Tales of the Supernatural with Nap Lapkin (Part 1)
When the Triple-A baseball team, the Duluth Dragons, folded last year due to low attendance, their mascot, amongst many other poor souls, was sent packing. The problem for fired mascots is there aren’t a lot of other teams named “Dragons” and even those are rarely looking for a new mascot. Getting a new gig is next to impossible.
So difficult that it might drive said fired mascot to turn to the dark arts. If a small tingle just ran up your spine after reading that, it’s perfectly understandable.
Like so many terrible things such as Meister Brau beer, it began in Milwaukee. At a Milwaukee Brewers game specifically. Right after the beloved seventh inning stretch ritual of the Famous Racing Sausages. Brat (#1), Polish Sausage (#2), Italian Sausage (#3), Hot Dog (#4), and Chorizo (#5) made their dash from left field to home plate. They had no sooner departed the field then a loud roar emanated from the bowels of the stadium.
An unlucky security guard that had gone to investigate was the first one on the scene. He flung open the double doors that led from the public walkways to the catacombs beneath the ballpark and fell back in horror. Chunks of sausage and bodily fluids littered the ground and an eight-foot-tall dragon in a blood-soaked sweater with two large Ds emblazoned upon it crouched between the tattered remains of Brat and Italian Sausage while Hot Dog squirmed in its slavering jaws. Chorizo, blind with terror, comically stumbled and bumbled down the hallway, its entrails protruding from a gaping wound as his terrible transformation was underway. (At this juncture you don’t know exactly what transformation I’m referring to, so don’t get too fixated on it.)
Polish Sausage was nowhere to be seen.
As the dragon gulped down Hot Dog and set off in pursuit of Chorizo, the guard later grudgingly admitted that the scent hanging in the air smelled delicious.
I realize that this is a lot for you to process. Usually you’re not asked to just jump in like this, so take a moment to digest what you’ve just read.
As far as the guard could tell, the dragon was a real dragon. If dragons existed. Teeth, claws, the whole show. And the terrible transformation I spoke about?
That’s the weirdest part, and the primary reason this story is called Tales of the Supernatural With Nap Lapkin as opposed to Another Tale of Adventure With Nap Lapkin. The corpses of the deceased mascots were made entirely of whatever meat they represented. There was never any trace of the people who had previous inhabited the outfit. They simply disappeared.
I know, right? Pretty supernatural.
Why would something like this attract the attention of a super-spy like Nap Lapkin? I guess the real question is whether or not you’d rather read a story involving a super-spy or a story about another lame crime-scene investigator. You know the kind, the ones clogging up TV with horrible shows riddled with initials and starring some vaguely-attractive yet somehow insipid actor rattling off statistics while still giving the audience a weekly peek at his heart of gold. Of course he’s surrounded by the obligatory cast of stereotypical characters who will understand his frustration with the newest case and not rest until it gets solved. We get it, we get it, TV. There are a lot of serial killers out there, so in case they get stuck for new ideas on how to murder people, you’d better keep churning them out.
Is that what you as the reader want?
I didn’t think so… so stop your bellyaching and just appreciate the fact that within minutes you’re going to be ass-deep in a Nap Lapkin tale.
If you’re looking for a story involving a secret agent who has a laser in his shoe or a female operative with a fire-belching diaphragm, then you’re out of luck. Believe me; I’m not happy about it either. As a writer, I’d love nothing more than to introduce a gadget like a fire-belching diaphragm, but Nap will have none of it. He won’t even bring a knife to a gunfight. The chances of him arriving with a laser are slim to none. He just wouldn’t find it sporting.
Now Madonna Axiom on the other hand… perhaps you could convince me to get her involved in this little narrative. While it’s true she doesn’t currently own a fire-belching diaphragm, she is the proud owner of a plasma-spewing vibrator. I shouldn’t have to clarify this but for the sake of those readers that might be confused, the plasma in question is weaponized ionized gas and not the colorless fluid part of blood in which fat globules are suspended. I mean really, if I need to spend time making that clear, perhaps you might consider reading less challenging material.
Who would possibly think that a vibrator spewing the colorless fluid part of blood in which fat globules are suspended would in any way provide a female agent any protection? Please don’t make me regret considering her for this story.