Away

Hello faithful reader (aka, Mom).

Life with a gargoyle has been flipped butt over forehead. I've had to manage certain imperatives and will be taking the summer off from writing our stories. We'll be back in August or September (unless I can get a decent Internet connection on an island in a pristine - and female-less - Laurentian lake).

Kissies,

Gargoyle Toes

Fleas... again

My father died last autumn.

He had fallen from the 2nd floor balcony at our cottage. It overlooks the large kitchen/dining area and leads to the two upstairs bedrooms. When he built the place in the sixties, he never finished the overhead walkway, which means that there was no railing at the far end. As a child, I often wondered why, and stood over the three-foot gap, thinking of jumping down, simultaneously terrified and curious.

My father's cognitive skills were starting to fail. He got up in the middle of the night to take a leak. He hadn't realised that he was at the cottage, not at his house, where the bathroom is to the immediate right of his bedroom.

I wasn't there that night. My brothers told me that they heard a crash and found my dad straining, but otherwise all right. Everyone laughed, including the initiator of the raucus (though his eleven broken ribs made it kinda painful).

He went to the hospital and was required to stay in bed to let everything heal (he had three broken verterbrae in addition to the ribs). Unfortunately, things started going "bad". He caught two dangerous infections and, though he fought them off, he got worse.

We never thought he would die from a simple fall and a few broken ribs (having played football, we all knew the intense pain of the injury, but also that it goes away pretty quickly). One evening, I received a call from my mother. The brothers had gotten together. I should come meet them.

The doctors had told them that my dad's kidneys were failing and that the pain from his injuries was just not going away. My father spent two months suffering, and his time was nigh. We ate, and, holding his fate in our hands, decided that my father was going to die the following day.

...we then drank. Nobody cried. We sometimes laughed. We used drink to overcome our numbness.

I couldn't stay in the room to watch my father die. The two brothers with girlfriends stayed. The two without sat on the floor of a busy hospital hallway in a daze.

Since that day, my mortality has been shrouding me. I, one day, will no longer exist.

==============

Gargy faced his imminent slaughter grimly. I cannot read Romanian, so he explained what had to be done to get rid of Annie's fleas. He was going to sacrifice his existence - a gift from the universe so fragile and so ephemereal - in order to improve the lives of those closest to him.

I got out my battery-operated circular saw and we headed down to the park (we wanted to get his flea-manna blood away from the house). When we got to a secluded place in one far corner, my little gargoyle's big, beautiful brown eyes looked into mine, tears welling, as he scratched his hanging maleness like crazy. He knelt and looked down, presenting the back of his neck to my blade.

As I started the shrieky whirring of my instrument, a raccoon, quite obviously psychotic, demented and slightly unbalanced, frantically ran from over by the football field screaming for me to stop.

He was a faithful reader of these stories. He had Googled the site Gargy referenced and explained that it was a satire. Romanians have this thing for blood sucking and letting, so the article we read was simply that famous Bucharest dark humour. He also recommended a really great flea powder that'll get rid of our bug problem in a couple days.

Well, what a fortunate way out of THAT impasse!

Fleas

When Annie joined us last month, she had obviously been through some pretty rough times. One could see the filthy alleys and clawed battles with desperate tomcats in her natty fur and scarred hinder regions. If Gargy hadn't rescued her, her life would have undoubtedly been cut short. A pathetically lonely existence, with her being willingly pounced on by every male in sight.

(Yes, Annie is THAT kind of a female. Pretty much like every thirty-something chick I know).

My gargoyle nursed her back to health and she is now a normal, happy, self-centered and territorial feline. That she has the gall to refuse certain brands of premium tinned food after spending the first years of her life scarfing down any rotting flesh she could find is profoundly grating, yet Gargy caters to her whims and, of course, as with ANY girl, she grabs the upper hand conferred by an attentive and affectionate dude and leverages it to no end.

Alas, also as with other girls, once she knows she owns the heart of one guy, she loses interest and seeks to seduce those who are utterly disinterested. This is causing friction between me and my little green anthropomorphic blob, because Annie is increasingly less interested in receiving Gargy's care and is constantly purring around ME. Given that the only attention I wish to give her is impalement on a particularly rusty and dull stump of a spike, her efforts are obviously in vain. Yet she persists and Gargy isn't at all happy.

