The Randy Fouke Freak By The little town of Fouke Arkansas has long been associated with southern fried yarns of a wooly bipedal monster that stalks its outer lying wilderness in the shadowy hours of the night. Since the first initial sightings of the “Fouke Monster Of Boggy Creek” in the 1940’s, repeated sightings and even a few reported attacks have painted a picture of a “bloodthirsty, ravenous beast, running around willy-nilly and doin’ it’s darnedest to have shameful relations with the livestock,” to quote the disturbing words of Bernie “Bug Eye” Perdue, eyewitness to a 1989 sighting.
Such shocking observations have given rise to a dark local legend and captured the attention of a few highly cognizant film makers resulting in the creation of three profoundly insightful research documentaries: The Legend Of Boggy Creek, Return To Boggy Creek, and The Barbaric Beast Of Boggy Creek, Part II.
Like any other highly trained specialist in the field of Paracryptozoology, I have intimately studied all three of these instructional masterpieces in order to incorporate their cumulative lore into my overall monster attack survival technique. Thus, when Ken Socrates informed me that he had received a call from J.T. Poaknuckle, a denizen of Fouke Arkansas, who claimed that the famous Boggy Creek Monster had taken up residence inside the underpinning below his mobile home, I jumped at the opportunity to ply my razor-keen powers of discernment to the task of unraveling yet another great paranormal enigma of our time, and, hopefully, to apprehend the creature, thereby lessoning the misery of many traumatized farm animals in the area.
With a squirming eagerness for action I summoned my stalwart assistant, eminent paranormal photographer and world-renowned martial arts expert, Fong Qui Fang, and together we assembled our specialized equipment. By the time we had finished packing my devious mind had already formed the sliver of a plan for capturing the fell Fouke Fiend, the first part of which involved an impromptu visit to a local costume store and the purchase of a two-man cow outfit. I had not worked out the specifics of my machinations at that point, thus, when Fong asked me in broken English what the cow outfit was for, and declared that he would not be getting in it, I casually informed him I had always wanted one and that’s all he needed to know. Then he called me a round-eyed crazy white son of a sway back goat in Vietnamese.
I refused to be baited by the impudent Qui Fang. Instead, I merely threw my cow suit in the back seat and launched our vehicle on the grueling sixteen-hour road trip through the torturously winding plexus of highways that wind down through the center of the U.S. Eventually, we found ourselves knee deep in Dixie, a place where the work-a-day southern folk cry biscuits, sweat gravy, and talk with an accent that fills the urban soul like griddled cow patties flopping in a hog trough. Still we pushed relentlessly on and reached the southwest corner of Arkansas.
After passing through the town, turning back, passing through it again, then afterward realizing it was there and we had passed through it, we turned back yet again, repeatedly floundering our way across the miniscule township of Fouke Arkansas. From there we undertook a nightmarish journey through a maze of gravel roads leading to the Poaknuckle residence guided only by the sketchy directions provided by Ken Socrates. At one point, his directions instructed us to ‘take the second road past the old abandoned bathtub.’ Fong and I encountered eight such bathtubs on our tour before locating the correct one. At last, with the coming of dusk, we arrived at what could only be the mobile home of Mr. J.T. Poaknuckle.
This was immediately obvious to us, for, as we drove up in the dimming twilight, we spied a hulking, shaggy, bipedal form lumbering about in the front yard. Fong and I regarded each other with wide-eyed astonishment at our incredible turn of luck. We had found the beast! Driven right up on it! Before the car even came to a complete stop, Fong grabbed a tranquilizer dart gun, opened his door, and leapt out into a spinning barrel role. His momentum carried him end over end until he sprang up onto one knee, took aim and fired, sinking a dart into the shaggy form. The thing bellowed out its thunderous indignation at being shot.
As I pulled to a halt, the thing’s enraged voice triggered my keen sense of self-preservation. I shrewdly opted to remain in the car with the engine running. I did, however, roll down the window on the passenger side to shout instructions at Fong.
“Shoot it again, Fong!” I cried. And he did. The thing took three steps, loudly broke wind, and fell to the ground with a thump. After several seconds I opened the car door and killed the engine.
