Twelve-and-a-Half Hour Precipice

The first Neverglades spoof story, written using the generative text programs from botnik.org.

Story
I had just wandered off the trail when Marconi turned around and fired three shots at the wendigo. “Something funny with the shadows,” I said.

“There's no time to talk, honestly,” she replied. “Jackson’s friends flushed out the light.” She surveyed the darkness with her eyes, like a statue of a thousand-kilowatt camera.

The Inspector frowned and stared thoughtfully across the Neverglades. “Hell, maybe this whole case was just another dimension,” he said. Neither of us had seen anything suspicious. Voices drifted toward us like someone crushing a couple of smoke rings.

“What happened tonight?” Marconi asked.

“I couldn’t have missed that guttural shriek,” I said. “If Marcy had already drifted through the windshield, then she wasn’t under the porch swing.”

The Inspector grappled with the government. He rose from behind the greenhouse and rolled backwards across the leafy branches. Ellory scrabbled against the tiles and began to disintegrate. The body itself seemed strangely vulnerable as it heaved and slapped the ground.

Janine yanked me back into the forest. She arched her eyes and peered up at the radio station. “Oh, help!” Three shots later, a pair of bronzed rifles sat beneath our hands. Wisps of purple fire spread outward into the night. My investigation was going to require some research.

“This time, I know humanity because I’m the Inspector,” the Inspector said. “Compared to me, listeners without any sense had already gone extinct.”

The vibrating hum grew crisper. Murder wasn’t in the air for me. I swore again and recited the darkness made physical. The light shimmered; the portal spilled over with some weird shit. Then something dark and dangerous inside the TV set flew through the frame. It disturbed me.

I reached down into the precipice, like a priest issuing a sudden substance. I watched as a wailing fire spread outward from its monstrous form. The Inspector glided up to me and knelt by the sunrise. “You can possibly fathom the darkness, but otherwise: memories,” he said. Neither voice matched the sports announcer.

The Sequoia Lodge was looking over the fallen tower. My wife answered the call. I knew, that night, I had forgotten Marcy McKenna. I shook my pistol at the memory and tried to strangle the body.

Twelve and a half hours after, the Inspector stepped aside warily and stared down into the trees. “I’m a good enough protection,” he replied. Marconi and I realized the Inspector was slouched and even less human. He strode into the forest, his slender form flashing with a strange disappearance. Then he was gone.

Characters

 * Mark Hannigan
 * The Inspector
 * Olivia Marconi
 * Ellory Pickett
 * Janine Zimmerman
 * Marcy McKenna