Coping mechanisms - Lothmar

(wanted to write a story and knew i’d probably forget the idea if I waited for my muse to come back. Sorry if the qualities shitty.)

Soon it would be winter and the way the worlds going this might be your last chance to make one of these runs. Before the strategic oil reserves run out and gas rockets back up after the midterms you decided it was time to take a trip. You go to your storage unit before it closes and pull your car inside before driving out your grandfather’s station wagon. You proceed home and into the alley before you back the vehicle up to your garage. You placed a piece of carboard behind the seat to block off view of the back from the front and padded/covered the side windows of the back as well so no one could see in until you felt comfortable. You finally approach the padlock and scan the area nearby once before unlocking it. No sooner had you started to lift the garage door did you feel a slight shift behind and had to pause.

After a deep three second breath you continued and lifted the door enough to get to work but not fully expose the interior. You began to load up nine children’s bikes of various sizes quality and condition before the back was full. You then wrapped three in a tarp and proceeded to secure them to the roof. ‘Never more then 12 at a time, no matter the urge…’ You repeated the mantra under your breath before sealing the now empty garage and putting the lock back on. You grabbed a duffel bag from behind the door, set it in the passenger seat and locked the house it before leaving. Perhaps you’d convince yourself to stop this year.

After an hour you felt comfortable enough pulling over to remove the window covers and fake license plate so you could at least somewhat see out the back and rear sides again and reduce the likelihood of getting pulled over. You continued driving into the night until you reached the edge of the trail you didn’t want to risk the old station wagon on and spotted your old worn yellow sign posted on a tree with an outline of bigfoot.

You opened your duffel bag and proceeded to change into your bigfoot costume to keep you warm on this crisp autumn morning. You proceeded to sling the bag over your shoulder and chest before walking the first pair of bikes down the trail. You always enjoyed these walks and remembered when your parents were still married, your father would take you hunting, your mother enjoyed having picnics out here at least until the fluffies became a pest. But that pushed your mother over the edge into joining you and dad in hunting the invasive species. Shame she liked shooting a little too much and decided to murder your father.

The trees thinned out before the meadow and there in the clearing was what seemed like a hill. You stood the bikes up with their kickstands and set the duffle bag down before getting out your shovel multi tool.

“Who dewe?” Came a colorful lisp from the darkness. It squinted as a looming shadow approached it, the dark sky ball was too low to reveal the intruder. “Munstah! Screeee~” the Toughie suddenly blurted out as the clouds parted just enough on the horizon to reveal your silhouette. The creature ran towards the hill and around the back side and a few other rustles from various directions converged there.

“Ugh, don’t tell me…” You sighed approaching and slowly walking around the perimeter to the back. ‘Shit.’ You thought seeing the tell-tale signs of a burrow in your ‘hill’. You thumped the top with your shovel to cause a slight collapse of the entrance so they couldn’t use it while you walked the remaining perimeter. A series of muffled squeals and panicked cries could be heard within. After walking the perimeter and then cutting over the top you determined there were no more exits in the immediate area or you’d need sunlight to find them.

“Guess I’ll dig up the back then since they’ve done part of the work for me.” You added as you moved the bikes and bag to the other side and got to work clearing the partially buried ramp into the earthen structure that had been buried and covered in grass.

Once enough space had been cleared for you to comfortably slide inside and drag the bikes through you proceeded into the darkness. You then slid up your lantern and increased its brightness slowly. There was a sudden panic at the increase in light and you heard a series of thunks and skitters, screams and yep there was the smell of fear farts and shit. You groan as you look around your old childhood fort. You’d come up here to ride trails or play paintball on a family friends land. You had to hunch to fit inside but the earthen walls and ceilings had support beams in place along with racks upon racks of wood worked bicycle docks. Inside of which felt like there were more bicycles then stars in the sky as they caught the glint of the lantern. Two decades of various styled bicycles that were unique from chassis and tires all the way to paintjobs. It was probably only five hundred or so but it still felt vast and expansive like the night sky.

Something about bicycles casually discarded and unsecured left lying on the ground like a corpse infuriated you. So for years you often disappeared them when abandoned or not put away and kept them in your garage until it was full and then you’d drive them out here and put them on secret display. Carefully Expanding and digging new space wider every five years or so before building the earthen dome and resodding it. The mild contentment brought on by your daydreaming at your collection was brough to a standstill.

“Dis am Hewd’s den! Munstah nee weave before we~” They paused as you leveled your eyes upon them and their toughies. “gib ou.” The mono khaki unicorn gulped and his two green and blue toughies (one primary green with blue mane, one primary blue with green mane) began to slowly step backwards. “Fowebah. Sweepies?” You snickered a bit at their uncertainty.

