The Nameful Monster of Nebraska
By Ren
Hooligan, Vagrant, Killer, Death, Cruelty. These were the names that he had been called. For the mellow people of Beatrice, Nebraska, they weren’t shucking around. There was one name that really stuck, at least for the townspeople: Hoodie Hooligan. It really wasn’t a good nickname, so Hoodie Hooligan (H.H.) chose a different name for himself: Albius.
Albius was a creature of myth and legend. Spines scored his back, while his long legs slunk out of his big brown trench coat. His facial features were of a grisly manor: his nose grotesque, his mouth vile, dripping with saliva. This was a face you would see in your nightmares. Although he had three things that he treasured, there was only one keepsake he had from his kind. It was a long, thin cane with odd markings on it. He rarely used it, and never let it in the sight of the townspeople. The two other things of worth that he had were a pocket watch and Windsor glasses. He had bought the pocket watch in 1727, and it was of beautiful style: its golden rim filled with stories, the hands made from brass, masterfully crafted, the gears still oiled from its maker. Then, a pair of Windsor glasses, made around 1870. These were superbly constructed, thin rims made of bendable silver, the lenses and chassis custom-crafted to exactly fit his features.
Although Albius was old, he knew not of his origin. Albius had come to Beatrice in search of a nice home. Although his trench coat covered most of his grotesque features, his looming presence was still perceived by all of the home renters. As a result, he was forced to live on the streets, foraging for his next meal. On one particular day, the sky was clear, and Albius had found a trash can of a person of wealth. It gleamed with half eaten, or even not eaten food. Gruesome flies the size of a fingernail were buzzing and scuzzing, going around the can as though they were on a merry-go-round. The chef had gone to the ends of his talent to make beautiful food for his employer, but it was futile. The rich individual paid no mind. In Albius’ brain, the reward of a good meal outweighed the risks. As he slipped through the ivory bars, his figure slim and impeccable, he was noticed. The gardener was planting seeds, and in the corner of his eye, saw a dark figure. Curiosity overcame him, and he went around the house and found Albius. “Dammit,” Albius whispered as the gardener screamed.
“Police! FBI! Anyone help! There is a MONSTER in our trash can! Call the cops! HEEEEELP!” Albius advanced to run past him to no avail. In a blind terror, the gardener ran the opposite direction.
Albius shrieked, “Wait! Watch out for the-' but the gardener ran straight into a pitchfork. Unfortunately, the gardener himself had put the pitchfork in that spot. But the gardener speared through the heart. The homeowner, wondering what all the commotion was about, came around the corner, and found Albius cradling his poor gardener, trickling with blood. Alas, in his eyes, there was a bloodthirsty monster ready to tear up his gardener! He whipped out his phone.
“Hello? 911? I live at 400 Ella Street. Please come quick, there is a very odd looking man that has killed my gardener! Please, the man is trying to kill me!” Albius, sorrowful and afraid, fled the scene. Looking back, he saw that the police were already on the spot, and a forensic investigator was down the street. The clouds struck the sky, and the effect was a downpour. Creeping into his makeshift house, he found comfort. Dim bulbs were strung across, barely breathing light into the damp room. In the middle of the woods, he was isolated, and it felt good. Drifting off to sleep, he fumbled for the light switch, hit it, and fell fast asleep. As light filtered in, Albius awoke. Climbing out of bed and going outside, he found that someone new had appeared at the edge of the woods.
Enter Ms. Sewell, a sharp woman who liked nothing other than working. Her job? Cut down as many trees and make as much money as she could in her lifetime. Described as a “brisk” person, she was now admiring the clean, pristine forest, and awaiting its downfall. “Don’t it look beautiful, Ms. Sewell? The pretty trees, light filtering through… It’s almost as if-'' But Stoan was interrupted.
“Yes, yes, but how to cut it down? Bulldozers? Drones? Tree-uprooters? So many options!” Ms. Sewell exclaimed, greed and power reflecting off her eyes. “You know, let’s do all of them! Go, Stoan. Tell the lowly workers to start!” Stoan bumbled away, muttering obscenities under his breath. He was the third highest ranking individual of the company, just below the Vice President and Ms. Sewell, the CEO, and he was still treated like the wet, gooey stuff you can see in the bottom of your garbage can. It just so happened that the forest Ms. Sewell was looking at was the one the Albius resided in. His makeshift house was actually quite nice an abode, logs that he himself had stacked so long ago, carefully placed in position. It seemed, at times, to glow with an unseen presence. Never mind that though… All that mattered now was what Albius was going to do about the foresters.
