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            He stood for what seemed like fifty years. The secretary was typing memos or some such on an old Underwood typewriter, oblivious to Mot standing before her. She was a timeless hag, snaggletoothed, with open sores oozing puss, and wearing an immaculate Guy Laroche black dress accented with a pearl necklace and baby teeth earrings. She finished the memo with a flurry of mad typing, ripped it out of the Underwood, and slid it neatly on a stack of papers in her outbox. As she turned to Mot, a tricolored scab fell from her neck along with several ashy flakes. The skin on her face, what was left of it, had turned to leather and was stretched drum tight. Her empty eye sockets were black as pitch. Her eyeballs were missing, but her eyelids still clung to her forehead, drooping lackadaisically over the sockets. The left one still had a few lashes. The secretary’s name was Marzanna, her friends called her Marge. 

            Mot was not her friend, either.   

             “And how are you, Marzanna?” Mot inquired politely.

            “Shitty,” she replied.

            “Glad to hear it.” Mot rocked on the balls of his feet, drew a deep breath, and continued, “Is he in?”

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            “He’s been waiting,” Marzanna said testily. As she spoke, a left incisor fell out of her jaw and into her mouth. She rolled it with her wart covered tongue and spit it into a wastebasket across the room. “You are his last appointment. He’s anxious to leave for the weekend.”

            “It’s the weekend, is it?”

             “It is if he wants it to be,” she paused and lined her empty, gaping, soulless eye sockets directly at Mot, “and he always wants it to be the weekend.”

            “Yes, of course, who doesn’t look forward to the weekend. Seems like it never gets here,” Mot laughed awkwardly, “mostly because it never does.”

            Crickets crawled out of Marzanna’s left ear hole. 

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            Mot knew he should stop talking but he kept hearing words drop out of his mouth, “Sorry if I’m late,” he turned and pointed a bony finger, missing the top joint, towards the open door, “They don’t call it the Eternal Hallway for nothing, you know.”

            More crickets crawled out Marzanna’s left ear. 

            “Have a seat,” she said, dust spraying out of her mouth as she spoke. “I’ll tell him you’ve finally arrived.”

            “Ahh, yes, thank you.” Mot turned and surveyed the outer office. If memory served, they had redecorated since he had last visited. His remembrance from before was the office had been medieval, heavy on blood, and tones of excrement. The room was now more inquisitiony with holocaust accents and hints of BDSM with no safe word. As he took a seat in a leather wingback chair, making sure the spike went straight up his ass, Mot asked, as casually as he could muster, “Any idea why he wishes to speak with me?”   

            If Marzanna had eyes, she would have cut them in his direction to signal Mot he should shut up. She didn’t need eyes to convey this message. Mot sat quietly. Marzanna picked up the phone, and viciously hit the intercom button.  After two beats, “He’s finally arrived.” After another two beats, “I’ll tell him.” Before she could hang up the phone, her hand fell off her wrist and into her lap, the receiver clacking to the floor. She took no notice. “He’ll be right with you.”

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            Mot sat quietly, squirming as little as an Angel of Death can when he is nervous and has a wooden spike up his posterior.  

            Soon enough the door to Nergal’s office opened and he stepped into the outer office. He was tall, though not as tall as Mot, thin, and his face was pale almost to transparency.  He had no outstanding features save a pencil thin mustache. His suit was black and for a splash of color, he wore a lavender beret atop his head at a rakish tilt. 

            Mot, thank you for coming, unimpale yourself and come on in.

            “Thank you,” said Mot. He carefully rose and glided ahead of Adramalech into the inner sanctum.

            Maggie.

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            “Yes, sir?”

            Hold my calls.

            “No one calls you.”

            I know.

            He turned and walked into his office. Mot was standing in front of a six foot tall, twenty foot wide, and ten foot deep black marble desk. The walls of the office were yellow fire and the floor was high viscosity lava. The room smelled of sulfur, ragweed, and lemon rinds. Nihasa closed the door behind him and walked to his desk. 

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            I’m sorry to take you off the streets, Mot, but HR is climbing up my ass about you and I think you know why.

            “I more than meet my quota, I’m top 15 percent every quarter.”

            It’s not production, Mot, it’s method.

            “You said snot.”

            Don’t humor me, Mot.

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            “No, sir.”

            Mantus walked behind his desk and sat on a giant golden throne. 

            Please, make yourself comfortable, stand in the boiling diarrhea barrel.