Building to a chuckle and a full on hearty laugh. “If you hadn’t found this place, I probably would have let you off with a warning to avoid the hill. Thanks for the laugh.” You added wiping your eyes.

“Munstah can tawk?!” The smarty added confused but impressed.

“Sure can, doesn’t mean there’ll be any more of it though.” You add stepping in with the saw portion of the shovels multi tool as you butchered the smarty by chopping almost through their neck and then dragging it across the remainder to finish severing the head from their neck. You would spare none of the adults or any fluffy with their eyes open as they could potentially reveal your secret. Not that you had anything to hide, this was a perfectly reasonable hobby.

“Pwease, nu wan go fowebah sweepies. Why huwt fwuffies!? Just wan wawm den fow cowd time.” The final cinnamon and khaki nurse mare that looked like a pinto pony added while protecting the foals after the other mothers had failed to fight you off.

“Because this is my den and these are my toys. Toys go in the box and the box goes in the ground when you’re done with them. You don’t just leave them lying on the ground to trip over MOM! . .” You huff for a moment before wiping spittle from your mouth and blinking back to proper coherency. “Im sorry, that was unnecessary. Now lay down and I’ll spare the chirpies.” You add casually gesturing with a point to the floor.

She snuffles and complies while hugging the older foals as if trying to protect them as they cry and beg asking her to save them. “Bu no see munstah aww wawm time since found good smeww pwace wif tastey nummies. Nu faiw.” she complains.

“Yeah sorry about that, im usually pretty good about visiting. Gas prices were insane.” You add apologetically bringing the shovel flat down on her and the hugged collection of foals like a Gallagher melon as what didn’t spurt across the floor and walls was pressed into a pancake shape.

You got your duffle bag and proceeded to wipe down your costumes exterior of viscera and blood knowing you’d need to get it properly cleaned at the abuse-o-mat or replace the exterior fur paneling entirely. You scooped the fluffies into a burn barrel you kept for various functions and thankfully they had been padding the nest with leaves and dry debris which should help get things going.

You wrapped up the remaining chirpies and fed them from their mothers corpses while they were still functional and before the milk turned before plopping them in the barrel. You gaze at the bag of sleeping foals and think ‘it would be so easy…’ but decide against it. ‘I may play Sasquatch as a hobby but you’re not completely broken monster.’ You think to yourself as you shoulder the bag and make your way out of the subterranean earthen work structure and begin walking back down the trail working your adrenaline boner as you go. You’d let the fluffies distract you too long from having your fun.

You left the chirpies in the front seat with the windows cracked before doing another five trips to bring the bikes to their graveyard as the sun came up. You then covered the barrel and left anything you’d miss to the inevitable bug clean up crews as you sealed the entrance once again and tied the bloody towel to a stick after hammering it into the dirt. Hopefully fluffies would keep away for both your sakes.

If you hadn’t put yourself behind the 8 ball with the soon to be hungry foals you would have enjoyed a few more hours of shenanigans in the morning fall treeline. After getting back to the car you changed back to normal attire and then left. “Need to decide if im going to turn you in to the shelter or keep you for the dark winter…” ‘Could always make more jerky or can more meat if you didn’t need more living heaters.’ You think turning on the radio as you drive back to your storage unit to change back to your vehicle and head home.


To be fair to the fluffies, I probably would also be terrified if I saw Sasquatch enter my home with a pair of bicycles.



1 Like

Bro i wouldnt even need to see the bikes, Bigfoot breaking into my house would be enough for me to shit myself.

1 Like

As hobbies inherently are! Even the ones who seem a bit serial killery.

Modern conveniences.

1 Like

If the fluffies weren’t there this would just be a light hearted story about hoarding and mental health management. Had to ruin a day of pranking cyclists / pumpkin patchers ; maybe jizzing on some Autumn Phlox or Ox-eye Daisies depending on what they find blooming on their walk.

You know, normal sane activities.

Regular dry cleaners tend to ask questions and need to report things.

The abuse laundromat has tools for determining if blood is from a fluffy on hand but otherwise tend not to ask questions or report things.

1 Like

Hoarding & collecting are not the same: the latter discriminates.
The suspect part is the protagonists secretiveness. Makes it seem like gathering trophies.

So “Killed some vermin. While in my Sasquatch costume.” is not enough these days?!
( Actually, one would assume such abuser establishments would have some degree of confidentiality, depending on how radical hugboxers might be )

1 Like