Transdolphin



  Transdolphin

  by

  Raymund Hensley

  Copyright 2012 by Raymund Hensley

  https://raymundhensley.blogspot.com/

  Cover design by the author.

  ALSO BY RAYMUND HENSLEY

  Aloha Mannequins

  The Zombie Hunter’s Bible

  How I met Barbara The Zombie Hunter

  Ambulance Masters

  Filipino Vampire

  Get Kilt: A Zombie Pill

  Ghost City

  CONTENTS

  DANGEROUS HISTORY

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Transdolphin

  CHAPTER TWO

  More Dolphin

  CHAPTER THREE

  Forever Dolphin

  Felt Like One Year Later

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DANGEROUS HISTORY

  I always felt like a dolphin trapped in a human's body.

  My stay in Hawaii was going to fix that problem....

  Walking up that mountain was exhilarating. We were getting close. Each step was leading me toward success. Just a little more time. Just a few more breaths. Keep walking. Don't stop.

  I yelled over my shoulder to Lars.

  “My dad was the one that found the ancient scripture, under the Great Sphinx of Giza...under its right paw. Dad said that one day he heard the Sphinx whispering to him, telling him where to dig. Took him a week to find the scripture describing Noah's three arks.”

  Lars was lagging behind. I turned to look at him, and he hid his hand behind his back. He smiled.

  “Ehhh? I thought Noah just made one ark. A really BIG one. Right?”

  “Wrong,” I said, walking again. “Noah had three arks. He made one for typical animals, one for unicorns, and one for transdolphins. This mountain – Round Top Drive – IS the ark holding the transdolphins...and I'm going to open it. What could go wrong?”

  “This is amazing!” Lars said. “I can't believe it ended up here in Hawaii.”

  “The great flood scattered the arks. The biggest one – the one with standard animals – is sitting on top an icy mountain somewhere. I'm not sure where the Unicorn Ark is. My theory is that it's under the ocean. The Transdolphin Ark is the smallest – its front door hidden somewhere in the mountain, under all that dirt and grass. I'm screwed if to get in I gotta go digging under some tree or house. But let's stay positive. We're getting close. I can smell it. Can't you? Bah! Of course you can't. You're no archaeologist. You're just a zombie hunter for hire. All you smell is money.”

  I paused. Did I insult him? I had to control myself. Control the excitement.

  “I smell discovery,” I said, sniffing the air. “I smell history. Sacred history. Dangerous history.”

  I looked up the mountain.

  Dad, I thought, this is for you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Transdolphin

  LARS GACK

  I had a friend that used to hunt zombies while jacked up on cocaine. He's dead now. But I liked the idea of not being totally “there” while on the job. So I started drinking. It worked. I was more confident. Zombies were easy. I could decapitate with comfort. The fear was gone. No more disgust. No more shame. During that time, I experienced a major explosion in zombie gigs.

  Then, I started getting too drunk, and some months jobs wouldn't come at all. I was a mess. I made mistakes. People died. All accidents, of course. Didn't stop the inevitable. Word travels fast on a small island like Oahu. My reputation as a drunkard was spreading. Less people called for help. I started to feel the fear of poverty again. Would I end up living on the streets? No, no, no. That can't happen. Don't think about it. Too depressing. I needed more work to pay my damn bills. I needed help. Life wasn't working out. I was hitting my head against a brick wall. Concerned about major blood loss, I stopped doing that and called up my hunting friends for advice. Jerome – he said that I needed to get wasted with him at some sleaze-bar and calm myself with terrible beer. My other pal – Doktor Boss – advised that I camp out in the hilltops with him and meditate on life, really get my senses together. Long story short, I got hammered drunk with Jerome. I went home that night to find my dad standing in the middle of my living room with his belt in his hands. Now what?

  He started hitting me. Chased me all over my apartment. Coffee mugs and dinner plates shattered on the ground. The downstairs neighbor hit her ceiling with a broom, begging us to shut up. Dad trapped me in the bathroom, my back against the shower wall.