            Mot glided to the barrel of boiling diarrhea in the middle of the room, “Head first or feet first?”

            Feet first is fine. 

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            Mot climbed into the barrel. 

            Comfortable?

            “Not really.”

            I have reports here. Melek Taus shuffled through papers on his desk, found the report he was looking for and began to read. 

            Intake says some people are arriving in hell snickering. He looks up to Mot and shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. 

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            What the what, Mott. Snickering? 

            “Uhm.”

            That’s not all. 

            Shuffling more papers he comes up with another report. 

            Here’s one that says chortling. Chortling, Mot. Pause for emphasis. I don’t even know what chortling is but I’m pretty sure it is worse than snickering. You are a freaking Angel of Death dispatching souls to hell. They are not supposed to arrive chortling and snickering. That’s for souls going the other way.

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            “Some are scared,” pleaded Mot. “Some are really scared, and disconcerted.”

            Sedit rubbed his temples. 

            Explain to me this method of yours I’ve been hearing about. 

            “Well, I sneak up on them,” Mot crouches in the barrel of boiling diarrhea as best he can, raises his scythe and torques his back, “then I whack their head clean off,” he lets rip a swing of the scythe, “and as the head tumbles and rolls I say, ‘Whoops-a-doodle.’” He stands straight and fidgets a might. “Kind of ironic like, you know. Whoops-a-doodle.”

            Whoops-a-doodle.

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            “Whoops-a-doodle.”

            Long, slow, heavy sigh from behind the desk.

            First thing, Mot, and take this as constructive criticism. So, you cut their head off in one fell swoop, which is okay, I suppose, on occasion, but it would be better if you hacked them up a bit. Use the pointy end of the scythe to stab them, then slice and dice a little. I mean, we gave you the scythe for a reason. One, it looks cool, especially with the robe and all, and two, it isn’t very efficient for killing people, you have to work at it. So take advantage, Mot, come on, ingenuity, my man.   

            “I see what you’re saying.”

            Do you, Mot. Do you really?

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            “Yes, sir.”

            I need to know that this time, you really hear what I’m saying.

            “I do. More stark terror, less irony and whimsy.”

            Stark terror ALL the time, irony on occasion, to break the monotony. Absolutely no whimsy. Whimsy is out.

            “Got it.”

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            No more whoops-a-doodle?

            Mot sighed, his hood slouched, he whispered, “Whoops-a-doodle is right out.”

            Moloch slaps both hands on the black marble. 

            Excellent, he exclaimed.

            Mot began to climb out of the barrel of boiling diarrhea, careful not to spill any on the lava floor. 

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            One last thing, Mictian said.

            Mot was one beaten down, hapless Angel of Death. He looked mournfully to Yen-lo-Wang.   

            You know what I’m going to ask for. He held out his hand.

            Mot sighed, reached into his pocket and withdrew Ted.

            You know we freaking see you. Everywhere. Throughout eternity, time and space.

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            “I know.” 

            Mot stretched out a shaky, bony hand and gave the smiley face button to Apollyon, who took it, opened his desk drawer to reveal hundreds of other smiley face buttons with names like Billy, Joey, Fred, Buddy and so on. He dropped Ted with the others and closed the drawer. 

            So we are all clear, are we? 

            “Yes, sir.” 

            Go knock them dead, Mot.

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            Mot shuffle-glided out of the office and back down the Eternal Hallway. 

Mark A. Nobles is a sixth generation Texan. Born on Fort Worth’s infamous Jacksboro Highway, Markproudly claims blood and kinship with Thunder Road’s gamblers, outlaws, and wastrels. His work has appeared in Cowboy Jamboree, Sleeping Panther Review, Crimson Streets, Cleaver Magazine, Curating Alexandria, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and other publications. He has produced and/or directed three feature documentaries and several short, experimental films. Mark lives in Fort Worth but hopes to die in the desert. He loves his two dogs, two daughters, and Texas, but not necessarily in that order. He can be found and followed on Facebook @ Flyin’ Shoes Films.

Author, Mark A. Nobles

Original Series

Nightmarish Nature: Horrifying Humans

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So we’re going out on a limb here in this segment of Nightmarish Nature and exploring one of the most terrifying, most dangerous, most impactful species to walk this planet. I’m talking about us of course. Sure, as humans, we may not seem all that horrific to ourselves, but to many other creatures we have been a force of nightmares.

Humans male as drawn by Jennifer Weigel
Humans male as drawn by Jennifer Weigel

Why are we terrifying?

