Cockroach County

"Yeah, I'd tap that," replied Atticus casually chewing on a handful of peanuts that he had stolen from the cutting board, evincing a smile of adoration from Sandra.

"Hey, boy," interjected Atticus, "you should introduce my mentor. He is a really interesting guy. He'd fit into your wasp profile. He lives in a cabin out in the fields. He has a huge collection of - I don't know how to describe - pointy things. I could tell him that you are coming over."

"Oh, yeah, that would be awesome," replied Randalf, staring at Sandra's cleavage in reflection to what he had just witnessed.

The next day, Randalf was tardy as usual. He was running so hard that he was sweating and puffing in his jacket for the morning cold. He took it off to carry in his hand, which made it flung around wildly from running. Yet, the damage had already been done. He was lathered in sweat. His throat was burning from the cold morning air. There was even a soft mist in the air on his exhales that disappeared in less than a second. From a distance, he could already tell that the college grounds were empty with students already in the classroom.

He bore around the corner and almost bumped into two adults in big, figure hiding trench coats with traditional brim hats discussing loudly. One of them was his teacher Mr. Grumbersky. The other was the principal.

"You drop your class project or you are fired! I've had complaints from citizens all night about how your protégés stuck their noses where they shouldn't have. Do a photo essay on the Appalachian Trail or Bambi, but don't dig around the local history!" hissed the principal, pressing the teacher against the wall.

"You can't tell me that. That's a violation of academic freedom," rebuked Mr. Grumbersky.

"Yeah," challenged the principal. The principal patted the dust off Mr. Grumbersky's shoulders. "You are suspended until further notice.

Randalf stepped slower and more quietly to circle around the two men undetected. This may be his lucky break to avoid getting written up for tardiness again. He arrived the classroom with the student's sitting around bored. Tricia and her friends were deeply focused on drawing squad dance choreography on graph paper. Jenna and her pussy were busy lighting up a weed vapor cigarette and blowing white steam into the air.

Five minutes later, a fat and round man showed up in the door. The fat had created pouches in his face. There were three pouches on the forehead that made him look like an insect. The back of his hands had fat pouches, the fingers sticking out like skinny French fries. He was wearing a trench coat that was slightly unbuttoned. The little that was visible suggested that he was wearing a set of traditional pajamas: drawstring pants and button down top.

"Mr. Grumbersky is taking a leave of absence to pursue a very exciting photojournalism project. In the meantime, I'll take over his class. We'll have a lot of fun together. I'll take you guys on the Appalachian Trail, the trail that runs across the lengths of the Appalachian Mountains. We'll meet a lot of interesting people out there. There are lawyers and doctors who are taking a sabbatical for three to six months to hike 20 miles every day. We'll get some stunning nature shots. Are you guys excited already?" introduced the new teacher himself.

The new teacher, Mr. Mueller, yapped on and on about the beauty of nature and the cure of the soul from modern ills that it was.

During recess, Randalf set out to find the fountain from his first day. The back area of the college was wooded area with rectangular footpaths. The layout seemed very regularly and deceptively easy to navigate. Yet, the regular pattern of footpaths had little oddities. Like where there should have been a footpaths going right, there was a statue instead. What was a row of four bush castles actually hid a footpaths in the center of the third. As easy as it should have been, Randalf always seemed at an intersection that looked like every other. Yet, strange details were off only every now and then, making it hard to remember what was off.

"Pst," a hissing sound came out of the sickly bush with few leafs that had been deprived of daylight by the thick canopy of trees. The twigs rustled a bit. Randalf turned to look at it and then continued scanning the dark landscape under the trees that was covered in fallen leafs that had turned brown and brittle. As he started to set a foot forward again, there it was again: "Pst."

"Stupid cat," mumbled Randalf to himself and tore himself away from the distraction, onwards to finding that fountain from the first day.

"Randalf, I'm not a cat," whispered the bush.

Randalf paused again and looked. There were gnarled twigs of the bush, only half the leafs were still green. The other half had turned brown and was dangling about to fall down. A few of them did as the bush rustled again.

"Mr. Grumbersky, what are you doing in that bush?" asked Randalf.

