IV

Dale's eyes flashed open. His head was still flaming from the alcohol. He raised his arm and touched his face. It was ice-cold. He grimaced as his spine popped as he shifted his body from a supine position to a sitting one. He felt the bench vibrate, only to find out a couple of seconds later that it was his own heartbeat. Dale lowered his head and almost immediately could feel the throbbing at the back of his head. Note to self: Never, ever get drunk in the park at night. Dale tried as best as he could to remember the cause to his sudden wakeness. It was a shout, wasn't it? 

No. It was something louder. 

A bang. 

A gunshot. 

Yeah, more likely a gunshot. 

Dale shrugged off this ridiculous assumption(since it was almost impossible for a citizen of Deadwood Town to actually own a real gun) and got up. He struggled as he pushed against the handles of the bench. He straightened his vertebrae and led out what seemed to be an awkward bray. Dale was startled at his own verbal expression and immediately thought of Donkey from The Shrek. Somehow, at the back of his head, almost vaguely, he could hear Donkey's voice. "And in the morning, I'm making waffles!"

Somehow, that made Dale grin.

Dale shambled towards town. All he knew was that he needed company.

He needed reassurance.

Most importantly, he needed food.

Donkey's random yet enlightening quote about waffles reminded Dale that he hasn't eaten anything ever since last night's supper. Well, except for that bottle of Pulteney.

Dale clenched his tummy as he felt the sharp, agonizing stab from the alcohol he consumed earlier. That would be my last bottle, he promised.

But that was a covenant he made all too often to himself.

Unfortunately it fails, every single time. 

After all, as what Seneca says, "drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness."

You don't say, Seneca, Dale thought. You don't say.   

 

III

Mr Jenkins was polishing his beloved Beretta when he heard the squishing sound from his compound. Due to the long, long time spent in the battlefield, not only didn't the daily rings of bomb explosions and rifle cackling destroy his hearing, but instead they miraculously improved them. After the war, every remaining soldiers were brought to the nearest hospital to receive a full body check-up. Doctors and specialists were astounded by the the remaining ability of Jenkins' ears when they did a thorough audio test. Jenkins could detect and identify almost every piece of sound played by the lab coat-clad men. Ranging from the mild sounds of a dog scratching its ears, to the almost-inaudible breathing of a two-month old infant, Jenkins were able to correctly name and describe a mind-boggling 95% of the 60 different sounds tested. This prompted the United States Army to award Jenkins a Certificate of Appreciation, having dubbed this case as 'a rare and encouraging incident'. Up to this day, the certificate is proudly hung on the left wall of Jenkins's living room, where he keeps a cabinet full of military-based documents and also war memorabilia. Sometimes Jenkins would just sit on the cane-weaved armchair located outside his house and listen to the sounds of nature, secretly naming them all, knowing that he is right every single time.    

But this time, it was different.

It was no ordinary squishing sound. Jenkins propped his ears against the cool metal door and listened. For a second there he thought he was hallucinating, or perhaps paranoid. Besides, being in the military wasn't a walk in the park, not surprised if it--

"squish"

Jenkins' heart raced faster and faster. Weird images appeared in his space of thought, ridiculous and eerie creatures were fed by the mind in order to match the owner of the anonymous squishing sound. Without much(or any) hesitation, Jenkins dashed to the living room and grabbed the Beretta which was lying lifelessly on the couch. 

With much haste, Jenkins sucked in as much courage the army has built in him for the past 40 years and yanked the door open. 

What made Jenkins wince wasn't the ear-piercing screech, but the appearance of the creature. Many folklores have been told by the public relating to the existence of aliens,UFO and what-not but they were after all, folklores. Jenkins and his troop of colleagues often dismiss these as moot topics, accompanied by a mouthful of teases and laughters. 

But this time, it wasn't. No more jokes about aliens giving anal harassments to the army. No more jokes about the general being an alien in disguise. No more jokes. 

