DOOMBUMPS #1: MONSTERS!

 

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Hey there. My name is Timmy. Timmy McDermott. Nice to meet you. I’m not sure who you are, but I’m just betting that you’re dying to read about my wacky adventure. My adventure…about MONSTERS!

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Oh hello. Sorry for yelling there. My emotions got the best of me. Which is kind of a stretch for me, because I don’t have a lot of emotions, except really really angry ones. So you know this is going to be a great adventure.

Our family moved when I was 13. Just up and moved. Didn’t know where we were going. One day, Dad just came home. We didn’t know where he came home from, because he didn’t have a job. But you know how dads are. Always coming home, and saying, “PACK YOUR BAGS KIDS! WE’RE MOVING!” Jerks. I would have to leave my entire life behind. School. Friends. My tree house, where I would go and listen to my favorite band, Good Charlotte, every time I got depressed. All left behind. Man, whatever.

That same day, I went up in the attic. The forbidden attic. There, sitting on an old dusty couch at the other side of the room, was a zombie. I opened my mouth to say, “Man, what the fuh…” but no sound came out.

“Argghh! I’m going to eat your brains!” growled the zombie, as he got up from the couch and held his arms out toward me, in an attempt to grab me, even though I was about 20 feet away.

“Dude, just shut up,” I said. I rolled my eyes, and went back down the steps into the hallway. What a queer.

“Ha ha! You’re ugly!” came the voice of my hoochie sister Carly Ann. She was standing at the end of the hall, pointing at me.

“Cut it out hooch,” I said. “Why’s that stupid zombie in our attic?”

“ZOMBIE?!” shouted Carly Anne. “AAAHHHHH!”

“Shut up! Stop crying!” came a booming thunderous voice.

And then the hallway door opened.

The man (or creature) standing there wasn’t my dad. I opened my mouth to swear, but no sound came out.

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Oh wait. It was my dad. Sorry, sorry. My fault. It took me a second.

“What in the name of Sam Hill is going on out here?” my dad bellowed.

“Dad, Timmy said there’s a zombie in the attic!” whined my sister. Then she looked at me and pulled that face. You know, that one face that sisters always do. You know, that one. I wanted to punch her so bad. I hate her so much. So much. So very much. There’s probably no one in the world I hate more. I wish I could kill her. I probably will someday. With a knife. And a pair of scissors. And a gun. A really big gun. I’ll build myself a bionic arm so I can have three arms, and kill herself with three things, all at the same time, instead of just two things. That’s how much I hate her. Hate hate hate.

“Tim, I’ve got an important business project to finish, and I can’t get much work done with you stirring up shenanigans and making your sister cry out here!” said my Dad.

“But Dad,” I replied. “You don’t even have a job. What project?”

“We don’t talk about that,” he responded. “Anyway, I have a business meeting that I have to fly out to in Chicago, so you kids are going to be all alone tonight. Tim, take care of your sister, and no more jokes.” My dad was a funny looking guy. A long mullet, bushy mustache, and weathered and torn hands complemented his otherwise fragile and womanly body. A pair of bi-focals hung off the edge of his curved nose, and one of his ears was missing.

“Tim, stop staring at me,” said my Dad. I didn’t hear him. I was too busy staring at him and coming up with clever descriptions in my head of what he looked like. “Tim! Stop it! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! TIM! SNAP OUT OF IT! TIMMY JONAS MCDERMOTT!” I tried to look away from him, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull my gaze away from that beautiful mustache and that long smooth and flowing mullet. I tried with all my might, with every ounce of strength I had, but I couldn’t do it. He continued to yell at me, but I was completely lost in thought. I was helpless, like a newborn child. “TIMOTHY MCDERMOTT! NOOOOOO!” cried my father, though I really couldn’t hear him, but I read his beautiful brusque lips and assumed that’s what he was yelling.

Then everything went black.

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When I came to, I found myself looking up into a sea of blue. A beautiful blue sky. A flock of Canadian geese flew by in a V-formation. “Aww,” I said.

