FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

This story is based upon the segment in the film Creepshow entitled The Crate, as well as the comic book adaptation by Berni Wrightson. To say nothing of a series of 26 sketches I did. The idea sprang from discussions I had with a friend. It's basically just "The Crate with furries," and some yiff thrown in, but I enjoyed writing it anyway.

The character names Henry and Wilma Northrup, Dexter Stanley, Charlie Gereson, Mike Latimer and Tabitha and Richard Raymond are copyright Stephen King and George Romero, who deserve full credit.

The names Cletus Parker and Hailey Parker are entirely my own invention.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Just call me Billie, everyone does!"

Dexter Stanley winced. It wasn't enough that Henry's wife was a verbally abusive trollop, but she had to have an annoying voice as well. Her name was Wilma Northrup, and she was a dog. Literally. Some kind of terrier. Dexter had never thought to ask. Although her name was Wilma, she insisted everyone called her "Billie," and did so often.

This particular "Just call me Billie" was directed at Richard Raymond and his wife, Tabitha. The six of them were attending a faculty mixer at Dean Cletus Parker's house some miles from the university, a sort of welcoming part for the Raymonds, both of whom had joined the faculty of Horlicks University a week or so ago as math professors. Dressed for the party she wasn't. Bluejeans and a low-cut haltertop and gaudy fake pearl necklace clashed severely with the business suits and ties Dexter, Henry, the Dean and Richard were wearing, while Tabitha Raymond worn a pretty cream-colored dress and matching blouse.

Professor Dexter Stanley himself was a short, thin, nervous mouse who was the head of Horlicks' biology department. Its senior professor. And at an age when most men prospered, the middle-aged biologist had almost nothing to show for it. He lived alone. His wife, Irene, had died a year or so prior, and they had been childless. He wasn't very good at making friends. He would've been insufferably lonely if not for Henry. Henry, who was currently standing alongside his loud and abrasive wife and trying not to look embarrassed.

English department professor Henry Northrup was a tabby cat younger than Dexter by a few years, although his hair had already begun to go gray as a result of stress. Unlike Dexter he wasn't the head of his department; time and again he'd been passed over for promotion, due, Dexter knew, to him having an obnoxious wife who always caused some kind of a scene at these get-togethers. Just like she was doing right now.

"So are you renting or buying?" Wilma asked of the Raymonds. She was holding a lit cigarette in one hand and a full-to-overflowing glass of liquor in the other. Dexter wasn't really paying much attention, but he thought that the topic of conversation was Richard and Tabitha's living arrangements.

"Uh, renting," Tabitha replied, somewhat uncertainly.

Next to Dexter, Dean Parker sighed and palmed his face. "Here we go," he said under his breath. Dexter said nothing.

"Good, 'cause let me tell you, buying property in a college town is a fuckin' pain in the ass!" Wilma said, gesturing broadly, slopping her drink onto Tabitha Raymond's dress without noticing. Richard scowled, but was apparently too polite to say anything. "So are you guys drinking or what?"

"Well, we, uh--" Richard began.

"Come, on, we'll get you fixed right up!" Wilma crowed, and seized Tabitha by the arm. "Henry, you stay here!"

Henry mumbled something in response as Wilma dragged Tabitha off towards the outdoor bar, Richard trailing after. Dean Parker gave Henry and Dexter both an annoyed glare, which Henry returned but Dexter did not, and then the Dean hurried after Wilma and the Raymonds to perform damage control.

"Chalk up another kill for Billie," Henry said once his wife was out of earshot. "The Red Baron pales into insignificance compared to her."

"Oh, come now, Henry," Dexter said.

"How I've grown to hate her, Dex," the feline said, sounding sad. Dexter knew that Henry had indeed loved Wilma once. But that was before she'd taken to drinking. Before he had known what kind of a person she became when she drank.

Dexter nodded and sipped his drink. The Northrups' marriage had been a happy one once, but now all Henry and Wilma did was argue. The few times Dexter went over to their house, to play chess with Henry, at which Henry always beat him, although he didn't mind, Wilma treated her husband's friend coldly. She clearly disliked Henry having friends, and seemed dedicated to driving Dexter away.

But Dexter had his reasons for staying. Possibly, he suspected, the same reasons for which Wilma so fervently wanted to get rid of him. Dexter was in love with Henry. And what's more, he admired him a great deal. No matter how many times Wilma embarrassed Henry in front of his and Dexter's colleagues, Henry nonetheless managed to maintain a kind of quiet dignity that Dexter couldn't quite describe.

Dexter didn't consider himself gay. He had certainly loved Irene. But after she died, his loneliness and his friendship with Henry had seemed to combine themselves, and the mouse found himself becoming attracted to the cat. He'd never said a word about it to Henry however, out of fear of rejection. Or worse, Wilma overhearing.

But as he saw Henry staring sadly at his wife across the yard, terrorizing the Raymonds as Dean Parker attempted to steer her away from them without success, Dexter's sympathy for Henry and his longing to be with him began overwhelming him. Now was as good a time as any to bring it up, he figured.