Humans are among those species that engage in massive modifications to our environment to serve our needs, like beavers who dam rivers, elephants who eat all of the new growth scrub to keep the savannahs tree-free, and so on. Yeah, all creatures have some impact on their surroundings, but some take it up a notch, and we do so at an order of magnitude higher still. And we have gotten so good at it that we have managed to exist and thrive in places that would otherwise be inhospitable. We are outwardly adaptive and opportunistic to the point of being exploitative. We are the apex predators now.

Sabertooth cowering as drawn by Jennifer Weigel
Sabertooth cowering as drawn by Jennifer Weigel

We have forced many creatures into extinction, intentionally and not, and have sped up these effects enormously. The National Audobon Society chose the egret as its symbol after it made a comeback from being hunted to near extinction, and it was one of the lucky ones. Many weren’t so lucky, especially if they came in direct conflict with humans, such as wolves and the big cats who were in direct competition, or those who were really specialized in really specific niche circumstances that we pushed out of the way. And this is in only a very very limited scope of our earth’s history, and has since been even more ramped up with industrialization.

Humans female as drawn by Jennifer Weigel
Humans female as drawn by Jennifer Weigel

But humans aren’t all bad are we?

Depends on who you ask… We have created all sorts of incredible opportunities for some species too. Take mice for example. And coyotes. And kudzu. And a whole host of animals whom we’ve domesticated, some of whom wouldn’t have continued to exist otherwise or certainly wouldn’t exist in anything resembling their current forms. And the most massive extinctions occurred long before our arrival, when the earth was still forming and underwent rapid catastrophic changes and swings, decimating critters as they were trying to get a foothold. Nothing is constant except for change; that has always been true.

Wolf begging for cheezborger drawn by Jennifer Weigel
Wolf begging for cheezborger drawn by Jennifer Weigel

So it isn’t my goal to get all eco-con​scious and environmentalist here. Just that I feel if we are going to explore some of the more terrifying aspects of nature, we need to look in the mirror. Because if a consensus were taken right here, right now of all living beings globally as to what is among the most terrifying creatures among us, I’m sure we’d appear on that list.

If you enjoyed this closer-than-kissing-cousins segment of Nightmarish Nature on Horrifying Humans, please check out past segments:

Vampires Among Us

Perilous Parenting

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Freaky Fungus

Worrisome Wasps

Cannibalism

Terrifying Tardigrades

Reindeer Give Pause

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Komodo Dragons

Zombie Snails

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Original Creations

Werewolf-ing It Well, Part 3 by Jennifer Weigel

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Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous two St. Patrick’s Days… Here are Part 1 from 2022 and Part 2 from 2023 if you want to catch up.


Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel

So apparently it really was my lucky day at that suburban gas mart last St. Patrick’s Day. I got the mother lode of all Scratchers. I hit it big time. I had no real idea of what that meant, but it looked promising. Maybe I could get a Cadillac to tour Route 66 AND a cabin in the woods… But who was gonna drive?

Now apparently you can’t just cash these things in at the register. You have to mail them in or something. Why does life have to be so complicated? Anything involving those good for nothing mailmen has to be rigged or part of some larger conspiracy, I’m sure. But I pocketed my prize and made some plans. I couldn’t rely on old Sal not to just pocket my prize for himself; he wasn’t the sort that would let me have my dream. Or even understood that I had dreams beyond just chasing rabbits (though those are the best).

The next full moon I whined and howled at Sal to take me in to work with him. Sal just patted me on the head. Didn’t even offer a treat or nothing. Seriously, I had to get out of there, this suburban situation was the pits. I couldn’t do another year of it, watching my life tick away. So, when that didn’t work, I gently grabbed my Scratchers ticket like I was retrieving a very important slipper and slunk over and hid in his truck under that ratty blanket he kept in the back.

I managed to creep into the junkyard office and hide there while Sal was sleeping on the job. Those mastiffs nearly ratted me out, but fortunately they were chained up, and they weren’t all that bright anyway. Just growled a string of profanities at my cur form, like I hadn’t heard that before. Anyway, I waited it out and before long I heard Monty’s car pull up, rattling like the dilapidated Honda Civic held together with duct tape that it was. Sal’s truck pulled off, spitting gravel and exhaust in its wake as always.