Sitting at home, reading and sipping Earl Gray tea with coarse cinnamon and sugar sprinkled in, he heard a rumbling. At first, he thought it was just a truck going through the forest to the local loggers, but the rumbling kept growing. A blanket of fog had engulfed the forest as a warm wool blanket would smother you on a cold evening. The rumbling grew on until it was the equivalent of a small earthquake. This was of some discomfort, but no less manageable. The seismic sound grew and grew until his tea spilled. Now he was pissed.
He grabbed his coat and scrambled out the front door, and to his surprise, a bulldozer was tearing around, ripping up gigantic trees. He was about to do something, anything to stop this tree-killer before his home was wrecked, but all of a sudden, as if someone hit a pause button, the bulldozer stopped in its tracks. The man Stoan paused for a moment, lurched the grapple bucket to hit a tree before getting out of it. The tree turned this way, then that way, until finally falling at Albius. He dove to conserve himself, but a tree branch had his coat pinned. In a moment of fury, he ripped his coat away, stood up to confront Stoan, and passed out, hitting the ground with a thump.
Albius had done nothing to influence this peculiar event. It was actually the townspeople, and although they did not care for Albius at all, they did not like the idea of their nice forest being cut down. Last night, when the assortment of vehicles rumbled in, they had picketed with pretty posters, protested for pines, and pondered about the preposterous the proposal from the pensive president of the proprietorship: “peace for papaya passion fruit peanut peach pumpkin pangolin prune pineapple plum pie.” Now most of this did nothing, except for one particular old couple that had a sign. This sign was special to Ms. Sewell. So special, in fact, that in a moment of shock and softness, she accepted, and called off the armada. Only Stoan knows what it said; Molly! Stop this nonsense, daughter! Ms. Sewell retired, Stoan was given the company, and all was well…
When Albius awoke, he was awash with relief. Not only did he believe that he had stopped the fleet of bulldozers and the other assortment of vehicles, he had also protected his home. Opening the door with a creak, he went back inside to continue reading the latest novel, Good Omens, which he had just discovered even though it had been published in 1990. He grabbed for his glasses, to no avail. Reaching into the empty air, Albius felt something: a twinge of sadness possibly, but vexation, too. He had been carrying those for so long and kept them in such good condition that he could barely think of losing them. Then, in a flash of brilliance, he realized what had happened. It was that bulldozer man.
He checked the time on his pocket watch, also to no avail. “The bulldozer man!” Albius thought. Grabbing his coat and leaving his cane, Albius went out in search of his adored belongings. Using his keen sense of smell, Albius found him. Going past the forest, into the town, and into the town square, Albius worked up his courage to confront him. Albius found the man sitting in a chair, glasses and pocket watch in hand. Admiring them, he took to wearing the glasses and slid the pocket watch into his left coat pocket. “The gall of him!” Albius seethed, and proceeded to move to the middle of the square. Albius, assertive but calm, said, “You! Yes, you! In the small coat and short hair. I have a few words for you,” and he went over to confront him.
Stoan was confused. He thought he was a good citizen, taking down the threat of the city, Albius. He thought that thing was dead! “Who are you?” He asked.
“I am Albius, and I am afraid you have something of mine. Why would you attack me, when all I was doing was protecting my home? You could have calmly backed your bulldozer away, but no. You chose to assault me with a tree. Why?” Albius shouted. They were drawing attention.
“I did that to keep the townspeople safe! A monster like you should never live in a civilized world.”
“Do I look uncivilized to you? Hand over my things! You have no right to keep them! They are the only correlation I have to my ancestors, so they are very sacred to me.”
One bystander, although a bit shaken by Albius’s appearance, cried out, “If it’s his things, he should have them. Leave him alone!” Now the crowd was a bit offset on who to vote for.
A person stepped out from the crowd. “Aren’t you the one who killed my gardener?”
Albius turned. “I understand you might think I did, but he scared himself, and tried to run, but turned to a pitchfork that was put by him! I was only looking for food from your trash because none of you accepted me!”
“But who’s gonna pay for my gardener, and what-”
“I will.” Yet another bystander stepped out from the crowd. It was Ms. Sewell, and although she had taken a major change of heart, She was still a little cautious around Albius.
“It was not long ago that I realized Albius lived in the forest. I told my workers to call off the logging partly because of the blundering townspeople, but also because I had spotted Albius’ home. I respect architecture quite a bit, and his self-made home is wonderful. I know it sounds silly, but I have a real passion for buildings. Go home everyone,” she shouted, projecting her voice to everyone. “There is nothing to see here, and maybe one day, you will accept Albius for who he is: a marvelous architect.” She turned to Stoan. “I want a word with you.” Albius looked on in amazement. Finally a change! For all these years, people had cast accusations on him, made assumptions, and projected stereotypes. But now, all that was going to change for the better.