"Henry," he said softly. Henry turned to look at him tiredly. "You know, I'm reaching a point where--"

"Excuse me," a female voice cut in. Both professors turned to see the Dean's daughter, Hailey, walking up to them. "Would one of you be Professor Stanley?"

"Yes, I am," Dexter said, trying not to sound disappointed, although he was blushing.

"There's a phone call for you," Hailey Parker said.

A phone call? For him? Dexter blinked and nodded. He turned and looked at Henry, who seemed equally surprised.

"I guess I better go see who it is," he said. "Be right back." He smiled and slapped Henry on the arm good-naturedly and followed Hailey into the house, where she showed him to the telephone. He nodded thank-you and she left the room. Bringing the receiver to his ear he said, "Hello?"

"Professor Stanley, it's me, Mike!" a gruff voice replied. Mike Latimer. The janitor at Amberson Hall, the biology department building. What could he possibly want? "This is gonna sound kinda weird, but could you come down to Amberson Hall? I, uh, I found something you ought have a look at."

Although he liked Mike, Dexter would've ordinarily politely told the janitor that it could wait, that he was busy, but there was something ominous in Mike's voice that made Dexter curious. Besides, he figured, the janitor wouldn't call him at the Dean's house unless it was some kind of emergency.

"All right, I'll be out there in a few minutes. I'll leave right now." He said good-bye and hung up. He then discretely left the house.

On his way to where he'd parked his Fiat Sport Spider convertible, he heard Henry's voice say, "I gather you'll be unavailable for chess tonight."

He turned and found Henry smirking at him. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. I got a call from someone at the campus, I need to and attend to something. I'll see you later, Henry." He waved and got into the car.

~*~

A ten-minute drive later, Dexter was walking down the basement steps with Mike, who was talking excitedly nonestop. Mike Latimer was a big bull of a man, literally, a wizened bovine with tinning gray hair and a bushy mustache, who was nonetheless just as muscular as he'd always been in his youth, apart from a beer gut.

"I'm betting it's just full of old magazines or something," Dexter was saying. "Reader's Digest issues maybe."

"Well, the date on it said 1834," Mike replied. "I don't think they even published Reader's Digest back then."

"1834? Really?" Dexter was surprised. And skeptical. He doubted something so old could have gone unnoticed until just now.

"I found it under here," Mike said as they reached the bottom of the steps. The campus basement was dark and dreary, lit by dim lights. Stacks of boxes and crates filled the place. It reminded Dexter of the warehouse from the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Mike led Dexter around the side of the stairs, to where he'd removed the grating from a previously fenced-in crawlspace leading underneath the staircase. "There it is," he said, pointing. Dexter followed the bull's finger to where a large wooden crate sat in the darkness.

Dexter frowned. The janitor turned on a large heavy-duty flashlight he'd been carrying and shined it into the crawlspace, illuminating the crate. The mouse crouched down and peered inside, to get a better look. The crate was at least four feet long and three feet tall, made of expertly nailed-together dark wood of a kind Dexter was unfamiliar with. Thick, heavy chains with enormous, rusted padlocks were wrapped around it. Stencilled on the front was "SHIP TO HORLICKS UNIVERSITY, VIA JULIA CARPENTER." And below that was a date: 1834. And them something handwritten about an expedition.

Now Dexter understood why Mike had called him. His skepticism vanished. Now, the scientist in him was filled with an unfamiliar and welcome sensation. The excitement of discovery. That was what he'd detected in Mike's voice over the phone, and now, he was sharing it with him.

Standing, Dexter removed his suit jacket and slung it over the handrail of the staircase, then he got back down and eagerly crawled into the small space. Mike crouched behind him, shining the light over the professor's head so he could see.

"What made you look under here anyway?" he asked.

"Oh, I was bringin' some stuff down here and I flipped a quarter to try to decide whether to buff the floor or wash the windows," Mike said. "I missed it and it rolled under here. I would've let it go but it was my last quarter for the Coke machine." After a minute he added, "Not very nice under there, is it?"

As Dexter grabbed the crate by the chains and tugged, he realized how heavy the thing was. What the hell was in it?

"I think we may actually have something here," he mumbled. "Give me a hand, will you?"

It took a lot of straining and grunting but eventually both of them pulled the crate out from under the stairs. With each of them holding one end of it, they carried it up the steps and out into the hallway. They didn't see anyone. No surprise. Classes ended a few minutes ago, and the students were all back in their dorms.

By the time they reached the classroom where Dexter taught biology, the mouse's arms were straining from the weight. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief as they finally lumped the thing onto the nearest work table with a loud and dull thud.

"Some heavy mother!" Mike commented.

Dexter sighed and started looking around for something to open it with. Mike said, "I got some tools in the closet down the hall. I'll be back in a minute." Dexter nodded and the bull turned and left the room.

As Mike's footsteps echoed loudly through the hall, Dexter studied the crate a little more. It was very dusty. Curiously, he noticed that the top was actually a hinged lid despite being nailed down. As he stood with his hands on his hips waiting for Mike to come back, Dexter heard a muffled thunk from somewhere close by, which startled him. He turned and looked around and, ludicrously, looked at the crate. He laughed off his fears. There was no way anything living could be inside there. Not after hundreds of years.

