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My Hunting DiaryDay 14 As I stated in my previous entry, the Squonk has been living in the YMCA! I've asked several facility managers about its behavior and they tell me it usually keeps to itself. And boy does it love soup. All kinds too. Pumpkin, tomato, a wide variety of chowders, you name it. He even...wait, Gregor, old boy. Your squonk is a girl. A female. You must get used to saying that. Ahem. Every time I try and get near her, she dashes away. This is the case with most female figures in my life. It must be on to my agenda, because this morning, the squonk left the YMCA for good! Yessir, the facility manager told me that she left a note thanking them for all the soup and said she needed to head South for the Winter. I must find her before she escapes the confines of the city! Gun or no gun, it is my duty as a hunter. More to come, o faithful reader. Tomorrow, the hunt truly begins.... Most triumphant hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 13 I saw it. That's right, I saw it. The squonk. All this time I thought it was a male, and now I'm not so sure. But that's not important. It was right under my very nose, staying at the same YMCA as I! It was curled up by a bug light, using the soft neon glow for warmth. It was wrapped in rags and crying, just like the legend says. Before I could gather my hunting supplies, it vanished. The reason I say it may not be a male is because it was wearing a brassiere on its head. It may have simply fancied it a ski cap, but I don't think so. So many missing pieces, so little time....I'll elaborate on this entry once I am of sane thoughts and more focused...back to work... Happy hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 10 So weak. Growing delusional. Can...only...write...in...two...word...sentences...or...phrases...with...lots...of...dot...thingies...after...them. I think. They're called. Ellipseez. Or something. Like that. Pen...is...shaky...need...some...meat...growing...tired...of...homeless...people...soup. Another haiku:
Y The smell of chlorine And soup Halloween soon They made pumpkin soup Smells like a farm, feels like liquid barley Gregor takes his medicine Gregor takes his medicine Everyday Like a good boy What A Good Boy Am I Gregor = WAGBAI YMCA Pumpkin Soup Emptiness... Sloppy eating, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 9 So hungry...I've been hiding out at a place called the YMCA for weeks. A man named Boris split half a sandwich with me. Every now and then they give us some soup, which is nice. I fear that Chester and his cronies are still close by. I'll have to wait it out. If you have any food, please send it to me. Hungry Hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 7 (but an account of day 6 ½) And now for my tale of woe... There I was, basking in the glory of my newfound hunting ground. Although I had still seen no signs of my beloved squonk, my waged war against the aliens was going quite nicely. I paraded up and down the South streets, riddling the robotic Man/Hands with bullets until they blinked no more. I was a hit with the locals; a gang of small children began following me on my adventures. They dubbed me "Elmer Fudd," a most divine pseudonym if I do say so myself. This Fudd character must have been a patron saint of the wilderness in Chicago. They began merrily pointing at things for me to shoot. Most of the time it would be street signs, abandoned cars, and of course, the Man/Hand changelings; everyday objects that were simply made for shooting. However, it wouldn't be long before things turned sour. One young lad, a ripe little bully named Chester, pointed at an ACTUAL PERSON! He was a large man that the young ones kept referring to "The Kingpin of the GD's," whatever that means. Now, Gregor Courtepy is many things (husband, lover, friend, farmhand, writer, horse whisperer, musician, the list goes on...), but he is by no means a murderer, with the exception of woodland creatures of course. I blatantly refused young Chester's command. This didn't go over well with him or the rest of the rascals. They attacked me! Viciously! I always thought "ankle-biter" was a figure of speech, but these ruffians actually bit my ankles! I managed to kick a few of them off, but they continued their feral assault, clawing, spitting, spanking me until I was a shadow of a man. By the time I came to, Felicity, my adored rifle, was gone, snatched by the gang of harlequins. So now I wander these lonely streets, cowering in fear of the nearby gunshots. Undoubtedly, they belong to Chester and his friends. Those surly wood nymphs are surely after my own hide. In a cruel twist of fate, the hunter has become the hunted. Until next time, if there even IS a next time... Morose Hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 6 O cursed day! A tragedy struck me while hunting. Felicity is dead! No longer will I feel the smoothness of her brown skin! I shall no longer be witness to the way fire spat out of her mouth when she was angry or the way her butt would grow clammy in my hands when I was nervous! Felicity, my beloved rifle, is gone! I am too heartbroken to write about it here. With a little rest and a lot of food, I shall replenish my strength and tell you a most troublesome tale in the morrow! Until then... Saddy Sad Hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 5 I've done it! I've finally succeeded in scouting out a suitable hunting ground! After all of my weekend mishaps, I decided to take my hunt for the squonk south, further away from this "Lakeview" area. I ended up in an area where the streets all became numbers and things looked quite different. It was somewhat quieter than the downtown area, but had an odd sort of wild energy about it. It reminded me of my beloved woods back home. Although I haven't seen any sign of the squonk yet, this part of town is still plagued with the hazardous alien technology that appears to be quite common here in Chicago. Once again, I saw that glowing orange hand transform into a neon white humanoid. Knowing not what would happen next, I fired my rifle upon instinct. Immediately afterwards, I remembered what had happened last time I did this and cursed myself as I waited