|Not Titled Yet (standard:adventure, 3396 words)|
|Author: Spotlight||Added: Apr 08 2002||Views/Reads: 2759/1974||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Just another humorous tale of a man changed into a fox with superpowers and his adventures to save the world from aliens and the government and Native Americans. (Chapters 1 and 2 included)|
1 Yesterday had been a good day for Matt. He had finally paid the last payment on his Toyota pick-up truck and somehow life seemed to fit into place. A smile lit his chapped lips, like a jackolantern of relative contentment at the moment, while the dull, slightly popping roar of the faded metallic-blue truck glid along with unease. The radio blared silently, waiting for his finger to gently touch the "on" switch. But, Matt's right fingers were busy driving, while his left set were opening and closing to air currents, his elbow extending further out the window then the mirror. Matt swerved around a tight corner, his mind suddenly having a creative idea about a guy who would scream his whole life, at everyone, especially people he didn't know, and then finally when he's put in a home, they find out half his brain is a terrier's brain, but he lost the idea when the corner was done and tried to search for it in his head for the next five minutes. He knew it started with a "g", or something close. Some dirt crinkled and broke apart like sand in a wind tunnel, across his floating fingers, followed by a few particles of dust between the tan joints. His worn blue jeans were surprisingly spotless, except around the ankles where the ridges touched steel toed leather boots. His bleached white t-shirt appeared spotless over his pudgy gut, muddy handprints hidden beneath the tucked sides, another startling fact considering the nature of construction work. Today, four hours early, he was sent home with the promise of a paycheck in the bank, and compensation for the afternoon. Three months of government roadwork at forty-one dollars an hour, was complete, and the final inspections this morning were smooth and quick under the cover of thick, white clouds and a stiff breeze. Matt was not pondering any of this, having dwelled on every method of relaxation he would force himself to endure for the next few weeks, over the last three hours of his daily commute. Actually, he was still pondering this a little, but more of his effort was focused on thinking about nothing for a while. So, the road went by unnoticed, and the emptiness of the road went by unnoticed, and the ominousness of it all went by unnoticed and trees passed by, and the road curved some more. And after three hours and 11 minutes, and 231 miles of Highway and country back roads, Matt steered onto the gravel driveway that belonged to his home, a double-wide, light blue trailer complete with an awkward looking two car garage painted dark green. His nearest neighbor lived a quarter-mile away, through dense forest. The house stood, off-centered by the garage, in a circular, man-made clearing, leveled and green with Bermudan grass freshly cut in eye-catching patterns that Matt idly formed with his riding lawnmower. A single telephone pole arched wires to the roof, and on the ground ruined every single one of his planned patterns. Matt had once left a ring of uncut grass in a perfect circle around his house to bypass the telephone pole and still make a simple, decorative statement. This idea worked for about three weeks until he happened to step across the knee high mess and step into a snake burrow, twisting his ankle and franticly hopping away from a perturbed copperhead. His right hand swung effortlessly close to the silent radio dial as Matt turned off the ignition, letting the truck engine happily collapse to silence. No dogs barked or cats meowed, because Matt didn't have any. But, Matt did have a yellow Iroc-Z parked in the second space of his two car garage, but it was covered with a cotton sheet covered in lots of dust and four paint cans at the corners which were empty so as not to injure the paintjob. Matt consciously patted the car that day, laughed, and then smiled like a jackolantern of relative contentment again, rubbing the dust from his hands. Three years ago, Matt had lost the keys to the car. Inside his house, the television buzzed with news reporters across all stations, but the cord was unplugged. Matt set down his keys on the kitchen table, and ripped the soiled boots off his feet, tearing the brown socks along with them. After a quick, healthy stop at the toilet, Matt rewrapped his swollen ankle and remembered that it started with an "s", not a "g" and hit himself in the head. He then made faces in the bathroom mirror for five minutes. Somewhere along the way to a chicken salad sandwich in the refrigerator, Click here to read the rest of this story (263 more lines)
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