Mike returned moments later. In one hand he held a hammer and chisel. In the other, a crowbar and boltcutter. He set all but the cutter aside and set to work cutting through the heavy chains. It took some doing before they were finally removed. Setting them aside, the janitor handed the crowbar to Dexter. The mouse held the heavy instrument in his hands as Mike stood by expectantly.

"Be my guest," he said. "It's your find."

Mike smiled and began using the hammer and chisel to raise the crate lid, and its nails, up a few inches. Then he loudly slammed the hammer on top of the lid, slamming it back down again, although the nails remained up. Working together, Dexter and Mike began removing them one by one with the hammer claw and crowbar respectively, and before long there was a pile of nails on the table alongside the chains.

By the time they were down to only one nail, Mike was already peering inside the crate as much as the cracked-open lid would allow.

"Nevermind," said Dexter, who remembered Mike's flashlight was back down in the basement.

"I can't see a thing," he said. "Where's my flashlight?"

"Let's just this last--"

He stopped short as there was another muffled thump. Mike's expression told him the janitor had heard it, too. Then there came a low, chipmunk-like chittering sound. A squeak, almost. To Dexter's surprise, it seemed to be coming from inside the crate. Mike turned and looked back inside, putting one hand just at the crack of the lid.

Dexter was suddenly overcome with a dread that knotted up his stomach. Gone was the excitement of discovery. Now, he was worried, although he didn't know why. He was about to tell Mike to keep his hand away from the opening when suddenly, something, too fast for Dexter to see what, seized the janitor's hand, and in seconds Mike's whole arm was inside the crate up to the shoulder.

The big bull gave a cry of alarm, and then suddenly began screaming loudly as Dexter heard wet crunching noises from inside the crate.

"AAAAHHHHHHHH! HELP ME, PROFESSOR! GOD IT HURTS!" the janitor was wailing.

Mike put his other hand on the crate and strained backwards, trying to extract his arm, and almost did it. But then whatever was inside the crate pulled back and Mike's head struck the crate lid noisily.

Dexter was on him in a flash. What he hoped to do, he was uncertain. Mike was strong as hell, even in his advancing years. Something stronger than Mike Latimer was certainly too strong for thin, un-athletic Dexter Stanley to overpower. But he pulled and strained nonetheless, as Mike's screams continued. Looking inside the crate as they struggled together, Dexter saw that the sleeve of Mike's shirt was torn and bloodstained. In the darkness he saw a pair of emerald green eyes with slits for pupils.

Something slashed at him and missed his face by inches. Reflexively, Dexter let go of Mike and stumbled backwards. The crowbar clanged noisily to the floor and Dexter fell on his ass a few feet away.

Mike continued fighting with the unseen creature, and made another, powerful lurch away from the table. This time he managed to overpower his attacker, but the thing kept its hold, and all Mike succeeded in doing was tipping the crate over onto its side, halfway off the table, with him beneath it.

Mike sat dazed, panting, his arm still up inside the crate, blood slowly oozing down his shirt sleeve. He didn't move. He appeared to be in a kind of daze. A low, muffled growl came from within the crate, and Dexrer, mustering his courage, began to scoot sideways towards the stricken janitor.

"Mike?" he said softly. The janitor didn't respond.

Gulping, Dexter inched closer, and was just taking Mike by his free arm when suddenly the lid of the crate flew upwards, dislodging the final nail and nearly hitting Dexter in the face. Reflexively the mouse jerked back, and, looking up, found himself staring into the face of the thing in the crate. He could see little else of the rest of it.

Dexter was having some difficulty wrapping his mind around the precise details of its features. Its face was a mixture of ape and feline, its head flat and bullet-shaped with a simian nose and long ears pointing backwards away from its head. Its eyes shone a luminous green. But what struck Dexter the most was its mouth. The mouth had sagging, wrinkled lips surrounded by deep frown lines, giving the thing a toothless, impossibly ancient appearance.

But then it opened its mouth, and the loose lips drew back in a snarl revealing needle-like teeth two inches long. Dexter felt his breath quicken and his heart skip a beat. Rivulets of saliva dribbled off those horrible fangs and onto Mike, who finally seemed to come out of his state of shock and look up, audibly gasping.

As soon as the thing had appeared it was gone, as the crate lid slammed down again. It released Mike's arm and it slid down, revealing, to Dexter's shock, that the janitor's hand was gone! Mike's arm ended in a gnarled, bloody stump.

Mike stared at his missing hand in shock. He managed to start to say, "My--" before a clawed hand flew down from inside the crate and grabbed him by the neck suddenly the janitor was hauled up into a half-standing position, his entire upper body inside the crate. This time, he didn't scream. His body merely jerked and twisted wildly as what seemed to Dexter a river of blood poured down over the janitor's shirt and pants.

Dexter watched, wide-eyed, sweat pouring down his face, as Mike's feet left the floor, and crunching, wet noises filled the classroom. The blood dribbled off his shoes and pooled on the floor.