"I can't be seen on campus. But, you have to continue the work. I've hit something. That's why they are coming after me. Keep taking photos. I'll contact you soon with a new mission. Think of us two on the Pulitzer podium!" insisted the bush in a low voice.

"Mr. Grumbersky, may I ask if you are on any medication?" asked Randalf with a frown on his forehead.

"I'm on Diazepem. My shrink hands that out to all embedded journalists. It's normal for the trade. You should get a prescription as well. Things will heat up soon. Keeping asking about the Bridge Ridge! Call me by my call sign from now on: Thumper!" intoned Mr. Grumbersky.

"I don't usually talk to my teachers in bushes or with call signs..." insinuated Randalf.

"These aren't normal times. Your call sign will be Pookie Bear, over and out," finished Mr. Grumbersky. He got to his toes and ran off into the woods holding his back parallel to the ground.

Randalf shook his head and kept on walking through the on the surface regularly laid out area that was really a labyrinth. Eventually, he found that familiar patch of bushes that was taller than the others for utter privacy. There was the sound of the water splashing. He walked past the green wall that the bushes made. Marijuana smoke hung in the air. There was even a haze in the air. Jenna pushed the red glowing tip of the dagger into a water to a violent hiss and white steam clouds floating up.

"Hey," Randalf address Jenna amid her posse, "I want to really thank you for saving my life the other day. My sister is making Beef Wellington for dinner. We'd like to thank you for your heroic act." Randalf smiled and looked hopeful at Jenna.

"Uh, we were going to watch a re-run of Heroes tonight. Thanks for the offer though," replied Jenna turning to her friends. "So, I made it in the free-diving tryouts. The coach was all shocked that I could dive four laps in the 25 yard pool."

"Wow, that's amazing. I can only do 15 yards, and my muscles are all mushy when I come out," interjected Randalf in admiration.

"You gotta watch yourself. You are way too ambitious. You'll have to go to practice every week," dismissed the shorter of the friends.

"Actually, practice is three times a week. I finally want to do something with my life," explained Jenna. "Just because we are who we are doesn't mean that it has to define us. Sometimes, I watch those jocks at their workouts. It's very inspiring to watch their muscles and dedication."

"Ugh, one of those monkeys that runs after whatever their coach barks. That's disgusting!" whined the shorter one.

"I'd show up at the competition and cheer for you," offered Randalf with enthusiasm.

Ignoring Randalf again, Jenna continued, "The one thing that sucks about it is getting clean. The chlorine really irritates my skin. I wish we could just go diving in a swamp."

"Why can you guys dive so much," asked Randalf.

The taller girl turned to Randalf and whispered to him as an aside, "It's an Appalachian genetic mutation thing" before turning back to the girls.

"You gotta use whatever advantage you have. I'm short. That gives me great leverage and makes me good at wrestling," explained Randalf.

"What are you still doing here?" asked the shorter girl. "Didn't Jenna tell you to get lost?"

"Oh, I thought, she was simply busy tonight. I didn't realize she meant for me to leave," said Randalf shocked.

"Duh, someone wake up the one brain cell that you have!" snapped the shorter girl.

Randalf started walking slowly, dazed like a boxer who had gotten his bell rung by a harsh jab and cross combination. He wandered back towards the classroom. He heard a shuffle behind her. Then, there was a pair of shoes running after him. He didn't even want to turn around to see what was going on.

"Hey, that was pretty rude. You are just a new guy trying to make friends. Plus, I saw you naked the other day. A date might not be that bad. I'll come over at 6," and with that Jenna walked off.

When the final bell rang, Randalf walked out of the classroom and to his locker where he got his trusty DSLR, the familiar black with tiny white numbers printed around the lens. He locked his school books in and walked into the semi-darkness of the sun already having lost the fight against the clouds low over the horizon. He walked out of the city into the fields, just a few acres here and there among wild nature of little groups of trees and little hilltops with smooth rocks poking out between the lush grass. The fields had young green plants that escaped defining characteristics yet. The pavement was old, yet in good shape due to rare use. One could tell that the pavement had darkened, the deterioration of tires starting and stopping hadn't worn on the pavement yet. Most of the land had wooden fences suggestion that people had invested money into the fields.