Anyhoo, the new development is that, in addition to her crude presence, Annie brought fleas with her into my home. Now, gargoyles don't have much hair, but that which they do have seems to be a rather ideal breeding ground for hemovore leaping insects (slime makes fleas happy I assume). The bugs had made their way into every corner of my apartment and Gargy was gradually going quite insane from the constant scratching (and dagger-sharp claws scraping scaly skin makes for a REALLY irritating noise resembling the screechy instruments played in Italian soccer stadia when a player does a particularly convincing dive-and-ankle-grab with just the right amount of tears shed).

I had gone through washing or throwing out every inch of fabric in my home and the Cleaning Lady has supplied every ounce of her insect-genocide knowledge. Despite the efforts, the bugs have proven themselves difficult to displace and we were becoming desperate.

After a quick Internet search, Gargy found a Romanian site which explained that gargoyle blood is a flea narcotic and that one should capture and slaughter any medieval beast that has been infected AFTER bringing it into one's dwelling. Once the source of their bliss has been depleted, the fleas would starve themselves to death in a massive withdrawal-induced suicide.

...Gargy wasn't happy at the news.

Q&A

In the past few months, I have received a certain number of questions from the VAAAAAST audience reading this blog (read: my mom and a Croatian dude whom I ill-advisedly friendbooked and who keeps sending me videos of a mousy, tone-deaf Balkan chick singing about Red Bull). Here are some answers:

What does Gargy eat?

In the wild, and contrary to popular belief, gargoyles do NOT eat any birds or rodents they can get their claws on. They actually have a rather... symbiotic relationship with pigeons. While I can't go into to much detail without causing widespread upchucking... let's just say that gargoyles are really good at tossing popcorn into the air and into their mouths. It's practice. For what pigeons toss into the air. Pigeons in turn practice their aim on statues.

(Alright. That's far enough).

As my little hemp boiler now spends his every waking moment in chains and pigeons have not yet infested my living space, I feed him dollar-store dry dog food and, every few months, I'll give him whatever rancid furry vegetable matter I find when I open the drawer at the bottom of the fridge.

Oh, and gargoyles don't EAT rats, but they do enjoy using them as hacky sacks.

Whatever happened to Jade Dragon?

No one really knows. She has always been rather discrete with regards to her professional life, saying only that she is "in the military". One time I made a comment on how I would like to gut some guy who had just cut me off and she asked if I had the appropriate cutlery on me and whether it was sharp enough. Given that it was winter, she also explained that hanging the entrails on a lamppost would provide a good source of protein to her friends the ravens.

...oh, and I got a charming bloodstained postcard from her which was postmarked "Kandahar". I don't think I'll be asking too many questions when she returns.

Can gargoyles really speak?

Yes. From what I've gathered, the average gargoyle is quite eloquent. Gargy just seems to be a little "slower" than his brethren. I'll keep zapping him with the shock collar to see if I can't rewire his synapses.

Any news from the Crazy Ex?

She's still making videos and boinking her mocha-skinned goddess and rebuking my attempts to join them.

These stories are all made up, right?

As mentioned - twice - in the last post, I'm not smart or demented enough to come up with these things.

How can Gargy walk around? Won't people notice that there's a GARGOYLE in their midst?

Montréal is a place where one can generally act as strangely as one wants, usually without attracting a second glance. Gargy kind of fits in with the young'uns when he slobbers and bounces around spastically.

People around here DO however take exception to street exorcisms of nattily-dressed teenaged girls (my church group needs to be more discrete with its kidnappings).

I'm thinking of getting married. What is your advice?

Make sure she is still a virgin and will remain undemanding. Some women get these "expectations" that just screw the whole concept up. Also, there have been wonderful advancements in the field of female chastity belts recently.

When is Gargy's birthday?

Gargy's birth predates the Gregorian calendar. From what I can gather, he was born "two moons and six suns after the Happy Moldavian Parsnip-Sitting Festival". We accept gifts year-round however (Gargy prefers cash).

Do you REALLY beat him??