No, Dexter thought, this can't be happening! There isn't enough room in the crate for someone as big as Mike, let alone both of them.

Then it hit Dexter like a freight train. The thing was eating.

"No!" Dexter screamed, to no one in particular, watching Mike's legs disappearing into the crate. "Oh, God, please no! Nooooo!"

He couldn't watch any more. He couldn't stay. He had to get out of there. With all of his strength Dexter got to his feet and ran from the classroom, leaving the door open, and took off like a shot down the empty hallway.

Professor Dexter Stanley had to find someone, anyone, to help him. He rounded a corner and burst through the double-doors leading to the main entrance hallway and crashed into a young alligator wearing glasses. Charlie Gereson, one of his students.

"Charlie!" he screamed. He grabbed the boy by the arms and shook him. "We have to get the campus security! The crate! It ate him! Oh, God, it ate him!"

Charlie blinked, looking startled seeing his professor in such a state. "Professor Stanley? What are you talking about? I--I was just coming to get my book. I left it in the classroom! I don't know what you're talking about!"

Struggling to calm down, Dexter said, "The janitor! You know Mike the janitor?"

"Yes, of course I know him. Everyone does."

"Well, he.." Dexter wheezed, and began spilling out the story rapidly, and the more he told the more dumbfounded and skeptical Charlie Gereson looked.

By the time Dexter came to the part where the big janitor disappeared inside of the crate obviously far too small to contain both him and his attacker, Charlie was grinning his alligator grin widely. "That's pretty far out, Professor," he said.

"What, don't you believe me?" Dexter asked pleadingly.

"Whatever the hell you're smoking, I'd love to have some," Charlie laughed. Then he turned serious. "Listen, sir, if you want, I'll go back with you and you can, uh, show me this crate thing, all right? My book is in there anyway."

Dexter was hesitant, but figured the minute Charlie saw what he had seen, he'd want to go and fetch the security guard, too. And so they went through the double doors, Charlie leading, Dexter trailing behind. Charlie was struggling not to giggle, but as he rounded the corner up ahead, he stopped dead. Dexter joined him at his side. Down the hall, there was a trail of blood leading from the open classroom door.

"Think I'm crazy now?" Dexter said, half-laughing. Charlie didn't respond. The two of them walked slowly to the open door and looked in. Mike's blood was splattered everywhere, but there was one important thing missing. "It's gone!" Dexter cried.

"What's gone...?" Charlie asked.

"The..." Dexter trailed off and looked inside, poking just his head in, searching. The crate was not on the table. There was plenty of blood on there, dripping off it onto the floor, but the crate itself was nowhere to be seen.

Then Dexter remembered the blood leading out of the room, and turned to follow it with his eyes. The trail led down the hall to the basement door, which was half open. "Oh, God," Dexter said. "It got out! It can still get out! I thought it might be potbound or something after hundreds of years, but it got out!"

Frowning, Charlie ran off. Dexter blinked, but the student went into the supply closet and emerged with a gigantic monkey wrench, a determined look on his face. He and Dexter silently exchanged looks and then went to the basement door. It slowly creaked open. Dexter thought they should go and get the campus guard. At least he had a gun! But Charlie went down anyway, cautiously stepping down the blood-splattered steps.

Dexter hesitated at the top. The basement looked ten times more dark and sinister now. But when Charlie reached the bottom step, the mouse scurried down after him and tried to pull him back. Charlie shrugged him off.

"Calm down, I just wanna see..." he said softly, and they both stepped around to where they could look at the crawlspace beneath the stairs.

There it was. Back where they'd originally found it. Only now it was stained dark red. Charlie noticed the heavy flashlight Mike had been using before, lying near the crawlspace's opening. With a lunge, the alligator seized it and jerked himself back to Dexter's side. He turned the flashlight on and shone it onto the crate, and swallowed audibly. Then, he noticed a shoe lying right up against it. One of Mike's shoes. Bloody. Chewed. Ripped. Dexter whimpered.

"It must feel safe under there," Charlie said, and, then, to Dexter's horror, started towards the opening.

"Charlie, don't go near it!" Dexter hissed. Charlie ignored him, crouching down, the wrench in one hand, flashlight in the other. "Charlie, listen to me, if you had seen that thing..."

"Don't worry," Charlie assured him. "I want that shoe. We can measure the bite marks. It might help us figure out what the fuck this thing is."

Dexter moved a little closer, but kept himself pressed against the far wall. In his rational mind, he knew Charlie had a point. But his fear was ever threatening to take over. He watched as Charlie used the flashlight to send the shoe rolling towards Dexter. Reaching down he grabbed the shoe. The thought that this was all that was left of Mike Latimer was too much to bear.

Charlie was in the process of getting out from under the stairs when suddenly a dark shape rushed at him. He spun, half sitting, and cried out as the monster from the crate slashed at him, ripping his right shoulder to shreds. He dropped both wrench and flashlight and fell against the wall.

