Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller

The biggest problem growing up in a town who's greatest past time for the rascally youth is the roller skating arena is the pension for those children to go out and find their own brand of trouble. While most of my friends turned to cigarettes, marijuana and beer at an early age, I decided to just say no and instead focused my attentions to the slightly more creative arts of theft, vandalism and general adolescent naughtiness. In elementary school I began sneaking out of my house in the middle of the night to meet up with my equally juvenile friends. We'd prowl the neighborhood, lurking from shadow to shadow, hiding from passing cars and dodging motion sensors. Initially, the simple thrill of just being out and meandering the block at midnight was enough to tide us over but it quickly became apparent that it would not satiate our pubescent urges for long. As with all things, the newness of the situation rapidly faded and we needed to move on, expand our horizons, chase down unexplored territory. We began experimenting with toilet papering homes, garages, cars and trees, which turned into putting whipped cream messages on people's automobiles (sometimes our parents') "F U!" "EAT MY DICK" and the apocalyptic epitome "PENIS" were among some of my favorites to etch, usually in print as cursive was not yet my strong point. If you're going to send someone a message, they may as well be able to read (and appreciate) it. The whip cream was just a small step for mankind to eggs and the eggs easily segued to rocks. We would pick up stones from the alleyways that ran between the rows of Craftsman homes and we would chuck them as hard and accurately as possible towards the glass targets that served as garage windows. There is no sound in the world as thrilling and exhilarating to a young boy as the sound of shattering glass. We would disappear down the block, trying to suppress our laughter and glee at another fine mission complete. What were we aiming for? What was our purpose? Were we not concerned for the property and assets of those around us? These questions are out of reach of the common vandal, especially one that is barely a decade old. Cheap thrills. Adrenaline. The MOMENT. Like a junkie seeking his next hit, we were only concerned about the result. We didn't care who got hurt along the way; our family, our neighbors, ourselves. We would steal fluorescent bulbs from behind stores (whether they were functioning or not we cared little). We would retreat to our secret spots - the woods, the bike trail, the creek, the railroad tracks - and we would smash them one after another, watching in amazement, all of us glossy eyed and locked in like stoners experiencing their zen moment as the glass seemed to evaporate into dust before our very beings.

In the woods, under cover of leaves and disguised by trash, we had our collection of pornography; things we'd stolen from our parents and from the local book stores. We discussed the best times and days to steal our beloved nudie magazines; we had meetings, plans and blue prints. Two of us, maybe three of us would enter the bookstore at a time, the first heading to the front desk where, after a moment of silence the old woman would look up and address us, not with "hello" or "how can I help you?" but merely a cocked eyebrow. We were children and as such didn't deserve to be treated with respect and humanity. Truth be told, we were monsters, thieves and liars and got just what we had earned. We would ask for a book, something she'd never heard of, something that would get her to leave the desk and focus her attention on the shelves. "I'm looking for........something about werewolves.......". She would lead the decoy to a far corner where, nearby, the second of us would be glancing over books about Dungeons and Dragons even though none of us played. This just served as a distraction. A full store is a hard store to watch.

The third kid, usually played by a boy who was about three years my senior, would enter in a zipped up army jacket. His left hand would swing freely at his side while his right would appear to be tucked into his jacket pocket. Allegedly tucked into his jacket pocket. In actuality, in reality, it would be inside his coat, curled against his body. He would approach the stand that contained comics on the bottom shelf (kid height) and magazines about wrestling, cars and hunting on the top shelf (adult height). Behind all these worthless magazines resided The Good Stuff, our City of Gold; Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler and Club Confidential. The ones with the censored covers were the best because if THAT'S what they put on the OUTSIDE, boy oh boy, could you just imagine what they put on the inside??? The army clad crook would slip down his camo zipper just enough to enable him to reach his hand out the top of the jacket, snag a handful of adult literature and gently float them back into his coat and then, just as quickly as he had come, he would go. I would follow out a few seconds later, leaving my guard post at the D&D rack and the decoy would never find the book on werewolves he was looking for.

