Ah, those good old Cape May days… by Jackson D’Catur
I am not proud of my Sasquatch-pelt cloak, let me tell you. Nor the tall hat made from the same pelt, or the fur-lined boots of the same species. Admittedly, I look fine wearing them all at the same time (when paired with my ivory walking cane and my dodo-feather gloves) but there comes a time in a man’s life when conscience matters. One assumes there comes a similar time in a woman’s life, but I have yet to see that happen: I believe the female of the human species to be immeasurably smarter than the male, but at the expense of anything resembling a sense of fair play. Ladies do, in my experience (and I include my beloved and late Mrs D’Catur and my fearsome Ma D’Catur in this) to tend focus on what they want, and hell mend anyone or anything that gets in the way of that.
Anyway, my moment came when I encountered a huge, wild, terrible Sasquatch in the woods near Cold Spring. I had already encountered a werewolf, three bears and a brace of Wildwooders and so was out of bullets and throwing knives.
We both paused. I had never been this close to one of the beasts, taking them down more usually with a sighted rifle. He stood twice my height and five times my girth, with teeth as long as kitchen knives and arms knotted like clawed tree trunks. He was covered in foot-long matted black hair. I felt for my Bowie knife and prepared to die either the death of a warrior or that of a failed sprinter. The creature opened its mouth wide and said: “Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir, you gave me quite the fright there, walking so quietly.”
I dropped my knife in shock and he bent down and retrieved it with a paw so large it was like a heavyweight boxer holding a toothpick. He handed it back, very gently, and clapped another colossal paw on my shoulder softly, driving me a foot into the soft earth.
“Are you all right, young man?” he inquired. “You’re rather pale… have you by chance met the terrible hunter who has decimated my people? I fear he has taken us below a sustainable breeding population, and we are doomed as a species lest we mate with those Wildwood people… and you and I both know that will never do. It might compromise the gene pool.”
I recovered my composure and tried to hide my mortificiation by inviting the Sasquatch for tea. We chatted a lot, he and I, and from that moment on I was a changed man, a champion of oppressed simian creatures. I set Kevin (for such was the name he chose) up with a bath, a shampoo, a shave and a nice suit, and to this day he works in a local bar. You surely know him.