Dexter could see its body a little better now. It wasn't very big. About the size of a small child, but with a powerfully built upper body. It seemed to be getting around by crawling on its hands and knees. Dexter's cry of alarm made the thing turn to face him, its back to Charlie.

Dexter, panicking, thought it was going to rush at him, and ran for the stairs. Then Charlie fumbled for the wrench and hit the thing hard with it. To both of their horrors, this did nothing except make the beast return its attention to the student, and it leapt onto him. The boy shrieked loudly.

Amazingly, Charlie managed to wiggle free and, without his glasses, scrabbled on his hands and knees over the floor, towards his professor. His sense of responsability overcoming his terror momentarily, Dexter ran towards the alligator and reached for his outstretched hand. But then the creature grabbed Charlie and pulled him away from Dexter.

Ignoring Dexter as if he weren't there, the monster bit into the back of Charlie's head with a crunch. Just bit clean through the bone of his skull. Charlie's scream was indescribably awful. The beast pulled back, and took half of the student's head with it. Almost the entire back half of Charlie's cranium was torn clean away, a gaping rip spewing gouts of blood.

"No, Charlie!" Dexter yelled, and, as the monster dragged the alligator back under the stairs, Dexter began crying uncontrollably, and struggled up the steps.

He fell, got up, and upon reaching the top ran away down the hall as fast as he could, shrieking. Two times. Two times he'd failed to save someone from that thing. He needed help. He needed a friend. Without bothering to take his Fiat Spider, he ran, on foot, towards the Northrup house a few blocks away.

~*~

At the Northrup house, a modest, two-story house not far from the university which and Wilma and Henry had bought the day they were married, which seemed a century ago, Professor Henry Northrup was washing the dishes. Just as "Billie" had ordered him to when she had left earlier in the evening for one of her "classes." Classes, she always said. Henry suspected she had always gone to some bar or other. She drank like a sponge openly, making Henry wonder why she bothered lying to her husband about it. Probably because she could, he decided.

He was very angry, but, as usual, he internalized it. Although he was an English professor and not a psychiatrist, Henry still knew this was a bad thing. He was amazed he hadn't yet developed ulcers. The source of his anger was, as usual, Wilma. Her behavior at the party earlier had resulted in the Raymonds storming off not long after Dexter had, and Dean Parker had given Henry quite a reaming. He'd said nothing to Wilma because, like her husband, he knew there was no reasoning with her.

Curiously, at the thought of the word "reaming" his thoughts turned to Dexter. His colleague had run away from the party for reason undisclosed. Henry figured that regardless of what the phone call had been about, Dexter Stanley used it as an excuse to escape the sinking ship of the Dean's party, and Henry didn't blame him.

Finishing with the dishes, Henry loaded the dushwasher but let the pots soak, something Wilma told him specifically not to do, just to spite her. Then he went and got a beer and was in the midst of popping the tab when there came a frantic knocking at the door. Even as he walked to the door to answer it, he could hear Dexter's voice, pleading to be let in. He opened it, expected to be happy to see his friend. Instead, he was horrified.

"We've gotta stop it!" Dexter was crying as he shoved past Henry. "Two people are dead already! Jesus Christ, they died!"

Henry briefly looked out the open to see what if anything had put Dexter in such a state and then seeing nothing closed it. He turned and regarded Dexter. The older mouse was a mess. His hair was frazzled, shirt and pants stained with sweat, his necktie was askew...and he was holding what looking for all the world like a shoe a dog had chewed on in one hand.

"Dex--" Henry started.

Dexter paused in his rambling to suddenly look around in bug-eyed fear. "Where's Wilma?" he demanded to know.

"Out," Henry replied. "Dex, what the hell's happened to you? And why are you holding a ripped-up shoe?" As if he noticed the shoe for the first time, Dexter gave a cry of loathing and dropped it.

A few minutes later, they were in the den of the house. The chessboard had been set up despite Dexter's earlier assertion he might not come over. Henry was an optimist. Beside it, on a sheet of newspaper, was the shoe Dexter brought with him. Henry poured them both glasses of bourbon and when he handed Dexter his, the mouse seized it and chugged it down in only three quick gulps, adam's apple bobbing.

"Damn, last time I saw someone do that was in the movies!" he said.

"Two people are dead, and I could blamed. I know that it's a terrible consideration to have at a time like this, but it's going to mean my ass if Parker finds out! But it wasn't me! It was that--that thing in the crate! And I don't even know what it was!"

Dexter loosed a long, insane little giggle that frankly worried Henry. "What two people? Who is dead?"

Calming momentarily, Dexter said, "Mike the janitor and Charlie Gereson, one of my students." There was a pause. "He wanted to measure the bite marks Henry. I guess he got his chance!" He unleashed another crazy little giggle.

Henry sighed and shook his head. "I can't help you if you don't being so Goddamn hysterical. Now, please, Dex, calm down, and tell me the whole story from the beginning. Can you do that?"