Standing, or mayhap crawling on the ground five metres in front of Jenkins, was indeed, indubitably, an alien. No matter what bullcrap the critics said to the public about the non-existence of these beings, there it was, big almond-shaped eyes, staring at Jenkins. People use to say, look into a person's eyes and you will see the true nature of the person. Almost immediately, Jenkins thought of that 60's sitcom starring Barnadete Dullop, where in one of the episodes Barnedete was holding his lover in his arms, and he looked straight into the girl's eyes and said, "How I wish I was the eyelids of your eyes, then i would be able to shield you from the evil of this world." Then Jenkins noticed that this creature did not have any eyelids at all, and all of a sudden this urge of laughing came to him. Jenkins giggled, then the image of Barnadete holding this creature in his arms invaded his mind, and he burst out laughing like a madman.

Almost instantly the creature dashed off to the right, wanting to get out of Jenkins' drug-infested land. Jenkins held up his Beretta as firm as possible and fired two shots in its direction. The first one ricocheted off the barbed wire, but the second one found its way into the creature's left leg. It limped as fast as possible out of the area and into the woods. "Come back here, you son of a gun!" shouted Jenkins, still laughing. "Come back to mother earth! I could feed you some pot if you want!"

The creature dragged itself as far as possible from Jenkins' place and landed onto a pile of dried leaves, surrounded by tall, skinny trees. It winced at the immense pain as it pressed the bloodied wound with its palm. In its mind it could only think of one thing, do not come chasing after me.

Approximately a couple of miles behind, it could still hear the hysterical laughter of Mr Jenkins. 

III

Its heartbeat slowed down a bit as it saw the man fell asleep on the park bench. It was a mere step away from being caught. It heaved a huge sigh of relief and stepped out of the bush, quietly. It touched its own forehead and when it removed its finger, the skin was stuck to it. It grimaced as it forcefully yanked it off, peeling some of the skin off. The air was too dry. It needed more oxygen. It turned its attention toward the dense forest next to the park and decided to venture into it.

Little did it know, it was indeed a very, very wrong decision.

***

If there is one thing that the whole of Deadwood Town know of, it is indubitably Mr Jenkins. This infamous 62 year old ex-soldier is the Roadrunner and also the Wile. E. Coyote at the same time. He is as agile and swift as he is deadly. Well-equipped with a soldier's battlefield experience, Mr Jenkins now owns a patch of land in the forest, no wider than 5 acres. Surrounding the land are fences as tall as ten metres and fully flanked with razor sharp barb wires. What is it that is so precious to him that he guards it with his life, you ask? Well, no other than his patch of carrot farm. Well, the truth is, there was never any carrots. Half the land was planted with opium poppy plants. Having served as a U.S. soldier, Jenkins was unfortunately addicted to the drug heroin. In order to feed his crave for heroin, he plants a hefty amount of poppy plants and converts the morphine into heroin. The reason why Danker Whittleman, the town mayor, never gotten the acknowledgement of this large drug farm is probably due to ignorance, or maybe the fact that the land is heavily guarded. Next to the entrance hung a sign eerie enough to send a chill down your spine.

It goes on something like this:

Come right in, step right up,

Let me know, I'll blow you like a pup.

I swear to God, and with my gun,

I'll make sure you die, and not flee or run.

The townspeople do not know which is scarier, Mr Jenkins' interest in poetry, or the fact that he actually owns a gun. The privilege was given to him after he retired from the force. A loophole in the town constitution allowed Jenkins to keep his Beretta after the war. There are stories which says that Jenkins killed more than a handful of townspeople over the decade due to trespassing. A very, very dangerous man indeed.

***

It paced through the woods as the hoots of owls greeted it. It walked slowly as it was dark, albeit the moonlight was glaring on that night. It stepped on a jagged rock and tripped, flinging itself forward and down a steep ravine. It rolled and rolled and finally came to a halt at the base of the ravine. It was badly bruised all over. It shook off the dizziness and looked up. Ahead of it was a large space, surrounded by a metal net, and above the metal net was fitted with sharp, pointy needle-like structures. Inside the net was a land filled with leaves growing from the ground. At the center sat a large trailer, decorated with the United States flag. Next to the entrance hung a sign, both rusted and inscrutable.

