Member-only story
Drinking with a Wendigo
Sometimes, on quiet nights, you can hear us…
I was sitting at a rank bar stool in some hole in the wall cantina on the Arizona side of the border when he — more appropriately, IT — walked in. IT was a solid 8 foot of cowboy in a duster almost rotted off his huge frame. The clank of spurs was somehow mechanical and otherworldly as they bid the rest of the day goodnight with his mighty frame planted itself on the stool by mine
His duster reeked of mud, sulfur, and decay. It took me a minute to realize the decay was emanating from HIM, not his hellish coat. He turned to me, eyes spleenish and dark as death, a bandana around his shrunken nose, his gravely, muddled voice hollered at the bar keep, tipped his hat and nodded, “bar tender! One whiskey for me,” his hand was greyed coming out of a red button down, “and one for my new friend.”
I took my shot glass and raised it. Tipping my hat at the Stranger, I drank it, “thank you friend!”
Things became very strange after the drink. From what I remember, it felt as if my very viscera, muscle fiber, synapses, and neurons were being conducted as a marionette is conducted by the massive figure who walked into the bar that pitch dark desert night.
Soon we were headed out of the bar and down a street in that desert town where he became nothing but an oversized…
