A Friday Morning Feast of Friendship, Fangs, and Fur! (Uncle Elmer Reporting Live!)
Good morning, world! Captain Hedges here, your humble narrator, bringing you a truly wild dispatch from my front porch in Shreveport, Louisiana, on this bright Friday morning, April 25th, 2025. What started as a simple breakfast has blossomed into a testament to resilience, friendship, and the downright insane joys of building community – especially when cryptids crash the party! Pull up a virtual chair, grab a cup of coffee (brewed with love, of course!), and let me tell you about a morning that was anything but ordinary.
The Grumpy Opening Act
The air was alive with the wonderful smells of coffee, pancakes, and fired turkey bacon – a true feast for the senses! This morning's breakfast was extra special because I'm sharing it with my neighbors, who are more like family forged in the crucible of shared experience. Not long ago, we were all navigating the harsh realities of homelessness, side-by-side on the streets. Now, thanks to a twist of fate and a lot of perseverance, we each have our own apartments. And we've created our own little community, taking turns cooking and looking out for one another. It's truly something special to witness. And yes, the coffee is flowing, brewed to perfection by yours truly (they insist!).
But before the laughter could truly get going, Uncle Bill was in rare form. Bless his heart, the man could find a cloud in a field of sunshine. He was grumbling louder than a swamp cooler in June, still chewing on me about those four hours he was left alone yesterday. "Left me alone for four hours!" he'd been muttering like a broken record. He finds contentment in a good gripe, and if he doesn't have something to complain about, he's just not happy. On the flip side, Uncle Jerry, bless his happy-go-lucky soul, has the constitution of a dog as a best friend scenario – a welcome contrast to Bill's constant frown. It's hard at times, but I love him both. Uncle Bill has even "fired" me multiple times, only to realize no one looks after him like me, so he apologizes and hires me back.
The First Encounter: A Rougarou and a Chair Shot
The sweet smell of breakfast was suddenly cut by something foul – a rank, wild musk that hit me like a slap. My instincts screamed. Even Uncle Bill's endless rant about the lack of good syrup sputtered to a halt, replaced by a wide-eyed, disbelieving stare.
Then, the bayou howls started, closer than usual. Not the mournful cry of a lost hound, but something deeper, more primal. And then we saw it. Padding silently from the edge of the yard, its eyes glowing with an eerie red light in the morning mist, was a Rougarou. The legendary werewolf-like creature of these Louisiana swamps, and it looked hungry.
Uncle Bill, who just moments ago was griping about the softness of the pancakes batter, went white as a sheet. His jaw dropped, his list of complaints vanishing faster than a plate of my fired turkey bacon. For once, he had something genuinely terrifying to be angry – and sacred – about!
From the murky edge of the yard, a low, guttural growl ripped through the quiet. Then, a hulking shadow detached itself from the mist – the Rougarou. Its eyes, twin coals of malevolent red, locked onto us. This wasn't some storybook monster; this was a lean, hungry predator, and it was looking for breakfast. He decided uncle bill was his breakfast.
Uncle Bill, who moments before was ready to brawl over my choice of bacon, suddenly looked like he'd seen a ghost… a very large, toothy, furry ghost. His mouth hung open, all complaints forgotten.
This wasn't a game. This was a street fight, pure and ugly, right here on my porch!
The Rougarou charged, a blur of claw and fang. I reacted on instinct, using the cast iron skillet – not for cooking, but as a shield, deflecting a swipe that would've taken my head clean off. "Uncle Bill, move!" I barked, my voice tight.
But old Bill, bless his cantankerous soul, wasn't about to stand down. He grabbed the nearest sturdy porch chair – not to sit, but to swing. He put his whole grumpy, built-up frustration into that chair, connecting with a sickening crack against the beast's flank! The Rougarou roared, a sound of pain and rage, staggering back momentarily.
Seeing his opening, Uncle Bill didn't hesitate. This wasn't wrestling; this was pure, unadulterated street brawling. He lunged, getting a surprisingly solid grip on the beast's shaggy fur, pulling it off balance. The Rougarou thrashed, snapping its powerful jaws, trying to bring its claws to bear. But Uncle Bill, fueled by adrenaline and perhaps a lifetime of petty grievances, held on, wrestling the monster in a desperate, primal grapple right there amidst the overturned coffee cups!