Outside, the group of us would rush away, heading for the nearest safe spot; a public bathroom, a group of trees, a dumpster. We all crawl inside and the army jacket slips down and all eyes are wide and all stomachs are in knots and all toes are curling. Three magazines slip out and are distributed. I tear at the plastic covering with my fingernails, with my teeth, shredding it into so much useless garbage, more camouflaged junk in the dumpster bed. On the cover are two permed blondes, both of them naked, both of them resting their peachy bottoms upon a motorcycle sitting against a black backdrop. I caress the glossy title and stare directly into their sharp blue eyes. They appear to be twins and I wonder if there is something wrong in partaking in pornography that seems to be incestuous in nature. I decide that I will first stare at their delicate bodies and fulfill any carnal appetites I may be having before discussing my moral obligations with my conscience. I slide my finger slowly under the cover, being as delicate as can be, treating this Guide to Greater Lands with as much respect as a newly wed virgin. Two other guys peer over my shoulder and not a word is said as the first page falls open, revealing a nude redhead holding a pink guitar. What is each of us thinking? What is rolling through our heads? The answer is simple and across the board: "I gotta get me one of those".

There are two girls in a pool, one of them a brunette and one of them a blonde. Neither is wearing a swimsuit save for goggles and flippers and the things they are doing one to the other are generally considered to be traditionally untraditional but the act appeals to us nonetheless. And it is this, Ladies and Sperms, where we find our sex education. In school they tell us that having wet dreams is normal and something we should not be ashamed of. In school they say that a young boy will get 19 boners a day and that you shouldn't worry. In school they tell us that having sex with a girl on her period is frowned upon and when we ask why, genuinely inquisitive, they frown upon us. In school they do NOT tell us that an entire fist would be considered "too much" for vaginal ingestion or that a wrench doesn't offer quite the same flexibility and give that your standard phallus would. We think all girls can swallow entire bananas and so, this is what we are sent out into the world with. These are the things we are expecting. And when we present our girlfriends and wives with the "exciting proposition" to blindfold them and duct tape them to a chair and throw hot grease on them we are greeted with looks of disgust, puckered and pouty, next to divorce papers.

Back in the Love Dumpster someone says that they want to be a photographer when they grow up so they can look at boobs all day long. I correct them and explain that while the boob is wonderful, it's truly the nipple that they desire. Someone else turns away, disgusted. We look at him, this outsider, with queer wonderment. He says, "I don't get it - I'm not into chicks being with other chicks - it's not like they're gonna get with me - it's not like they're gonna be interested in me and have sex with me". I tell him that these girls are a decade older than him and live 3,000 miles away and, oh yeah, they're just on a glossy print paper, so I don't think he has anything to worry about. He shrugs and turns the page to a picture of a girl lying in a pile of hay, shoving a carrot up her butt. He says, "That's what I'm talking about!" before we crawl from the dumpster, go to the video store and steal some sodas. We rent a movie (A Nightmare of Elm Street Part 2) and after signing for it I grab the VHS and proceed over to the cooler where cases of Coca-Cola and Mountain Dew are held. I slide it open, grab a 24 pack and walk right out of the store, not hesitating for the grab, not stopping to think twice, not pausing to look back. A thief must be precise and accurate and emotionless. As I blow through the doors into the (dirt) parking lot I let out a cowboy-esque "yee-haw!" and we all jump on our Huffies and peddle down the street to watch a film my mother has forbade me from viewing.