“Good work Qui Fang,” I said as I climbed out of the vehicle. Then I added, “Go check it out. I’ll cover you.” Fong informed me in his mother tongue that my ancestors were all inbred lickers of monkey testes and went to investigate the monster. I warily followed, letting Fong take a healthy lead. As he walked up on the prone form he grunted something that sounded suspiciously like, “Uh oh,” which, it turns out, is exactly what he said. As I got closer I saw what he meant. The figure on the ground was not a monster at all, but merely a very large man with long unkempt hair, a great, shaggy beard, and outfitted in some unbelievably stained overalls.
“Damn it, Fong,” I said, “You shot a bystander! Again!” It was the second time in as many months. With a sigh I searched the drugged mans pockets, found a wallet, and gleaned from the driver’s license it contained that we had just successfully captured and sedated J.T. Poaknuckle. And stole his wallet.
In some places in this world Qui Fang and I would have likely been punished for such bold crimes. But not there, not in the backwater reaches of civilization. Instead, Fong and I made prime use of our time while J. T. slept through the sedation. We intensively searched the premises and found many things of great interest.
Firstly, we discovered that Mr. Poaknuckle had a still in a shed in his backyard and many jars of what we suspected to be an alcoholic substance lining the walls, two of which we liberated and sampled just to make sure, then continued to sample thereafter in order to reassure ourselves of the fact.
Secondly, we observed that the dense foliage surrounding the residence bared a remarkable resemblance to marijuana. After discovering dry stalks of the plant in yet another lean-to shed, Fong and I became convinced that the curios plant was exactly what we thought it was by burning some of it in a briarwood pipe the sharp eyed Fong had spied in the shed with the still.
Thirdly, blearily, and with the aid of a very bright flashlight, we discovered that the whole place was covered with monster tracks. After further investigation we found thick pieces of fur at a large opening in the underpinning of the trailer. But the monster itself was nowhere to be seen. The conditions were perfect for setting a trap.
Fong Qui Fang wanted no part of it. Instead he took to the woods with a jar of moonshine and his night vision camera. From there he would lurk about as silently as death itself, waiting for his opportunity to photograph the paranormal. It would be up to me to provide him with that opportunity. I got my cow costume out of the car and went about the business of reviving Mr. Poaknuckle.
After awakening the man and insuring him that I was in no manner affiliated with law enforcement, Mr. Poaknuckle took an attitude of understandable perplexity.
“Well, what the hell’d you shoot me for then?” he asked
“Mr. Poaknuckle, I fully intend to disclose to you such meaningless details, but right now, I want to talk about making you very, very rich.”
At this statement Poaknuckle assumed a look of wariness. “You’re not from Amway are ya? ‘Cause I don’t want no part of it…”
I stepped in with distinct authority, cutting short his meaningless prattle. “No Mr. Poaknuckle, I am on a mission from Ken Socrates. My name is Dr. Horatio Von Darkfaulker and I have come to deal with the monster living underneath your trailer. You should be aware, Mr. Poaknuckle, that if I am successful in capturing this monster, thereby proving it to be real, you will be in a position of making a hefty sum of money. It is, after all, your monster. You will also likely be invited to appear on T.V. talk shows as well. But these things will only come to pass if you are willing to play ball. Are you willing to play ball Mr. Poaknuckle? Will you help me to capture this Boggy Fouke Freak, and climb your way to fame and fortune, or will you continue to wallow about in this shitty trailer the rest of your pointless existence?”
“Letterman?” he asked after a full ten seconds of thoughtful silence.
“Pardon?” I responded in puzzlement.
“Well, do you think they’ll let me on the Letterman show? That’s what I watch.”
“I guarantee it.”
And in this manner I convinced J.T. to join me in the wearing of the cow costume, J.T. constituting what would be the hind end of our subterfuge. I would need both hands to operate the tranquilizer dart gun. Together we donned the outfit and stood watch outside the hole in the trailer underpinning. Every so often I would let out a moo in as seductive a manner as I was able, hoping to attract the randy monster. This seemed to amuse J.T. who would quietly snicker. I was amused at his amusement. This man was bent over, literally putting his ass on the line in the name of science, yet; remarkably, all he could think to do was to giggle inanely at my best bovine impersonation.
In due course, after letting out what I considered to be an exceptionally dulcet moo, the sexiest one yet by my own reckoning, I became aware that the monster was nearby and getting closer. I have long ago developed a sixth sense about these things and I am ever aware when I am in the proximity of a supernatural creature, but it was not through any eldritch form of discernment that I detected the beast’s advance, nor was it through the nightvision goggles that I wore underneath the cow mask. It was, in fact, the incredible stench of the beast that marked its passage long before the Freak itself made an appearance. It smelled as if a giant ferret had been pissed on by a thousand asparagus-fed Billy goats and hung up to dry at a sauerkraut factory. Not quite a skunk level odor, but any wolverines in the area would definitely take exception.