A vigorous creek accompanied him some of the way, gurgling and turning the air cooler, moisture whenever the road ventured closer to it. When the cottage appeared in sight, the pale moon had already gone up early before the sun had disappeared. A few stars on the moon side of the sky were already blinking before the sky had even turned dark. Somewhat mystical felt the ambiance out in the countryside, a stillness, a solitude, a wonder of what awaits.

The cabin had a reddish wood. The wood appeared fibrous, not smoothed down at all. There were little protrusions and patched in things on the exterior of the hut. Whoever lift there had spent a good amount of effort patching and modifying things on the hut. A yellow light lit up one of the windows. There wasn't a name or any sign on the door. Randalf lifted the iron door knocker and stroke it down hard to send the low knock through the whole house. How old fashioned, how little penetration the sound of the heavy door had, swallowing most of the impulse.

Feet slowly dragged on the floor. Somebody was walking in slippers, an old person, big wide steps, at a tentative pace. A tall, skinny man opened the door, easily 6'5" tall. His head looked square and blocky. His body looked weathered away skinny, the long, gangly arms hanging down at the side, a slight slump in the shoulders. His body seemed insect like - a stick with a big ball for a head. He was wearing a robe of fabric that had been worn very thin from much wear and laundry cycles. The color had faded.

"You must be Randalf. Come in!" said the man.

"It's very nice to make your acquaintance. Atticus said you'd be happy to let me ask you some questions and take some photos. Oh, wow," said Randalf as he looked around the hallway. The walls were covered with displays of various instruments. There was a French looking saber with delicate metal work on the handle, little swivels, little wave like patterns, and rotary engravings. There was a golden syringe with a glass body that looked like something a Parisian doctor would have used a hundred years ago. There was a wooden board that held a dozen Japanese toothpicks each separately with a stainless steel arm, amazingly sharp, smooth and precisely cut toothpicks. There was a syringe so huge that it must have been made for a horse. There was a golden Aztec dagger with inscription in a pictorial language. There was a femur bone that had been filed down to become a primitive, pointy weapon.

"Yes, I have a fascination of collecting instruments that can sting," explained the man without turning around walking down the hallway, as if he was tired explaining himself to people and had become too old to care what people think.

He opened a squeaking old door. There was a small room with no window. A heavy wooden table without covering was at the center. The wall was full of wooden cupboards that made the room close in on you. The man pointed for Randalf to sit down on a rustic wooden chair. A fake bird jumped out of a box and chirped "Coo-coo" five times.

"It's just a clock," waved the old man. "It's 5pm."

"So, we are going to have the talk," said the old man gravely.

"Uh, no, it's a very light interview and a few photos. I'll be out of your hair in ten minutes," assuaged Randalf.

"Yeah, that was only a pretense to get you here. We are going to have the talk now," stated the old man.

"I know that you are Atticus' mentor," Randalf said. "Does this have anything to do with him dating my sister?"

"You could say that," answered the man thoughtfully. "You must understand that Atticus is not my mentee. He is my pet. He is my property. We aren't always that forthright. Yet, for you to understand, we should put it out on the table. He belongs to me and does as he says. That amulet of a wasp that he has, that's his mark that he belongs to me. Anybody you see in the city with a wasp or cockroach jewelry belongs to a pure born. We feed them in exchange. I produce what he calls wasp venom. Every week, he comes to collect his dosage from me. If I were to withhold it from him, let's just say, he'd regret it very much."

The old man weighted his hand palm down and palm up. "It may seem cruel. But it was his choice. I found him in a very dilapidated state. I build him up. I give him the substance that makes him a genius. He has no artistic talent whatsoever. It all comes from me, from my teachings and from my daily gift to him. He's lost his freedom. He's gained a career, a business, and a living. I'm not such a bad owner. I mostly took him in because he looked so sad on the floor. I don't much care for owning people unless others in West Liberty."

The old man clapped his hands together with a sad shrug. "Now, you my young man, have made an unwitting choice. When you attacked that young wasp girl, you lost any chances of joining our side. You can only join their side. For a while, you can live as an independent. However, the darker elements of our society will start preying on you. It's in your own interest to choose a master of the other side. That'll give you protection. I would have never chosen the other side, disgusting, filthy, lazy sloths of people. But, you always gain something by giving up your freedom. You should choose carefully."