"Beat" is a misleading term. Gargoyles are inherently hard-working beasts, they just have a lousy sense of time. Flogging him kind of restarts his inner metronome. In my managerial experience, paddling also works on supermarket cashiers while strangulation gets software programmers going.

The Breakup

Montréal is a worldly city, attracting tens of thousands of tourists each year. My French ancestors had settled in Ville-Marie - Montréal's olden-times name - in the 1600s and our history is visible across the Island. In order to satisfy visitors' insatiable appetite for "things to see", our Leaders have set up a network of museums and exhibitions to toy with those wanting to have "something to do" and "something to photograph to show to the people back home that the vacation was actually in Montréal and not some sleazy sex convention in the Midwest".

One of the more interesting attractions our city offers is our Botanical Gardens/Insectarium. The Insectarium is a unique place where bugs of all strains are set up on display, and many of the multi-legged creatures have NOT been impaled on pins, but are rather allowed to continue on with their hockey-fan-like-intellect's lives spent under glass. Having been there (forcibly, and having been thoroughly disgusted by the experience. THAT was a bad first date), I understand it to be the kind of place where children scream and run around and old people are allowed to roam freely, spreading their spoiled corporal aromas around people who have taken a shower since the John Turner Prime Ministership.

...though SOME things will get you thrown out of there.

My gargoyle returned in tears from his three-dozenth date with his British breakfast pastry in four days. As usual, he sprawled on the couch. As usual, Annie used her forepaws to rub Gargy's neck in some feline interpretation of shiatsu. Unusually, he did not dunk his masculine appendage in ice in order to keep its friction-induced swelling down. He was bawling like an infant who just saw his parents French kiss to Abba's "Fernando" (ok, we all have our personal traumas and I didn't need to put mine on display. Though any ex-girlfriend who was wondering why I curl up and stick my fingers in my mouth when I hear popular Scandinavian music now has a better understanding of my psyche).

As I was taught modern management theory, which indicates that it is better to try to empathise with one's profit-generators rather than to bring out the Taylorian caning box, I tried to figure out what happened in order to get hemp production back on track. This - and I reemphasise that I can't make these things up - is what I was able to ascertain between ghoulish gargoyle sobs:

Apparently, Gargy's bitter half was somatically triggered by the sight of creepy little arthropods. She was found in the ladies' WC - once again, my imagination isn't fertile enough to come up with these things. Please don't have me locked up. Again. Mommy. - trying to procreate with roughly a dozen of the world's rarest entomologist's delights.

Now, while this behaviour vaguely explains her attraction to the Thing Staining My Velour Furniture With Greasy Nasolacrimal Duct Waste, it does NOT pass muster with the authorities tasked with protecting our nation from itself and its baser impulses. She has been deported back to her homeland, where our Majesty will no doubt have her cast in irons and whipped in the finest tradition of English morality policing.

Gargy is devastated. He now has learned that fateful lesson that all good men have: never trust a vile, libidinous woman with your heart. Feminine chastity is a disappearing virtue in today's society, which will make it evermore prized among those men who truly deserve it.

I've got a gargoyle to flog back to his kitchen. Dammit.

The Crumpet

For three long months, my gargoyle has been patiently waiting to meet the woman of those dreams he has that almost drown him in his cage. This is the week he finally gets to sniff her.

Gargy was chomping on his claws and micturating approximately every 90 seconds (which is almost twice as often as usual. Luckily, he now uses Annie's litter box - especially when she's in it, which makes her grumpy, which is just dandy - so that's one less urine-soaked stress on my Cleaning Lady). While his usual mood can be described as "depraved hyperactivity", I would characterise his current demeanour as "stupid male waiting to meet his potential pink penis cozy".

We've all been there.

The Girlfriend arrived an hour before the Canadiens' first playoff game to pick up her date. I met her at the door and, before introducing Gargy, I briefed her on the best ways to handle his chains (it takes a little practice to get the choke collar to stick properly into his oesophagus). She acted disinterested and aloof, almost hostile towards me. When she spat at my feet, I assumed it was that British sense of humour I've so often heard of (though a woman whose passions combine English hooliganism with the Ice-Bound Sport of the Illiterate and Dentally-Challenged can be expected to expectorate).