It was then that I realized where I was. I was tied to a railroad track!

What the shih? I opened my mouth to swear, and every swear word came out. But then I thought to myself, this is not the time to swear. This is the time to survive.

I struggled, helplessly, to free myself.

CHOO CHOO! came the sound of the train in the distance, since that is precisely what it sounds like. I pulled and pulled to free my limbs, but the rope was tied so skillfully that I was forced to just give up and lay there. Who could’ve done this to me? My dad? Carly Ann? The zombie? I needed answers.

CHOO CHOO! Closer this time! I could see the plume of smoke above the tree line in the distance. Think Timmy think! Suddenly, it came to me. It had to be someone that I hated, someone who was my sister, and someone that would squeal on me to my parents when I had told her I’d seen a zombie in the attic. That someone was…

“CARLY ANN!” I bellowed in a voice that was approximately 200 times deeper and louder than my regular voice. Trees shook violently. The Canadian geese exploded. The rope, which had held me so securely to the railroad track, burst apart. The train, which I could see about 150 yards away, derailed, and went crashing into the woods in an orgy of fire, twisted screaming metal, and smoke. Somewhere else off in the distance, a baby cried. Of course I didn’t mean to cause so much destruction, but you cannot stop the awesome power of revenge, and a hatred meter that has totally reached its maximum limit. I learned long ago that when my hatred meter is full, things around me blow up and die. It’s my curse. I call it “The Curse of Timmy.”

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Later that night, back home, things were pretty awkward with my sister and I. I mean, she had tied me to a railroad track and tried to kill me. On the way home, I’d run into a ravenous werewolf. That was pretty awkward, so I pulled out my I-phone and pretended to be talking to my girlfriend. You know how that always happens, when you’re walking down the street, or down the hall at school, and somebody you just always feel awkward around walks up to you? So you whip out your phone and pretend to be chattin it up with your hot babe friend Stacy, or possibly Monica? Works every time.

“So uh…how’s school going?” I asked Carly Ann as we were sitting at the dinner table, eating macaroni and cheese.

“Good,” she replied.

There were several minutes of silence, except for the chewing of macaroni noodles, and the clinking of forks against plates. Again, I spoke up.

“So uh…how’s that boyfriend of yours, Steve? Or Biff? Crap, I forgot his name.”

“Davy,” she responded. “He’s good.”

“Good.”

Again, there was silence for several minutes, besides the chewing of noodles. Fortunately, I had cooked about 10 boxes of noodles, so I had plenty to last me for another several minutes of awkward silence. Yet again, I spoke up.

“So uh…yeah.”

“Yup.”

Chewing. Clinking.

“So uh…you tried to kill me today.”

“Yeah.”

This was getting ridiculous.

“No, I mean…you actually tried to kill me,” I said. “Not just hurt me, or brutally wound me. You tried to kill me. You tied me up to a railroad track, for [bleep] sakes. With a rope!”

“Yeah, I think that happened,” she mumbled, looking down, daintily chewing a cheese-drenched noodle.

“No,” I said, feeling my hatred meter rising. “It did happen, you see. It did. I mean, what would possess someone to do that? To try to kill somebody else by tying them to a railroad track?!”

“I don’t know Timmy!” she said, starting to get a little flustered.

“YES YOU DO!” I shouted, jumping up from the table, the deathrage sparkling in my eyes. “YOU KNOW! ARGGH!!!” I grabbed the table and overturned it. The dishes and flower vase crashed to the floor, followed by the thud of the table itself. Carly Ann, terrified, backed into a corner, whimpering.

“STOP WHIMPERING!” I yelled. “WHAT ARE YOU, A DOG?”

She broke into crying.

I grabbed a pizza cutter.

“At least I would’ve died quickly, chopped in half in a second,” I said, advancing towards her. “I’m gonna cut you up into eight easy pieces!”

“Timmy!” she whimpered through her tears. “Stop this! Stop it! You’re scaring me!”