"Is Atticus causing Sandra a drug dependency?" asked Randalf with quizzically frowned eye brows.

"Haha, Atticus is happy go lucky. He doesn't quite realize what he is doing. He's a dreamer. He still dreams about becoming a big tattoo artist in Los Angeles, the big life in the West with stars. But by now, those three doses, yes, Sandra is addicted. You are interesting siblings. You'll end up on different sides. It'll be very interesting to observe," explained the old man.

"You have a very interesting world view, sir," said Randalf chewing on more than he bargained for.

"Your friend Jenna is a halfie. Her mother was an outsider. You might find more understanding from her because she has a human side. It might not be the worst change. Then again, halfies aren't as strong as pure ones," ponder the man.

"This is all rather fascinating," said Randalf haltingly. "Maybe, I'll start with the interview. What do you know about the Ridge Bridge?"

"Ah, yeah, when the truth is overwhelming, the human mind tends to ignore it. I forget how sensitive you are. So, let's talk about the Ridge Bridge, which was a fascinating adventure. Jake and Hilary went on expedition to the North Pole. I contributed a small fortune to it. With my expertise in stinging and piercing instruments, I commissioned a very special ice drill for them. We believed that in a certain spot, we could find traces of ancient humans. We did find a few bones that could or could not have been dinner. It was a rather fruitless endeavor," told the man.

"The saddest thing was a polar bear attack, which slayed the pilot. It was bright, young man, who would have had a long life ahead of him. His fatal mistake was to shoot the polar bear with a 45. The bullet didn't penetrate and only angered the bear for a ferocious attack. Had he not shot, the polar bear would have probably moved on. It's always the hotheads. So, Jake and Hilary had to escape on a sled to a research station a hundred miles away."

"There was a strange rumor about the research station. Supposedly, after Jake and Hillary arrived, the scientists reported being haunted by a ghost. Some people think that the dead pilot may be stalking the ice now. However, I got a drawing from one of the scientists, a marine biologist, who was observing spear whales, interesting creatures. You can see my interest in the piercing nature of the giants. He mailed me this rather rough hand drawing of the creature that he spotted in an ice storm. It's all fable, of course," said the old man.

He pulled open a drawer in the table with a loud scratching and squeaking on the wood. He handed Randalf a piece of paper with light pencil grading. A frail, tall, feminine figure had her mouth wide open and seemed to be screaming. The hair was long and flowing. She appeared near naked with only a loin clothes. Wilkur was the name that flashed on Randalf's mind. There was a waiting look on the man's face, as if he were waiting for Randalf to take a bait. The whole session felt like a carefully choreographed game of cat and mouse with an endgame only clear to the cat.

"So, you know who she is," stated the man. "We don't usually like our pets to know these things. I had a feeling that you were told too much."

The man got up and took a bamboo tube, about a yard long from the wall. He also lifted three felt cylinders with a nail sticking out the front from the wall. He laid these things on the table. They were beautifully engraved. He lifted a small flask onto the table and popped it open. He dipped the tip of one of these nail things into it. He let it slide into the tube. He lifted the tube for Randalf to look through it.

"This is a blowgun. I love the simplicity of the weapon and the skill that is required. It only has a range of twenty yards. It requires getting very close to the prey. I hunt deer that way. The trick is to absolutely cover the body scent, or the deer will get spooked. You have to understand your place in this society," threatened the old man.

"I want my sister to be safe," stated Randalf.

"I'll take care of her if you step in line. Don't worry, I'll give her a weekly ration of my venom. She'll do really well. You'll see the drug enhances the mind. I have a feeling that she'll become a biology researcher. You'll be proud of her. Always look at the good side. Take your photos of my stingers. I'll go have supper. Close the door on your way out," said the man and disappeared through a second door.

The small room without windows, only a 60W yellow lightbulb almost naked in a simple lap, almost had a cell like feeling. Supposedly, the first door was open. Yet, how was one to tell. Randalf hoisted his camera to take a photo of the pencil drawn paper of Wilkur. He took artistic photos of the blowgun and its dart on the table, holding up his cellphone light as a secondary light source, free-aiming with his right hand only. The old man was gone. There were distant noises of things being dragged over the wooden floor.