  “You need to stop this crazy business!” he said, waving his belt at me, that gold buckle reflecting the bathroom light. “No more zombie hunting. What if you get bit? You need a real job. A normal job! I can't take it anymore. You don't know what it's like. People at the firm look at me all funny. They laugh behind my back. My son hunts zombies. Sometimes I'm so ashamed, I don't even go to work. I just stay in bed and eat ice cream and watch women's wrestling. See what you're doing to me? How can you do this to your father?” He was crying. “It's time for a change, boy. You're getting a job, and you're paying your way to law school. I have a friend that needs help with his gas station. You're going there tomorrow to see him. I wrote the address down and stuck it to your fridge. I suggest you read it, boy.”

  The very idea of working at some stink, uninspiring gas station made my heart implode. Sure, zombie hunting was dangerous and weird and sometimes money was tight. At least it was interesting. But gas stations? I shook my head and said, “No. I ain't gonna do it. This is my life. I live how I wanna.”

  Dad's face contorted. “Your mouth is running like a chicken with its head cut off,” he said. “I'm tired of it!”

  He charged at me, belt in the air, and he did his work. When I was 99% covered in black bruises, he put his belt back on. “Time for a change, boy. Time to grow up. Time to be a real man. My friend will be expecting you at his gas station,” he said...and sauntered away.

  When I heard the front door slam, I walked into the kitchen and drank, and drank, and drank.

  At some point, I found myself gazing at the Moon. Lost. In a daze.

  Time for a change, boy. Time to be a man.

  Wait. What just happened?

  Was it all a dream?

  I was hungover like a horse. In the nude, I stumbled around my bedroom, knocking over vases and books...went into the living room. The lady on the news was complaining about werewolves again. A woman carrying a baby was being interviewed in a mall somewhere, looked like Pearlridge. She was livid.

  “I was leaving the mall last night when a werewolf took my purse and ran off! I've had it up to HERE with those monsters. The other day, my cousin, Rew, was attacked by a gang of werewolves. They beat him up and stole his money and new shoes. Damn werewolves. All they do is commit crimes. They're worthless. I want them off the island!”

  Shoppers behind her cheered.

  I wobbled to the bathroom and got on my knees and threw up in the toilet, each retch sending shock waves of pain to my brain. I made my everyday breakfast of cereal with beer (I was too poor for milk) and took an hour-long, hot shower, meditating on life. The phone rang. I ran out with shampoo stinging my eyes. Finally – a call! This might be important! I thought. It might be a job! Praise Jesus!

  I answered my cell.

  “Lars Gack – zombie hunting expert. How may I help you?”

  The old man on the other end grunted.

  “Mr. Gack, my name is Loyd Brunegan. I saw your ad on the back of a milk carton. I need your help...if you can spare the time.”

  “I'm free this month. Spill the beans.”

  “You do remedy the walking dead, don't you? And by remedy, I mean kill, murder, terminate, destroy, put down, annihilate, END. This is what you can do?”

  “And do I shall.” r />
  “How much do you go for?”

  “$3,000 per night of hot action.”

  “Weeeellllll....”

  “Well what?”

  “I was thinking more like...two hundred dollars.”

  “Sorry. That's not enough. I have rent due. Terribly sorry.”

  He sighed.

  “No need to feel sour about it. I understand. The economy is dreadful. We're all in need of work. But if you can't do the job, there are other hunters in Hawaii. I recall my wife saying she heard great things about a Mr. Boss?”

  Dammit. I was losing my client. I got a vision of my landlord kicking me out on the street. My voice came out high – desperate.

  “No!” I said. “I'll do it. Two hundred is fine.”

  “I thought you said you can't help me.”

  “Never mind that. I was just testing you.”

  “Testing me?”

  “Yes – and you passed. See, I'm very picky about who I work for. I only do business with good people. People with heart. People with class. That, good sir, is you.”

  He laughed.

  “I'm blushing! So you'll take the job?”

  “Sign me up.”

  “Ma'velous!” the old man said. “Now listen to me very carefully....”

  He gave me directions on where to go.

  And so I went.