Composing himself, Dexter said he could, and he told Henry everything that had happened. Who the phone call was from. The finding of the crate and its opening. And the subsequent deaths of Mike Latimer and Charlie Gereson. Unlike Charlie, there was no skepticism in Henry as he sat calmly in his armchair listening to Dexter's horrifying tale unspool. He'd never known Dexter to be a liar, and although Dexter was capable of folding under pressure, it needed to be a very specific preassure. A flesh-eating 147-year-old monster in a crate that ate two people right in front of him seemed about right, though.

After finishing his story, Dexter went and flopped on the couch. "Am I going crazy, Henry?"

"No," Henry said softly with a reassuring smile. This seemed to calm Dexter. Standing up, he said, "Dex, I have to, uh, use the bathroom. When I get out we'll discuss what's got to be done about all this."

He went into the first floor guest bathroom down the hall and shut the door. He'd only half-lied about needing to use the bathroom. Although he did pee, he mostly came into be alone and to think clearly about the matter. If Dexter was telling the truth, and Mike Latimer's mutilated shoe seemed to suggest he was, then this would present Henry Northrup with a most singular opportunity. Provided, of course, he could orchestrate it correctly. He flushed and went to wash his hands.

As he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror Henry's anger and hatred for his wife resurfaced and he found himself surprised at how many times he'd fantasized about killing her. Just today he dreamed that at Dean Parker's party he had pulled out a Desert Eagle and shot her clean through the head, to thunderous applause from all of the guests. Upon arriving home, he experienced another daydream where he used his necktie to choke the harpy to death. But always it turned out to be just a fantasy.

It wasn't that Henry Northrup lacked the backbone to commit murder, regardless of what Wilma might think. It was more that he knew none of his fantasies would ever come true. They would all inevitably lead to his arrest and trial for his wife's murder. For years he had been praying for a situation in which something else would kill Wilma for him, and tonight, it would seem that Dexter Stanley had brought him news of that very situation.

Of course, he couldn't tell Dexter any of this. Not only would his mouse disapprove of such an action, but Dexter'd had enough anxiety and horror for one night. As he turned off the faucet and dried his hands Henry found himself a little bemused that he thought of Dexter as "his" mouse, a little smile formed on his face. Despite all of Dexter's attempts to conceal his crush on his younger friend, Henry was very attuned to people, and so had long since figured out that Dexter was gay, or at least bi. And in recent years, Henry had found himself returning Dexter's unspoken affections. After all, even another male was better than Wilma.

He suppressed his smile as he went back into the den and was about to start saying something to Dexter when he noticed that he mouse was fast asleep on the couch, head lumped against the back cushions, butt and legs half-off the cushions. His little smile returned.

Poor Dexter. It had all been too much for him. He finally passed out and went to sleep. Now, he wouldn't need to leave Dexter here with some suspicious excuse. He need only to leave after doing a few things here. Step one was making Dexter comfortable. He came over and scooped Dexter up, and carried the smaller rodent upstairs to his and Wilma's bedroom, and gently laid the sleeping Dexter on his side of the bed.

"My poor Dex," he said softly, and gently stroked through Dexter's hair as the mouse slept. "You rest. I promise I'll take care of it."

Then, standing, his expression hardened and he left the room and went downstairs. In the kitchen, he found a slip of paper and a pen and began writing a small note addressed to Wilma. It read simply, "Billie, I've had to leave in a hurry because of a situation at the university. It seems one of Dex's female students has gotten herself into a great deal of trouble. She needs a firmer hand than mine now, and as you've so often said...what would I do without you?"

He folded the note up and stuck it on the fridge with a magnet. Then he left and took his International Scout to the university...

~*~

Henry pulled the Scout into the parking space beside Dexter's Fiat Spider convertible. Aside from the Fiat, there were no other cars in the lot. Getting out, Henry stood for a moment looking at the front of Amberson Hall.

The oldest of the campus' buildings, Amberson had always looked eerie at night. And now, knowing what might lie inside, it looked teen times as creepy as it usually did. Wasting no time, Henry jangled his car keys and put them in his pocket and then trotted up the front steps. He stopped, went back and got a small flashlight he kept in the glovebox for emergencies.

Inside, to his simultaneous relief and dismay, everything was exactly as Dexter had said it would be. Relief because this meant his friend wasn't insane, and because it meant he could enact his plan. Theoretically anyway. And dismay, for obvious reasons. He looked in the classroom first. The blood. The chains, broken locks and scattered tools.

The blood here had already begun to dry, turning a dark brown color. Noticing a crowbar on the floor, Henry bent and picked it up. Sure, if Dexter was to be believed, a weapon hadn't done Charlie Gereson much good, but better safe than sorry. Turning Henry walked quickly but quietly down the hall, following the dried blood trail to the basement door, which was hanging wide open. Flicking his light on, the gray-haired tabby began slowly descending the steps. Dexter's forgotten suit jacket hung over the handrail. At the bottom, he hefted the crowbar up in a defensive posture, peering 'round at the triangular crawlspace that gaped beneath the staircase.