“Ooga balooga!” the thing uttered lasciviously in a guttural voice as it approached, and it was on us in a flash. I risked a backward glance in time to witness it slip up behind J.T. and start making lewd humping motions with its hips. “Oogaooba!” it further asserted, and then it reached over J.T.’s bent over form and grabbed my left shoulder, presumably for traction. The monsters grasp was surprisingly gentle, making me feel…compromised. Dirty somehow. The time was right for action. Holding my gun in one hand and the zipper to the cow suit in the other, I made my move… Only to discover the zipper was stuck fast. Then I heard a loud swatting sound from behind.
“Good Lord…I’m bein’…He’s…Spankin’ me! I can’t get away!” J.T. said in a jumble of words. Somewhere in the still night I could have sworn that I heard the ghostly melody of Dueling Banjoes waft across the evening breeze. J.T. started praying to God that he wanted to take back his other prayers about losing his virginity.
“Balooba!” interjected the monster.
“Steady on Poaknuckle! Stand fast man!” I shouted to J.T. as I grabbed my knife from my pocket and slashed the costume. The material made a stark, rending sound as I powered my way to freedom. With a lightening quickness, I spun about and fired two of my strongest tranquilizer darts directly at the Fouke Monster. Simultaneously, unfortunately, and rather hilariously, J.T. stood bolt upright at this exact instant and intercepted both darts, loudly broke wind, and fell to the ground with a thump.
I got my first clear look at the Randy Fouke Freak Of Boggy Creek. Standing a full twelve foot tall, the thing was definitely a hitherto unknown species of giant horned hominid, with the mandible and facial construction strongly reminiscent of Meganthropis paleojavanicus, except with a horn, but then, the longer I studied it, the more it reminded me of a monster I had once seen on an episode of Star Trek, which would be impossible. I definitely saw that monster die in the same episode. But whatever the case, I knew I had better come up with a damned good plan of action. It didn’t take a medical doctor to see that the beast was still aroused and dangerously randy.
“Looba Roo?” said the creature with some confusion as it held the empty material from the costume. It looked from me back down to J.T’s prone form. I could nearly see the mental gears grinding into place.
“Fong!” I yelled as I fumbled with my gun, trying to reload. “Attend me!”
“Looba looba!” the monster raged. But instead of attacking, the barbaric beast bent down and scooped up J.T.’s massive form as one would a sleeping child. It threw the man over its shoulder and ran off into the woods at a fantastic speed. What followed next was a three-hour hell chase through the snake infested, thorn-laden thickets of the stygian Arkansas forest bottoms as Fong and I vainly tried to overtake the Fouke Freak and liberate it of its (very) ill-gotten booty. Eventually, however, the monster tired of the chase and deposited Mr. Poaknuckle in an old abandoned bathtub we encountered by a gravel road. Then it grinned a horrendous grin, shot us the bird, and loped off into the woods. Beaten and bleeding from the many low-lying tree limbs and briars we endured; gasping for breath, completely out of tranquilizer darts, Fong and I felt no inclination toward giving chase. We merely gathered around the bathtub and watched as J.T. regained consciousness.
“Well, what the hell’d you shoot me for this time?”
J.T. was suitably grateful to Fong and I for saving him from the monster after we conveyed the events of that night. We remained at the Poaknuckle residents for the next three weeks enjoying J.T.’s southern hospitality and waiting for the monster to show back up, but it never did. Of course, our failure to capture the monster meant J.T. would never realize his dreams of fame and fortune. He would spend the rest of his life quietly growing his reefer, making his moonshine, and living in his shitty trailer, completely unnoticed and unmissed by the outside world.
But the time I spent with him out there makes me think Mr. Poaknuckle just might not have it so bad after all.
And the monster? It’s still out there, somewhere, stalking in the darkness, waiting for the next opportunity to hunt its unsuspecting prey.
This much we have in common, the monster and I.
Contact Dr. Darkfaulker, at your own risk:
Of Boggy Creek
Horatio Von Darkfaulker
Fong Qui Fang
J.T. Poaknuckle
David Letterman
The Hulking Man-Beast Itself
© Horatio Von Darkfaulker 2007. All rights reserved.