That night I tell my mom I'm spending the night at Steve's house and Steve tells his dad he's spending the night at Aaron's house and Aaron tells his folks he's spending the night at my house and we take advantage of our parent's trust / carelessness to own the night. Mitchell is our playground and we are tiny, conniving psychopaths. We start a collection of hood ornaments; Mustang's, Ford's, Dodge's. It doesn't really matter what make or model they're from. We're not picky. We just destroy and steal, tearing off the automobile mast heads and sticking them in our deep pockets and back packs. We become familiar with the term "Car Shopping". To the standard adult, car shopping is the act of going from dealership to dealership, trying to find that diamond in the rough, seeking out the good deals and haggling them down even lower. It is a time honored tradition that most American males over the age of sixteen revel in. To a group of ten, eleven and twelve year olds living in a town where nobody locks their doors, Car Shopping is the act of rifling and pillaging in people's personals and taking what you want with the oldest coupon that exists: The Five Finger Discount. Many of us acquired our first walkman this way or a nice pair of sunglasses or a cassette tape of Michael Jackson's Thriller. From time to time you'd find some change, maybe some quarters for the arcade machine at the 711 or a couple bucks to purchase A Nightmare on Elm Street part 3 or Predator with Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Two boys are siblings and three boys are a society and four boys are a brotherhood and four we stood, all for one and one for all, robbing the rich to feed the poor and all those popular lines from famous literature that justify taking things that don't belong to us and standing up for the idiots we call our friends. A brotherhood. We ride our bicycles, our stallions, our steads, down the bike trail to a sewer pipe we've been debating on exploring. Today we come equipped with our back packs stuffed to the brim with flashlights, canteens filled with water, plastic bags plump with food as well as weapons of defense: squirt guns filled with holy water, vampire stakes and forks made from silver. The four of us duck low and enter the dark tunnel, the only noise the running water flowing in a light but steady stream between our sneakers and the sound of said sneakers tapping lightly at the rotund orifice. We walk in a straight line, the tunnel only wide enough for one of us at a time. Steve is first, our valiant hero, our brave explorer, his flashlight beam shining out eight, ten feet in front of him, exposing nothing but more darkness, more water, more tunnel and the general direction in which we are heading. The rest of us hold flashlights as well but they illuminate nothing more than the butt of the jeans of the kid in front of us. Ten minutes pass, fifteen minutes pass and we approach a room. it is perhaps twelve feet in circumference and fifteen feet high. We all stand up straight, stretching and arching our backs, sore from walking at a ninety degree angle. I reach into my pack and pull out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Everyone follows suit. We share and exchange food, a ritual amongst boys; what's yours is mine (as long as you have something I want). The room in which we stand offers us a choice of direction. We can continue to follow our path straight through, exploring further in the same (Eastern?) direction or we can take the smaller tunnel to the left. We opt to continue straight on because, even at four foot three, the smaller tunnel is just too tight a squeeze for any of us. Eventually we find ourselves running short on food and water and decide to head back but the tunnel has not yet seen the best of us. The next day we come back with more stock and the day after we show up earlier and the day after we move faster and the day after we stop in each of the four cavernous rooms for quicker breaks and soon we are eating as we walk, not stopping at all, hungry to know where this tunnel leads. We crawl in it for thirty minutes, forty five minutes, an hour and fifteen minutes, straight through, turning where necessary and marking our way with X's written in chalk above the correct tunnel. We're running short on food and water but have heard that you can survive for at least a few DAYS without access to either. We march on, determined to discover where the tunnel comes out. Will we be led to a small river outlet? Will we uncover a pirate ship ala Goonies? Will we run into a giant antechamber where every pipe and funnel of the Mitchell populous pours out? The truth will reveal itself, we are sure of it and we plunge forth into the darkness. Fear never grips us, only the sense of adventure.