When the little secretion pumper made his appearance, the attraction was instantaneous. Upon seeing his belle, he started making what I assume is the Gargoyle Dance of Seduction (three hops on alternating legs then four pelvic half-thrusts. Quite impressive). The Tart seemed to appreciate it - I assume this by the way she lustily licked his nose hairs.

...I handed her the remote to the shock collar (he wore two collars. One can't be TOO safe) and wished them both a good time. She blandly returned the pleasantry by goobing on my Rockports.

Lovely girl.

*******

The Canadiens won and Gargy did not return until 2:00 p.m. the following day. I had no way of communicating with the young lady, so I was slightly worried that my spastic buddy would never come back, leaving rope orders unfilled. In his absence, and being left alone with me, Annie had become unsettled and her fur-vomiting became particularly acute.

When the new couple finally entered the appartment, my usually wired little friend seemed rested and vaguely blissful. His female, on the other hand, was a wreck. She had changed clothes, but otherwise was completely shabby. Her hair seemed to have been shampooed with cabinetmaker's adhesive and all visible skin was striped with claw marks and dried blood.

They kissed (which, considering the size of Gargy's nose, was quite a remarkable thing to witness) and made plans to see each other later on that night. She then waddled down the stairs, somehow looking fearful and incontinent.

...my gargoyle splayed himself on the couch and instantly fell asleep. Annie nuzzled him and farted.

Hm.

Rock Band

My gargoyle seems to have a better credit rating than I do.

I came home on Wednesday to find Gargy howling. I assumed he had, once again, caught his rather hefty grünwurst in the bathroom door. Alas, no. My farting feline favourer has now figured out how to order credit cards online (I'm guessing that his British tart of a virtual girlfriend helped him out. I'm looking forward to meeting HER) and has been using them to make impulsive purchases.

(Wanting to object and throttle him, I harkened back to our legal escapades from a few months ago. His official status with regards to my company is now as an "employee". I'm guessing therefore that he will require an income above and beyond his room and board to cover his discretionary spending. This means I could conceivably be sued, with retroactive wages being awarded to him. Labour laws have a way of sucking all the fun out of slavery, dammit).

I ran up to investigate the noise pollution and saw that Annie was licking herself on the couch and Gargy was trying to sing to Coheed & Cambria's "Welcome Home". He purchased and had delivered a video game console with an application called "Rock Band". Apparently, time-endowed individuals can emulate the lifestyle choices of "musicians" by pretending to play pre-programmed tunes on cheap plastic "instruments" (as always, quotation marks will be my contribution to the literary artform (along with the abusive use of parentheses)). My little halitosis spewer was using the microphone and the drums simultaneously in an attempt at recreating a song about a bad breakup leading to the burial of the principal's former love.

(...of course, being divorced, the subject matter is as heartwarming to my ears as a boy-band ballad declaring eternal soft puppy kissies is to a hormonal teenaged female's. Chicks are weird).

In any case, he has recently been spending more time on frivolous pursuits than on lovingly creating hemp binding apparati. Actual output has been the same (being an MBA-holder means finding productivity gains by analysing processes and stuff) and all orders are filled and shipped in record time, but still, I've got a wailing/bashing gargoyle on my hands here.

I told him that Madame Tousigny will be apoplectic (and will start randomly firing her musket again), thinking that de Gaulle's Communists are invading her beloved Vichy if she were to hear that racket.

...at that very moment, the demented, wrinkle-adorned neighbour exited my living room closet, pulling up her oversized, crotch-stained underwear over her hose (which she forgot to remove before initiating her expulsions, as can be deduced from the dangling dripping doodie between her legs). She squishily sat down next to Annie and started slapping her head in a manner one assumes Nazis would characterise as being affectionate. She then picked up the guitar and chose a Nine Inch Nails song. On "hard". And endeavored to obtain a 98% score with a perfect solo.

My most normal homebound activity is now having to scrub old-lady poop stains out of my couch.

...so I chose Bon Jovi's Wanted Dead or Alive and took over the drums. I'm just REALLY glad the game's developers decided to include such a great artist among the Pumpkins/Metallica/FNM sludge.