He shined he light inside. Well, there was the crate, as Dexter had indicated. And blood. Lots more blood. Lying amidst the pools were the big flashlight and the monkey wrench which had failed to save Charlie Gereson's life. But there was no sign of the creature. So where was it? Inside the crate, obviously. Henry remembered what Dexter had told him Charlie had said: "It must feel safe under there."

That made sense. After 147 years, in the crate, under the stairs, was where the monster felt at home. And it didn't seem to like coming out into the light, based on what he had learned of its behavior so far. He wasn't going to go near it unless he absolutely had to. Unfortunately, the blood on the floor meant he'd have to if he wanted his plan to work.

His plan! Henry remained where he stood for what seemed like hours before he remembered the note he'd left. Everything depended on speed. Switching off and pocketing his flashlight, he turned and trotted soundlessly back upstairs with little effort. He was a cat, after all. He found the janitor's closet and went inside. Here was everything he needed. A sink. Cleaning chemicals. Mops and buckets.

He grabbed a bucket and put it in the big sink and began filling it with hot water while he found and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. Then he poured in some clearn. A few moments later, he was hauling a janitor's cart with a foaming bucket and mop and all the trimmings into the biology classroom. After checking the wall-mounted clock he set to work, scrubbing Mike's blood off the table and floor with sponge and mop. Shortly, the water in the bucket was red. Henry gagged. He'd never seen so much blood in his life.

But he had to work fast. The fact Wilma might at first not know where he was in the university would buy him some extra time. She would probably go to Cather Hall, the English building. But eventually she would figure out he was at Amberson.

By the time Henry was finished, Dexter's classroom looked positively untouched. There were the nails, chains and tools, but those didn't look too out of place sitting on the work table. Henry dragged the cart out into the hallway. Switching off the light and shutting the door, he turned his attention to the blood trail leading to the basement door. He rushed through this part. There wasn't as much here. The real trick would be the stairs, and, finally, the basement itself. How could he clean up around the crate without the monster noticing? Henry decided he'd cross that bridge when it came.

Scrubbing the stairs themselves was slow going. But he did it in record time. The blood-soaked and, more importantly, long-handled, mop was employed for getting up Charlie's blood that was splattered in and around the crawlspace.

Henry was almost finished when, from somewhere upstairs and down the hall. "Henry?" It was Wilma. He froze. Working quickly, he used the mop to grab the big flashlight and drag it over. "Henry, where are you?"

"Uh, just a second!" Henry called out. He dumped the flashlight into the bucket with a small splashed, then turned and repeated the gesture with the wrench. That went into the bucket as well. Then bucket, light and wrench were set to one side, and the mop propped against the wall. Removing the gloves, he threw them aside. "Hold on for just a--"

He saw a glint of something in the darkness of the crawlspace. He whipped out his small flashlight and flicked it on, aiming even as he heard the echo of his wife's approaching footsteps.

Shit! A pair of glasses. He hadn't seen them until now. Charlie wore glasses, didn't he? Henry had never actually seen Dexter's ill-fated student, so he had to guess. It was too late to try and get them now, though; even as he was considering going and getting them he heard Wilma arrive at the top of the basement steps. Off went his light in a flash and he casually slid it into his pocket.

Wilma appeared at the top of the stairs, scowling angrily, purse slung over one shoulder. "What are you doing creeping around down there?" she asked. "And where the fuck is Dex? What kind of a mess have you two gotten yourselves into this time?"

Swallowing a lump in his throat and trying to keep his cool, Henry said, "It's easier if I just show you. Come on down."

She tromped down the steps noisily in her purple high-heels. She was totally unafraid and unsuspicious. It seemed that years of bossing her husband around made her think he'd never raise a hand against her. Or so Henry surmised. "Well?" she said. "Where's the girl?"

Henry's mouth tried to twist into a smirk. He turned away from her and covered his mouth, supressing a laugh. "She's, uh..." He couldn't take it any longer and finally giggled crazily.

This unnerved Wilma just a bit. "What the hell are you laughing about? Some girl gets herself in a scrape and you laugh?"

"But there's a funny side to it, Wilma!" Henry said, now laughing out loud. "Wait'll you see!"

"You're hysterical, Henry," Wilma sneered.

Finally, he stopped laughing, and turned around, scowling at the woman who had made his life a living hell for the past several years. The woman he had once loved but who had become a monster he lived in fear of. "No, Billie," he said, using her nickname, which he did rarely, "I've never been more clear-headed in all my life."

With that, he grabbed Wilma by the arms and steered her towards the crawlspace. The suddenness caught Wilma off guard and she didn't resist, except, of course, to complain loudly. "Henry, what are you doing?"

"What I should've done a long time ago!" Henry said, and with all his might forced his wife down and under the stairs. She turned, landing on her butt, and kneeling down he grabbed her by the arms. "Get in there! Just tell him to call you Billie, you bitch!"

"Stop it or I'll scream!" she threatened, struggling.

"Scream all you want! Go right ahead! I'll help you!" He began yelling and banging Wilma back against the crate. "Wake up! Wake up, whatever you are! Dinnertime! Wake up!"