  Welcome to Waianae.

  As I drove through town in my dying, yellow car, I saw a group of local thugs beating up a white man with canoe paddles. They yelled at the guy to give them back their land. Ludicrous demands. Didn't make any sense. Locals just walked by. No one cared. The thugs were deaf to the man's screams for mercy. I hit the gas and drove into the mob and sent them flying. Locals just strolled by. No one cared. I gave the white man a knife, told him to be careful, and zoomed toward Loyd's pig farm.

  It was night when I got there. I sat and thought things over.

  Good Lord, what are you doing here? Your life isn't worth a pathetic two hundred dollars. You shouldn't be doing this.

  “Shut up,” I told myself. “It's money. I'll take what I can get.”

  I got out and opened the trunk, looking around at my various weapons: Small knives, nunchucks, a hammer, holy water, and a gun with some silver bullets. I put some knives and the gun in my pants and slammed the trunk. I usually didn't use guns, but with the rise in werewolf activity, it seemed like a smart move. No way was I gonna run up and wave a goddamn blade in a werewolf's face. The gun was over ten years old – something I found on a zombie years ago. You find a bunch of things on them: Candy, spoons, money, pills, dolls, tax forms, small cameras, and other odd things family members leave on them at funerals for unknown reasons. Whenever something falls out of a zombie, I take it and pawn it or try to make use of it. Usually pawn it. Why waste?

  The farm spooked the heck out of me. I always had a problem being in the middle of wide, open spaces – especially at night. Pigs were all over the place, making all sorts of unsettling noises. Loyd, carrying a bucket of slop, walked up to me and shook my hand.

  “Glad you could make it.” He looked at my arms. “A little skinny to be murdering zombies, eh? How old are you? 21?”

  “I'm 33, sir.” I frowned and yanked my hand away. “You ain't gonna find no one cheaper – or better – than me, I can promise you that much.”

  The rich man smiled. “My apologies. I'm depressed.”

  He reached into his bucket and threw some slop at his pigs. The animals went crazy for their meal. So much noise. Sounded like kids being slowly run over by cars.

  “Come get some!” Loyd told his pigs. “Come get some wonderful slop.”

  Whatever was in that bucket smelt like dead things.

  “Lovely creatures...these buzzing beasts,” I said with my hands over my ears. I was being sarcastic.

  “So true!” he said. “And they're so smart. So beautiful – so full of life. Which brings me to why you're here.” He put an arm around my waist and walked me to the farmhouse. His touch was delicate. “I need you to watch my pigs while me and the wife attend a fancy party.”

  “Me? Out here with these filthy, giant rodents?”

  “I can't have those zombies killing my babies – not one.” He stopped walking. “We are scientists – me and the wife – and we've genetically modified these pigs to 'house', if you will, human internal organs. I've transformed these pigs into horizontal angels, and they will revolutionize how we do transplants. I'm a genius.” He motioned with his chin over to some pigs nearby. “That one there is carrying around human intestines, that one a liver, that one a kidney, that one a heart, and this one....” He reached down and picked up a pig that squirmed in his arms. “This one here is called Sandy. She's got human eyes.”

  I looked at the pig's petrified face.

  I pulled away my gaze.

  A shiver went through me.

  “You're mad,” I said.

  He snickered.

  “As a matter of fact, my boy, I'm quite happy. See, these creatures will make us very rich.”

  “Us?”

  “Me, the wife, and you,” he said. “With all the money that's going to be pouring in, I plan to buy a bigger farm, buy a bigger lab, and buy more guards. If all goes well tonight, my boy, I'd like to hire you to be head of security. Whaddya say?”

  He put his hand out, and I shook it.

  “I'm your man,” I said, smiling. I couldn't believe it! My luck was finally turning around. At last! The future was mine. There was a God.

  We walked into the house. The smell of bacon and eggs filled the kitchen. A fat pig had been strung up in there, spread eagle and all. Loyd's wife cut the beast open with a sword, and all its guts spilled out and splashed into all sorts of buckets. The black woman was beefy – a giant meatball with extremities.