With naturally implanted curiosity, it took its first step into the compound, not knowing the deadly consequence. 

II

Dale brushed his palms against the seat of the park bench. Ol', ol' bench. How warm, despite the chilly night breeze. It is this bench which helps Dale retain memories about his daughter. People say memories are best retained in photos, but Dale thinks otherwise. Oh, how we used to spend time together, he thought.

Dale slowly landed his bottoms onto the seat and squinted as his back ached. I ought to get this back of mine checked out, Dale reminded himself for the umpteenth time. He shifted his body in an awkward manner and laid supine, eyes staring at the vast universe that God have built. Stars were lined at every corner of the sky. How beautiful, Dale admired. The moon was also as bright as the stars, once again displaying the true works of the creator of mankind. Dale felt an agonizing stab against his chest, and led out a hoarse cough. He pounded his ribs in hopes the cough would subside. Alcohol has played a major role in Dale's life. It has been a friend of Dale, saving him from attempted suicides more than his previous shrinks ever have.

But this intimate companionship only came about after the death of Olivia.

The pain.

Dale never wanted it to end up the way it did. A horrendous ending of a dreadful nightmare. A nightmare which last for two and a half years.
Dale sighed and tapped the side of the bench and hummed a tune. A tune so filled with calmness and halcyon that even the chirping nightbirds stopped to listen. It was a tune so familiar to Dale, a tune made by him and his most beloved--Miley.

It was a sultry afternoon in the park. The jubilant giggles and laughters could be heard everywhere. The scorching sunlight shone through the dense trees and casted a mosaic of shadows unto the park pavement. Smiling and grinning parents could be seen holding on to their children, teaching them the tricks and ways to conquer the monkey bars. Some succeeded triumphantly while the others failed miserably.

Dale was watching all these from a park bench. The Boston Red Sox cap he was wearing was shielding his eyes from the blinding sunlight. He shifted his gaze toward the ice cream truck parked under a shady oak tree. Mister Frost was what the neighbourhood called him. Always a jolly looking man, liked by both young and adults. The latter was probably due to the fact that Mr Frost was married to a fine looking Mrs Frost. The slim brunette, sultry as the summer air, gave up her career as a lawyer and married the love of her life, the neighbourhood ice-cream man. Mrs Frost was there too, giving out ice-cream and raking in dollar bills from either loving or perverted fathers. But Dale's attention wasn't on Mrs Frost's loosened apron, but on the love of HIS life--Miley. Dale saw her running toward him, both hands clutching the ice-cream cones, as clumsy as a Winnie the Pooh bear.

  "Look what i've got, daddy!" screamed Miley excitedly, licking the base of one of the cone.

  "Vanilla?" asked Dale.

  "They ran out of mint," explained Miley with a disappointing tone. "sorry daddy."

Dale couldn't help it but to laugh and pressed Miley against his chest, stroking her back. Miley led out a weak burp and they both burst into laughter.

  "Who's that daddy?" asked Miley, pointing toward a bearded man lying on the bench opposite theirs. He was clearly a hobo, judging by his outer appearance. The checkered shirt he was wearing was missing the right sleeve and flies(or so did Dale thought) were circling his head. 

  "That's just an ol' man, Miley," Dale answered. "just an ol', ol' man."

  "Ol' ol' man," Miley repeated, this time mimicking the tone of her dad. "ol', ol' man on an ol', ol' bench."  