I jumped in, no time for finesse. I swung the skillet like a hammer, aiming for anything that looked vulnerable. A heavy thud against its leg, another jarring blow to its shoulder. The Rougarou roared, its fury reaching a fever pitch, but it was getting hurt. It twisted, snarling, and managed to break free from Uncle Bill's surprisingly tenacious grip. With a final, furious snarl of frustration, the battered beast turned tail and melted back into the shadows of the swamp, leaving behind only the musky scent of wild fear.
Round Two: The Weretiger Enters the Fray!
Silence fell, but it was a fleeting peace. Just as we caught our breath, another growl, deeper and more menacing, ripped through the morning mist. A second Rougarou, bigger than the first, was lumbering out of the shadows. My anger, already simmering from Uncle Bill's earlier complaints and now stoked by the sheer audacity of this creature, hit a boiling point. Enough was enough.
A surge of power ripped through me. My bones shifted, muscles swelled, and fur erupted, tearing through my clothes. The porch seemed to shrink as I grew, my hands becoming razor-clawed paws. My vision sharpened, senses amplified. I was no longer just Captain Hedges; I was the Weretiger, a force of primal fury unleashed!
The second Rougarou hesitated, clearly not expecting a half-man, half-tiger to join the breakfast party. "You want a piece of this, furball?!" I roared, my voice now a guttural rumble.
Uncle Bill, surprisingly, didn't even flinch at my transformation. Maybe after wrestling one werewolf, a weretiger was just par for the course. He just pointed with his battered chair. "Get 'im, Earl! The big one!"
And we went to work. This was a true tag-team match, street fight rules. I moved with lightning speed, claws tearing at the Rougarou's hide, using my new bulk to block its lunges. Uncle Bill, surprisingly agile for an old grump, darted in, delivering chair-shots to its flanks, distracting it just long enough for me to land a crushing blow. We moved around it, a blur of fur, chair, and righteous indignation. The Rougarou roared in frustration, unable to contend with our combined, chaotic assault. It tried to retreat, but we were on it, a relentless storm of fists, claws, and furniture.
Then uncle Jerry entered the coemption when it was about to be more then we could handle and became a six-man bayou brawl finally, uncle bill got him in an uncle bill hug and squeed him good, with a desper ate yelp, the second Rougarou broke free, limping and snarling, retreating into the depths of the swamp with its tail (or what passed for it) between its legs.
The Aftermath: Blessings and Bruises
Panting, I felt the familiar shift, the surge receding as my human form returned, leaving me feeling strangely invigorated, if a little disheveled. Uncle Bill, still clutching his chair, just stared at me, his mouth agape.
"Well, I'll be," he finally wheezed, his grumpiness momentarily replaced by bewildered awe. "You… you turned into a giant cat. And we… we beat their asses."
"Sure did, Uncle Bill," I grinned, picking up a stray pancake. "Looks like breakfast just got a lot more interesting. And you, my friend, can still throw down like a champ."
This growing community is a powerful testament to the fact that even after facing hardship, beautiful things can take root and flourish. It's a blessing, a gift from above, and a reminder that even though my impatient nature sometimes gets the better of me, the unfolding of this community has been a beautiful process. It reminds me of Acts 2:42: "They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer."
Maybe a hard-core street fight with two cryptids, especially with an unexpected transformation, is the ultimate way to bond, even with the grumpiest of uncles. Uncle Bill still had plenty to complain about afterward (mostly about my sudden lack of clothes and the ruined porch furniture), but there was an undeniable edge of shared history to it. And me? I've confirmed that the Urland Universe always keeps you on your toes, even when you're just trying to make breakfast.
So, as the aroma of coffee and laughter (and a faint whiff of swamp monster) fills the morning air here on my porch, I'm filled with a profound sense of gratitude.
What began as a small gathering of those who had weathered the storm together has grown, welcoming new friends and forging a strong community right here in our apartment complex. It's a reminder that even in the aftermath of hardship, life finds a way to bloom, and connection is the most precious gift of all. This is Captain Hedges, signing off with a heart full of joy, a few bruises, and the promise of more community breakfasts (hopefully Rougarou-free) to come!
No comments:
Post a Comment