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Dusk was setting in and I could feel the change starting. Nothing to do for it, guess I’d just have to run with it then. Monty had settled in as usual, watching bad porn and staring off into nothing. He still smelled like day old jelly donuts (the kind you can get a whole bag for $1) and coffee, as usual. Good boy Monty, how I’ve missed you and the occasional stale donut, even if it wasn’t a cookie. I approached him from behind and coughed.

Monty nearly leapt out of his skin. He blanched as if he’d seen a ghost before he managed to find his voice. “Shit, that wasn’t a dream,” he stammered, pointing. As he realized I meant him no harm, he regained his composure and even offered me a day-old jelly donut, which I accepted gratefully. I think he could tell that my tail would have been wagging if I’d still had one at that time.

“Lucky, what in all of hell are you doing here?” he asked, eyes still wide as saucers. “And for Christ’s sake, put on some pants.” He offered up the spare uniform that still just hung from the hook behind the door. I guess in my fervor to talk to him I’d forgotten to dress. Oops.

Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel

“Monty, old friend, I need a favor,” I barked. I handed him the Scratchers. His eyes grew wider.

“Shit, where’d you get this?” That’s a lot of money,” Monty exclaimed. “They’ve been looking for the winner of this one…”

“I’d stashed it in my hidey spot under the place where the carpet peels up after I got it… It’s our ticket out of here,” I retorted. “You don’t think I want to spend the rest of my days laying around suburbia with tightwad treat-skimping Sal do you?”

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“I suppose not,” Monty quipped. “But what’d you have in mind?”

“You and me, we could get a cabin in the woods, live off the land. Get out of this shit-hole. Hell, you could even get a real car, one of those big-boat Cadillacs with the wide tongue-lolling windows…”

“Um, you could do a lot more than that with this, but I catch your drift. And I want out of this hellhole too. But, like…? I mean, you aren’t gonna bite me or anything, or get all weird.” Monty fidgeted like he did when he was nervous. “I guess I knew but didn’t want to admit it – dude you’re a freak show.”

“Gee thanks. Trust me, being a dog is better any day except that you can’t drive or get your own treats and crap,” I retorted. “And if was gonna bite you I’d have done so a long time ago. It doesn’t work that way, anyway. Seriously, you don’t believe all that werewolf mumbo jumbo on Netflix too, do you?”

Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel

Monty shook his head tentatively. “I don’t really know what to believe. I mean, I guess I always knew you were like this, but I didn’t let it sink in.”

“Well, get over it and help me get my dream cabin,” I snipped. “Seriously don’t just stand there gawking all night; I put on clothes and everything. I only have tonight.”

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“You mean before you turn back into a dog?” Monty asked.

I nodded, still licking the jelly off my lips.

“But I thought werewolf changes happened every full moon,” Monty asked.

“I do, but these Scratchers change like the wind. We gotta cash in quick,” I growled. “And if you try to turn on me, I’ll hunt you down. That’s OUR ticket outta here.”

“No, no, I get it,” Monty said. “I’ll make good on it, I promise. I can follow up on the ticket first thing tomorrow; it says to mail it in or go to the courthouse or something. I’ll figure it out… I guess you can stay with me until we get it sorted, but you have to be really quiet about it. I’m not supposed to have pets in that crap apartment for all that a little dog hair would be an improvement.”

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Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s writing here at Jennifer Weigel Words.

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Lighter than Dark

LTD: The Firing Squad

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So you’ve just gotten the pink slip.

Work is letting you go. Amidst all of the layoffs, you just didn’t make the cut. Well, I’m sorry to say, but it behooves you to go quietly. And quickly. Because you don’t want to stick around for the Firing Squad…

In fact, if your HR department is outsourced to one of those Eldritch contractors like so many are nowadays, get outta dodge NOW. Like seriously. Leave the lunch you brought in the fridge; leave the personal items in and on and around your desk. Hell, leave your coat and purse if you are not near them. You can get new ones. Maybe one of your ex-coworkers can help you retrieve your stuff later. Because you need to get out while the getting is still good.

The Firing Squad is coming.

And if they so much as see a pink slip anywhere in your immediate vicinity, it is complete and total annihilation…

Ready Aim Fire...  The Firing Squad appears digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Ready Aim Fire… The Firing Squad appears
Wing Shot...  The Firing Squad takes aim digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Wing Shot… The Firing Squad takes aim
Sharp Shooter...  You're a goner! digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Sharp Shooter… You’re a goner!

I warned you… Those Eldritch contractor HR departments mean business… It’s like going to the Library. Or making Jell-O.

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

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