Chapter One: Dale

I

Dale's head was spinning. Spinning so badly that he saw Miss Applefront not twice, but thrice around the same block within the span of a few minutes. In this state of mind, everything could be wrong. Dale moaned as his stomach twisted and churned under the toxicity of the bottle of Old Pulteney in his trembling hand. The sharp scent and taste of fermented prunes and spices rushed through his nasal cavity every time he raised the bottle to his lips. Dale slowed his pace and grimaced as he felt a gush of heat emerging from the pit of his stomach. Dale opened his mouth and led out an ear-shattering belch. The smell of spiced prunes filled the air and Dale led out a smirk. More like a grin, really. These are for you, grannies, Dale silently thought, then giggled dorkily at his self-proclaimed witty comment. Then the face of Miss Applefront appeared in his mind, and he burst out in laughter.

Drunk, definitely.

Dale ambled along Wenderstreet and ended up at the entrance of Neila Edih park. THE park. Dale frowned at the thought in his head and shook it vigorously.
Should he? He considered.
He should, he decided.

Dale tried his best to walk in a straight line, but failed miserably. He swayed in all directions like a piece of grass in a midnight storm. He accidentally kicked a rock and almost fell forwards. Fortunately his flailing hands helped him stabilize and kept him from landing on his face. The bottle of Old Pulteney, however, wasn't so fortunate. Dale flung his hand to the front and the poor bottle of liquor slipped out and landed on the pavement with a deafening shatter.

Dale stared at the broken pieces of glass, then at the rock, then back to the glass again. What a day, he thought to himself. Dale heaved a huge sigh and approached the bench. There were many things in the park that were nice, actually. It's just that no one really bothered to appreciate them. For instance, the lampposts which were engraved with such minute yet impressive designs; or the soul-calming greenery; and even the persimmons hiding in the bush.

Wait, persimmons?

Dale averted his attention to the bush next to the 'Evertree'(nicknamed after its impressive longevity). Dale swore he saw two bright yellow persimmons hiding behind the bush. For a second there he even thought that they were eyes. He stepped towards the bush in the slowest pace possible, then stopped. Dale pondered on this thought for a second or two and again burst out laughing.
He dismissed his silly thought and mocked himself for his stupidity. Dale then turned around and instead headed for the park bench.

After all, in this state of mind, everything could be wrong.

Prologue

Cold. What a cold, cold night. Or has it always been like this? It squirmed at the unfamiliar pressure constantly prodding its torso. Not good. Not good at all. Calm down, it told itself. It was trained for this. It heaved a long sigh, blinking so hard that veins started to appear at the face of its eyelids. Focus, it reminded itself. Focus.


It looked at the moon. So round, so peaceful. A little greyish, but still majestic. How it wished it could be--snap out of it! It cursed at its own short attention span and returned its gaze unto the park bench. Its been forever, and the chilly night breeze wasn't helping, neither were the prickly branches that were accompanying it. Such an important mission, this. It just couldn't afford to fail, nuh 'uh. Not this time.

Lightyears seemed to have passed and slowly, just very slowly, its eyelids began to fall. It was starting to get used of its surrounding-not exactly favour it-but still enough to induce slumber. Its sight dimmed and blurred and everything seemed to disappear...

'Crrrnnkkk!'

It opened its eyes as though something sharp was driven through its chest. Well, perhaps eardrums, in this case. It blinked several times to moisten its cornea and with the curiosity of a back alley cat, it scanned the area for the source of the sudden noise and eventually noticed a silhouette. A figure, shambling clumsily along the pathway, was approaching the shrubbery where it was hiding. And with natural instinct, its heart rate began to race like sodium in sheer, cold water.

Author's foreword:
Ahem, alright. It's been a long, long time since i've written(or more likely, typed) a blog. The last blog I had was about a millennium ago, which the password and even its title i've forgotten. If you were to ask me why start this, and why now, I would say, one: this story has been in my head for a couple of years by now, and i would love to write it. Two: just simply out of boredom.

This tale that i am about to bestow upon you, my readers, is one hundred percent original and I wouldn't promise you an unforgettable reading experience, or impeccable imagination and description(although i would love to), but instead, just a simple tale. A tale about the unidentified; a tale about the unknown.

Enjoy.