  “I hope you guys be hungry,” she said. “I'm on a roll.”

  Loyd seemed nervous. He was shorter than her by many inches. I found it an odd, almost humorous sight. He dragged me into the kitchen.

  “This is that zombie expert I was telling you about, dear.”

  She looked me up and down.

  “He don't look tough,” she said, and put her arm on the table. “Let's arm wrestle.”

  I was shocked.

  “What the hell for?”

  “I wanna be sure.”

  “Of what?”

  “That you're as good as you think you are,” she said. “I don't wanna be payin' handsomely for no loser. Now let's arm wrestle! Prove your worth! Don't make me mad. Don't get me irked.”

  She reached out for me, hand opening and closing. Loyd took her giant paw and kissed it.

  “Broomhelda, please...let's not scare the man. He's our guest.”

  She threw up her arms like she was giving up on the world. The fat under her massive arms jiggled.

  “If a little lady like me scares him, what makes you think he gonna handle those zombies? I have to be careful. My life's work is on the line!”

  I raised a finger.

  “Wait. You made those pigs?”

  She smiled.

  “Years and years of research and experimenting, little man.”

  “I thought Loyd was the genius.”

  She laughed.

  “What? He just gets me them pigs. He ain't no thinker.”

  Loyd hugged her.

  “We make a good team.”

  They kissed – tongues darting in and out – mouths making all sorts of wet noises. After that revolting scene, Broomhelda went back to cutting her dangling pig. She shoved a fork into its face and yanked out an eye, throwing it onto a noisy frying pan.

  “I told you to call that other one...that Doktor Boss,” she said. “I heard he be real good. I trust them news folks on the TV. Get this little man out of my kitchen. I ain't hiring him. What am I? Psychotic?”

  This meatball was onto me! I had to think fast. I sat at the table and slammed my arm on it. Dishes and forks rattled.

  “Fine!” I said.
“You wanna arm wrestle? You wanna SEE what I gots to give? Let's go! Me and you!”

  She smiled.

  “Ahhh, good. Realll goood.” She sat down and took my hand, pumping it. “Loyd, honey, count us down.”

  It was then that I noticed a bandage wrapped around her wrist.

  Loyd shook his head.

  “My friends, please. I have a better idea. How about we have tea and bacon? No need for this weirdness. This is completely unnecessary.”

  Broomhelda never took her eyes off me.

  “I'll say it ain't. Hmph! This be my money you paying him. Now count us down. I'm in heat!”

  “Whatever you say, lover. I'm sorry to have angered you.”

  He put his hand over ours.

  “Ready? On the count of three.”

  The kitchen hushed. The split-pig dripped its gore – that tongue sticking out. Loyd looked like he was ready to jump back.

  “One...two...THREE!”

  Broomhelda's eyes exploded, and down my arm went – but I stopped her – able to hover my hand just an inch over the table. She seemed surprised.

  “You ain't nothing!”

  The fat on her face jiggled. She poured sweat. I was grinding my teeth. Summoning everything I had, I turned my wrist and pulled to the side. Our hands were upright again. I had her. I had her good, and she knew it. Broomhelda frowned, staring dead at me in disbelief. Then something got my attention.

  As our hands continued to shake, my eyes were drawn to the TV in the next room. A priest was being interviewed on a talk show. As I listened to him, all the other sounds around me – Broomhelda's moaning, those utensils dancing on the table – all faded away. The TV wanted me. I was hypnotized.

  “Life is like a video game, and we're all being played for fools,” the priest said. “That game character on the screen is you. Everything feels real. Being in that TV box is all you know. But,” he said, “you're being controlled the whole time. You think your actions are yours, but they're not. And you're not being controlled by some stranger or unloving god. You're being controlled by yourself. Your higher self. That wiser part of you.” He leaned forward. “And of course people have such a hard time getting in contact with their spirit – believing they even have a spirit. It would be like you, as this video game character, turning around and looking the gamer in the eyes. It can happen. December 21, 2012, is the key. It's when we transform. It's when we connect with our higher selves and...evolve.”