[Interstellar War]

I’m in a cave somewhere between Fitc-
hburg and Mt. Wachusett. I was able t-
o get a bunch of brush, but my claws
are feeling it now. I puff a cloud o-
f green fire and warm my scales. Th-
ere must be a thousand ticks stuck u-
nderneath them, and, mein gott, is i-
t fucking annoying. I’m absolutely e-
xhausted and low on blood. The oxyge-
n up here is slight, and it is time f-
or me to feed.

It’s not like it is in the middle of
summer – that goes without saying – b-
ut it’s more barren than usual. The t-
own is an image of gloom with a gray,
overcast, sky. Lots of brick. All the
smoke stacks are active. The Nashua
is a strange baby blue color. The w-
oolen mill purging dye while making w-
hat appears to be nighties for all t-
he male beast-children. I believe I m-
ay have been spotted over John Fitch
highway. I was choking on exhaust fu-
mes when, I think, a group of them spo-
tted me. I’m all fucked up, guys.

It’s clear outside. Cold. I plucked a few rabbits
by the planetarium, so at least there was
something for me. I ate a weird root yester-
day, and that has, no doubt, contrib-
uted to my state. Times are rough. O-
n my way back, I saw a choice tree a-
nd was about to feed, but a bunch of
deer milled around it. A few v-
ery small ones stumbling around. New
life, you see, so I left the tree and
everything on the ground to them. Plu-
s, last time I went near the orchards
in that area a drunken farmer tried t-
o shoot me. Bullets are more annoying
than ticks, and louder. So no trees,
no apples. I’ve got these rabbits, t-
hough, and they’ll last the next day
or two.

I don’t eat humans. Their flesh is t-
oxic. Between the air and the contam-
inated food it’s just asking for c-
ancer. I stick to trees and fruit,
but even the fruit these days is shi-
t. You can taste the emulsifiers, an-
d see a baby blue tint in the cells
of the apples. Yuck. And that’s the
beginning of the year. By harvest s-
eason all the dye in the groundwate-
r turns even the freshest apple a h-
orrible shade of brown. When they d-
rop and lay there on the ground, af-
ter a good rain and the last of the
summer humidity, flourscent orange
mushrooms pop up around the base of
the trees. I’ve observed several fo-
xes eat them, and, ever after, t-
hey wander around in the forest at
night, dazed, with beams of green li-
ght spewing out of their eyes. I can’t
afford that kind of heat right now.

Like I was saying, I don’t eat people.
It’s not just that they’re carcinogen-
ic, either. I don’t need that kind of
heat on me. Like, a few weeks ago one
of the beast-children got lost on the
mountain. They’re losing their minds.
I don’t blame them. But one of the dr-
unk farmers is blaming me, apparently,
and that just isn’t my style. Thankfu-
lly, he is a madman, and so no one tak-
es his account seriously. The guy gro-
ws neon yellow potatoes and glowing
purple spinach. His body, not just hi-
s mind, is pickled. Like I said, I st-
ick to rabbits, fruit, choice trees,
and the occasional apple. But, you n-
eed to know where to get the apples.
And it isn’t around that damn river.

Believe it or not, occasionally I wil-
l bathe. Generally I stick with large
bodies of water, but once or twice I t-
ried the Nashua. I woke up the next mo-
rning deaf in one ear. You figure it o-
ut. I don’t need that. I like the rese-
voirs by Worcester, but I’d feel guilt-
y tainting the water supply like that.
It has enough problems without oil fro-
m my ass getting in. Even diluted, it’s
the principle that matters. I’ve heard
it before. I have to avoid beast infra-
structure. I went to visit Uncle Eddy o-
n the Cape and was about to stop to bat-
he, but got blasted on some gas near th-
e highway. It’s been that way for month-
s. I see them working on it in one spot,
and a week later the shit pops up a few
hundred yards down the road. I saw a ma-
n accidentally immolate himself while t-
rying to light a cigarette. Even then, s-
erved on a platter like that — I was hun-
gry at the time — I have to refuse huma-
ns. For my health.

There is a pretty good spot up north, th-
ough. A group of beasts leave a roasted
platter for me on top of one of
the mountains occasionally. They’ve b-
een around for a few hundred years, at l-
east. Definitely older than the really c-
ancerous beasts. These ones up north are
still bad, but at least they didn’t fuck
things up so much. And, they save choice
melons and things for me. I know I can t-
rust their standards. It’s worth the tri-
p, but they’re fickle. The past hundred y-
ears or so, especially, I can’t really de-
pend on them. All their burial grounds we-
re plowed over to build these damned high-
ways, and their villages were choked to r-
elative non-existence and isolation.

It’s very disturbing. They were pretty go-
od. It’s a shame. I’d almost consider eat-
ing one of them.