I’D SEEN SOME messed up people in my time, but nothing like the woman curled up in the corner of the interview room. Covered with dirt, her hair a bird’s nest… no, wait, that was a bird’s nest in her hair… her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes squeezed shut, rocking and humming to herself. I made a note. Rocking and humming were self-comforting gestures I’d seen in other trauma victims.
“We gave her a track suit, because she was… you know… naked.” The deputy scratched his head. “We called you because… well, we think it’s another BFG.”
I gave him side eye. Clearly, it was another BFG. Only BFGs come back looking like that.
BFG. Bigfoot Girlfriend.
We would get one tonight, on the same day I got my wine of the month delivery. Here I’d planned a nice, quiet evening sipping on an Argentine Malbec, making a nice filet, and snaking on some brie and Stilton while catching up on Breaking Bad.
So much for that.
For the millionth time, I wondered why did I come here? Out of all the towns I could have chosen to relocate my therapy practice to, why did I have to choose a tiny little Canadian town in the middle of the Rockies with a Bigfoot problem?
Bigfoots. I don’t like ’em. I’d move, but the town’s got this thing where the moment you see a Bigfoot, you can’t leave. By “can’t leave”, I mean, you can’t leave. Physically. I’ve tried. I’ve packed up my car nigh upon seventy times now, and each time I drive and drive, only to find myself pulling back into my house’s driveway.
“It’s the curse,” the sheriff explained to me one night, after I tried to file a complaint against somebody slipping hallucinogens in the water. I had to be high on something if this kept happening, and it kept happening, so I was high. “The natives here, they’ve sworn to protect the Yeti people, and one way is through the curse.” He patted my arm sympathetically. “Sorry, buddy.”
Oh. A curse. Of course. Why wouldn’t there be a curse, too? “Fine… just… fine.” I rubbed the back of my head and unlocked my trunk. “Can you at least do something about them shitting on my car?”
The moment I said that, there was this loud buzzing, like a broken chain saw. I looked in the woods behind me; sure enough, there were a couple of Bigfoots trying to hide behind a tree and laughing with their furry hands covering their mouth.
The sheriff saw them, too, but instead of drawing his firearm, he gave them a wave and a smile. They grunted at him; he grunted back. The sheriff pointed at me, grunted, and started laughing; the Bigfoots laughed harder.
I opened my trunk and pulled out my luggage.
“Don’t take it personally, son,” the sheriff said, sensing my lack of good humor. “They’re teasing you. They do it to the newbies. Think of it as them marking their territory.”
Considering Bigfoot scat weighs nearly twenty pounds and stinks worse than anything I can describe, I had a hard time not taking it personally. Plus, it was making my car paint peel.
Hey, you know that joke, where does a Bigfoot take a dump? Anywhere he damn well pleases, and if it’s on the hood of your brand new three series BMW, it’s on the hood of your brand new three series BMW.
Funny joke, right? Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha.
Anyway. After a few more escape attempts and a couple of botched calls to Finding Bigfoot (the curse stopped that, too, God knows how), I decided to get over it and deal.
Turns out Bigfoots aren’t a link in our evolutionary chain, but are actually people from another planet whose space ship crashed eons ago. They’re kind of like Wookies. Massively brilliant, less violent, Wookies. Most of the group went back to their home planet a couple of hundred years ago, but some families remained. They’d gone native. Decided they liked being worshiped.
I still don’t like ’em, by the way. I could forgive them for shitting on my car if they were biological rungs on the evolutionary ladder. Knowing that they’re brilliant space aliens makes it so much worse.
Then there are the women. Turns out some human women got this thing for Bigfoots. They get it in their heads that they got to find themselves one, hike on up here and live in the woods, trying to find one, until their minds crack.
This isn’t the Bigfoot’s fault, by the way. It’s kind of like if an amoeba developed a crush on you. You might think it’s cute, but it’s an amoeba. It’s not going to happen. It’s never going to happen.
“Have you IDed her?” I ask the deputy.
“We’re running her prints.” The deputy yawned. “Do you mind taking over? I’ve got a date, and I need to go clean up.”
I thought of the Malbec. “Knock yourself out,” I growled and went into the room. “Hi, there. I’m Dr. Madsen. Do you know where you are?”
She stopped rocking and humming. “Ku,” she said, her eyes unnaturally large. “Ku ku ku ku!”
“Cuckoo? Yes, I agree – ”
“KU KU!” she shrieked and launched herself at me. “KU KU!”
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There’s been some talk about Bigfoots in a certain kind of story (ahem). I found myself challenged, except that I’m a Southern lady, all genteel and shit… so I won’t be writing that kind of story… but a Bigfoot romance… I had to. I just had to.
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