for the police to arrive. I waited...and waited...and waited...but no one came! It seems I can fire my rifle at will in this new section of town and nobody cares! O, glorious day! I feel a newfound love for this city. I expect great things to happen in my new hunting grounds. More soon. Until then... Happy Hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 4 I took a much needed break this weekend from hunting our little warted friend. I rarely get to leave Pennsylvania, so I thought it would be a good time to explore Chicago. Chicago... what a funny name for a city. I've always been interested in Native American culture, and I discovered that Chicago is actually Indian for smelly skunk onion...or something like that. This led me to believe that perhaps there are skunks wandering around the city. Next to squonks and muskrats, skunks are probably my most favorite thing to hunt. I must confess, I even somewhat enjoy their smell. Well that's not entirely true. Confession number 2 (I feel like I'm talking to a priest!): I ACTUALLY love the smell of tomato juice and if you get sprayed by a skunk, that means you get a tomato juice bath, free of charge! Anyway, I kept thinking about all this as I was walking down the street known as Belmont (I am getting quite tired of this area - time to move my hunting grounds further South), and I began to crave a helping of fresh tomatoes. I wandered into a store called Walgreen's. I was attracted to this particular market square because of its sign, which is a cup being brewed with sparkles. This looked magical to me, and as you all know, I love magic, so I figured they probably had the best tomatoes in the city...perhaps even magical tomatoes. After searching the store for a good hour, I found not a tomato in sight. I DID however discover something called V8, a potion which allegedly has an entire serving of a tomatoes in every sip. I purchased a bottle of it and immediately poured it over my entire body, ooing and aahing at the ripe, red aroma swarming my muscular form. They must not like tomatoes here in Chicago (odd, considering how much they love skunks) because I was immediately thrown out of the store. I really don't understand this city. I can't aim my gun at hazardous alien technology, and I can't even enjoy a simple tomato bath in the marketplace. Perhaps I'll never understand these people. Then again, I've always been a son of Mother Nature at heart. Time to start hunting again... Until next time... Happy Hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 2 Muskrat. A haiku. Muskrat -Gregor Courtepy The end. I wrote that today while hunting. No sign of the squonk yet, but plenty of muskrat jumping around. I've always been a fan of the muskrat. When they get snow in their fur, it makes them look like miniature versions of Santa, if Santa was a werewolf. I understand that this is called a metaphor, and it is a tool used by most poets. I've never fancied myself a writer (I prefer the musket over the pen...musket...sounds like muskrat...shall use in my next haiku), but my Christmas metaphor got me thinking about poetry. So I wrote a poem, and this is a special poem you see because it's a haiku. A haiku is Japanese and it is different from other forms of poetry in that it is broken up into several lines, each one having a different number of syllables. See? You learn something new every day. You're welcome. Until next time... Happy Hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where? Day 1 Hello, everyone. My name is Gregor. I'm a hunter. And I love animals. Now people always ask me "hey, Gregor, how's it going?" And I tell them "pretty good," unless I'm having a bad day, in which I'll say "pretty good but not as good as usual," to which they'll say "that's nice." And then…um…well the point is people wonder how I can love animals and hunt them at the same time. And the answer is I don't know. I find that's a pretty good answer for everything. It's safe and it's honest. Anywhosies, I'm looking for a creature called the Squonk and I'm wondering if you all could help me. My in-house plastic surgeon Dr. Sylvan set me up on this thing called a compewter. However I don't quite know how to use it yet. I'm not even sure what it is really. I assume it has something to do with pewter although I'm not sure what the "com" part means. I told Dr. Sylvan that this thing sure doesn't look pewter but he told me that compewters come in all shapes and sizes, including silver. Silver is close enough to pewter, so that makes sense to me. So here I am on this compewter. It says "Gateway" on it and every time I don't use it for five minutes, all these cows start flying around the screen. I call them the pixie cows. As soon as I move the "mouse," the "pixie cows" disappear. It's almost like hunting only I don't get to eat them afterwards. But on to the point. The reason I have this compewter is so I can keep you updated on my hunt for the squonk, and more importantly, so you can help me find it. If you see my squonk, write about it on the squonk tracker and I'll get back to you about capturing it. There may even be a little something in it for you further down the road. Call it detective work. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Like Sherlock Holmes and Watson giving each other a sponge bath. I think I'm going to take a bath myself. Yeah, that sounds good. Happy Hunting, PS – By the way, this is my first PS. Dr. Sylvan told me that's what you do when you finish your letter and realize that you forgot to say something you wanted to say. The thing I wanted to say is that I'll be updating this thing just about every day as the hunt continues. So check back, true believers. PSS – This is my first PSS. Dr. Sylvan told me that the PSS is something you do when you realized that you forgot to say something in both the letter and the PS. Is there a PSSS as well? I wonder… PSSS – It turns out there is a PSSS! I'm writing it right now. What I meant to say in first the letter, then the PS, then the PSS is…hmmm…it turns out I got so distracted by all these wondrous additional S's that I forgot. You'll find that to happen a lot. So, uh… Happy Hunting, Have you seen my squonk? Where?
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