A strange scraping noise suddenly rips through the dark oblivion and forces our attention to it. The sound is metal in nature, similar to a big rusty plate sliding against concrete. It grinds and scrapes and the noise echoes through the catacomb of pipes, reverberating off the curved walls. We all stop, stand stalk still, bent over at the knees. We all kill our flashlights as a unit and listen. The noise stops and then continues. A grunting noise. A man grunting...two men. We have discovered C.H.U.D. (Cannibalistic. Humanoid. Underground. Dweller.) We have found our monster. It has finally crawled from the movie screen, from our TVs and is here to claim our lives. It was not discovered in the dark of night nor in our basements or bedroom closets but here in the sewer systems and it is here to kill us and we have walked right to it's dinner table. All four of us are about to die in some dank sewer and nobody will ever discover our bodies. We will be the kids who went out to play and then were nothing more than grainy black and white photos in the newspaper. We had come into this dark hole as explorers, midget versions of Louis and Clark and we would leave as brown floating sewer waste from the monster that lived beneath our city. His (her?) skin is a dark blue, the color of choked and murdered children, pockmarked and horned. It's black eyes see nothing. Living in the dark (for years? centuries?) this creature (demon?) has evolved it's sense of smell and oh yes, it smells us, four children, sweating, hungry, thirsty and scared. This, of course, is only how I picture him (her / it) in my head. A blob, sliding through the tunnels, gobbling up nutrients from the feces that we've been dumping down our drains and toilets since the invention of modern sewage. We are only ten year olds but we stand firm. We are a brotherhood and we are a team. None of us move our feet but we all slowly reach into our bags, our knapsacks, our book bags, our Monster Hunting Packs and we each pull out something to defend ourselves with; a wooden vampire stake, a silver fork, a rusty horseshoe (this last having no kind of lore behind it for fighting monsters but makes itself useful for angry whapping).
Grind-whisk-grind.
What was the source of that noise? Did the monster have a machine? A weapon? Did it crush bone? Was the creature tightening the bars on a cage that we were to be put in? Would we meet other missing children? The Midwest versions of Hansel and Gretel? We hadn't left any bread crumbs but we had left the white X's marking our way back......our way back......that was worthless for anyone coming IN to find us and how on earth would they ever realize that we'd crawled (willingly) into the tunnel to begin with? They would first search homes and riverbeds. They would charge into the local sex offender's dwellings and scour their closets and basements, our parents simultaneously hoping and not hoping that they might find us there. The riverbeds would turn up nothing save for a pair of our glasses if they happened to be bouyant enough to flow down the sewer drain like so much gray water before them, if they happened to take the correct tunnels, marked by white X's, if they happened to not get eaten by this drainage ditch behemoth. It's dark and the air is heavy but, strangely, it has a bit of a chill to it. I can't see what's coming. I can't see the kid in front of me. I can't see my own hand with the flashlight in it. I think about flicking it on and just taking a peek but then.........no.......I would certainly give us away. If it didn't know we were here, it certainly would after a stupid act like that. I didn't want to be the guy in the horror movie who wants to investigate the noise but the urge was almost unbearable. Never again would I judge him and scream at him and call him an idiot. Instead I would sympathize with him and stand up for him when others mocked his curiosity.......if the opportunity ever arose.......if I were to get out of here alive.........if I ever saw tomorrow.
Screeeeeeeek!!!
Light. Lots of it. My pupils shriek and recoil, contracting into little pinholes. Everything is white and I can't see a thing. Sensory overload. Too much. I squint and hold my hand up in front of my face. My other hand grips the flashlight and I remember watching Stephen King's It and I remember the monster, the alien, the (demon?) floating above the children, trapped in the sewer and what is pouring from out of it's eyes, it's guts, it's very being? Light. The Deadlights. You stare into them, hypnotized and they call to you and you enter them and they eat you. I shut my eyes. I pinch them tight. I will not look. I will not look. I will not look into The Deadlights. I don't tell my friends to shut their eyes. Instead I put my hands over my lids, not wanting a speck of the prism poison to leak into my brain. I hear shuffling feet and I think, "it's all over. I am going to die down here". Either IT is coming for us or my friends, my brothers, are being pulled into The Deadlights. The boy behind me, Aaron, pushes against me and I try to stop him but he shoves past me and I fall against the wall and I hear him shout, "UNCLE STAN!!!" and I think, "NO! He is a monster of glamor and he wears many masks, Aaron! He only APPEARS to be your Uncle Stan! He goes by many names - he is Pennywise, he is Bob Grey, he is The Eater of Worlds, stay away!" but I just say, "ug..." as my hand dips into some of the water under our feet. A man's voice, "what're you guys doin' down here?" and Steve says, "uh.....just exploring" and I think "NO! He's using his glamor and is wearing the mask of the plumber!" and the man says, "c'mere - let's getchya outta there" and I hear Steve step forward. I hear Aaron step forward. The kid behind me, Steve's younger brother Shawn, says, "go" and I open my eyes to find that they have adjusted and that we are standing about five feet from another room. I enter it and look up and see two city workers staring down at me through a naked manhole. The taller and skinnier of the pair says, "climb up" and I do. The two men tell us that they were working down the road - about a mile back - when they heard our voices through the grates in the street and decided to follow us.. They ask us how we got in and we tell them of the uncovered sewer pipe by the bike trail. They laugh and the shorter, fatter one says, "that's about two and a half miles away," and we say, "REALLY???" oh so proud of our accomplishment. They tell us not to go back. They tell us that they flush out those pipes with water and that we could get caught in the flood. They tell us there is poisonous gas down there and that there are giant killer rats. They tell us we could get lost and we listen to them speak. In our heads we are not afraid. In our heads we are thinking, "Giant rats? I gotta get me one of those."