“I don’t know why you’ve always hated me, Carly Ann,” I said, numb to any sort of mercy or compassion. “All those times I protected you. All those times I took a bullet for you. All those times I gave you money so you could go clubbin with your friends. It means nothing to you.”

“Timmy! Please! Stop this!” she cried. But she knew it was in vain. She knew that her cries were no match for the Curse of Timmy. Or did she?!

Yes. She did.

Or did she?

“Take THIS!” she cried, and she grabbed a handful of macaroni and threw it at my face. The cheese, the gooey melted luscious cheese, stung my eyes. “Arggh!” I cried, stumbling backwards. I tripped on the overturned table and fell backwards onto the floor. “I’ll tear you limb from limb!” I yelled, groping about blindly on the floor.

“You’re a monster!” Carly Ann yelled, and she ran from the room.

Me? The monster? Was I the true monster? I laid there on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, pondering this turn of events. Perhaps I was. Perhaps that zombie and that werewolf were not the true monsters, only as we as humans perceive them.

Maybe I am the monster.

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From that day forward, I pledged to help and serve everyone, including my little sister, whom I loved. What a treasure she was.

One day, many years later, when I was building an outhouse for some orphans in Guatamala, the leader of the service group I was with came up to me, with a letter in hand. “McDermott…mail!” he said. “Thanks,” I muttered. I tore it open, and read:

                        Dear Timmy,

                         We need you to come home as quickly as possible. Your sister Carly Ann is sick.

                                                                           Love,
                                                                           Your Parents

“Dear gosh,” I said, unable to comprehend what I had just read. Carly Ann? Sick? Surely this was some kind of joke. Some kind of sick joke. I laughed to myself upon thinking this. “Heh heh. Sick joke.” Get it? If not, you suck.

Upon my return home from Guatamala, I found the family gathered in the upstairs bedroom. It had been years since I had seen Carly Ann. “Carly Ann!” I said”

“Timmy,” she said weakly.

I leaned over the bed. She looked terrible. Absolutely terrible. She was basically a skeleton.

“Carly Ann, who did this to you?” I asked, tears beginning to well up in my eyes.

“Typhoid,” she responded. “It was the typhoid.”

In my heart, I felt the deathrage begin to surge. My hatred meter began to fill. I tried to suppress it. I hadn’t felt the deathrage since that night I had tried to kill Carly Ann with the pizza cutter. Not now!

“No Carly Ann. No! Not the typhoid!” I said, unable to believe it.

“It’s true,” said my mom. “It’s the typhoid.”

“I’m sorry Timmy,” said my sister.

Tears began to stream down my cheeks. Tears…of fury.

“It won’t take you Carly!” I shouted. “It won’t!” I was shaking with anger.

“Get a hold of yourself Timmy!” said my father.

“NO! I WON’T!”

“TIMMY! NO!”

And then it happened.

“CURSE YOU TYPHOID!” I screamed, much like my favorite band Slayer screams in their hit song Angel of Death. “CURSE YOU!”

The house began to tremble. Suddenly, the light bulb in the room exploded, shattering glass everywhere. My parents screamed. The window, through which a ray of sunshine was coming through, exploded in a million shards of glass. ONE MILLION SHARDS.

After a minute of things blowing up and debris flying everywhere, and my vocal cords thoroughly worn from screaming and yelling, things settled down. My parents, huddled together on the floor, looked up at me in fright. “T-t-t-timmy?” my mom whimpered.

“I…I…I’m a monster, aren’t I Mom?” I stammered.

“Yes honey. You are. You’re the monster. Now leave this place.”

Unwilling to protest, I left home that day and never returned. Though I didn’t think at first that I had a place in the world, I found that my sore and ruined vocal cords were a big hit among the many death metal bands on the south side of town. It was only a matter of weeks before I joined a band called “DeathCrush,” and we went on to have many hits on the Death Metal Billboard, including “Blood Harvest” and my personal favorite, “Bar Mitsvah Massacre,” which was #2 on the charts for about three weeks. It was the happiest time of my life. Truly, I was a monster. A monster…of death metal!

                                                                                     THE END