Seconds turned into minutes and nothing happened. Henry stopped yelling and felt his courage falter. Nothing was happening. Why wasn't it coming out? Slowly he stopped shaking Wilma and blinked, feeling suddenly stupid. Wilma growled at him, a whimpery little growl, but one that made Henry cringe suddenly. She raised her purse and hit him with it.

"You wanna see some real punching?" she yelled, and hit him again. He scooted backwards, out from under the stairs, to avoid her blows. "Same old Henry. Afraid of your own shadow!" she sneered.

Henry felt suddenly like crying. His one chance to get rid of Wilma and it had failed miserably, all because Dexter's monster was already full from eating two people, and didn't want to eat the one who actually deserved it. Henry simply looked down at the floor as he sat there, seeing the rest of his life rear up in front of him. A life where Wilma would never forget this moment. And now, on top of the emotional abuse he endured, he might have to endure physical abuse, if her hitting him with the purse was any indication.

Then, as if willed forth from up on high, the lid of the crate behind Wilma flew up and the abomination exploded from within like a demonic jack-in-the-box.

Insanely, Henry's first thought was that the monster had one hell of a sense of dramatic timing. Then as he actually realized what he was looking at, he felt his jaw go slack and his blood run cold. Dexter's story, the blood, none of it prepared him for actually seeing the beast. The thing was indescribably old. Furry, With hate-filled green eyes. Henry never dreamed he would see such savage fury as he saw in those eyes.

Suddenly, Wilma wasn't scary any more.

Wilma's reaction to the thing was the same as her husband's only tenfold. Unlike him, she hadn't expected anything. She half-turned and loosed a shriek of pure terror as the thing grabbed the little dog. She screamed to Henry to help her and out of reflex, the cat almost moved to try and save his wife, but stopped himself.

"Just--Just tell him to call you Billie," he stammered.

Wilma's scream was cut off as the monster turned her head around and opened wide, and with a lunging motion sank its gigantic fangs into the bitch's face. Blood poured everywhere and Wilma struggled, putting up one hell of a fight. The thing gobbled noisily and messily until Wilma went limp, the monster having devoured almost her entire head from the face inwards in a matter of seconds.

"Just tell him to call you Billie!" Henry repeated, his voice trembling, a mixture of fear and relief mixed together.

In response, the monster whirled and stared at him angrily. Blood dripped from its mouth and it snarled at him, a kind of belch or bark of fury. Like a predator defending its kill. Henry decided now might be a good time to run like hell, so he stood and ran around and up the stairs as fast as he could.

Once upstairs, Henry collapsed to his knees and took a deep breath, struggling not to throw up. Air. He needed fresh air. He stood and walked woozily outside and breathed deep the cool night air, and felt better. The enormity of the fact Wilma was gone forever had yet to sink in. Henry was a bit in shock, he later surmised. It isn't everyday you see someone get eaten by a monster. And despite having longed for the moment when Wilma would die, and planning it, witnessing it come to fruition was almost too much.

But as much as he wanted to simply collapse somewhere and rest, there was yet more work to be done. With Wilma dead, Henry's mind turned from the beast as an opportunity to the beast as a problem. He needed to dispose of it before it killed someone else. He hadn't thought that part through, though.

Should he call the cops? It would be simple enough to get them to the campus. They wouldn't believe the story of a flesh-eating monster, so he'd make something plausible up, and then once they laid eyes on the crate and its contents, they'd certainly believe him. But they might ask questions about Wilma. And in the time it would take them to get here, he thought, the creature might get out.

He had everything he needed here to contain it. So, after catching his breath, he walked back inside. It was to the classroom he went where he gathered up nails as well as the hammer. The locks and chains were busted, but it found some new ones in the janitor's closet. It was almost hellishly perfect. Slowly he crept downstairs.

Setting the chains to one side, he took out some nails and worked quickly to begin hammering them in, nailing the lid down again. Inside, the monster, which had apparently been asleep, awoke and strained noisily at the lid. Henry grunted and pushed it back down. After a full twenty minutes of struggling, he was able to nail the lid down entirely, trapping the monster once again. It snarled muffledly in fury.

Dragging the crate out from under the stairs, he tipped it onto its side and began wrapping the chains around it. When the chains were in place he sealed them with the padlocks he'd found. Getting a dolly, he, with some effort, hauled the crate up the basement steps. Setting it to one side he returned downstairs and resumed cleaning up, getting good under the stairs and also collecting Charlie's pulverized glasses and Wilma's purse.

~*~

After he finished cleaning up in the basement, Henry loaded the crate into the back of the Scout and drove out to Cascade Lake, an isolated lake many miles away from town. A handpainted sign that read "NO SWIMMING" was partially concealed by bushes. Over the years, many students had drowned here, and their bodies had never been recovered. Most people theorized that it was due to the depth of the lake. A lake deep enough to hide the bodies of drowned teenagers for years was a lake deep enough to drown the monster, Henry reasoned.

Backing the car to the edge of the water on a high ledge overlooking the moonlit lake, Henry went around and opened up the tailgate. He pulled. The thing in the crate chittered angrily, but could do nothing against the nails and chains which had held it for 147 years and would hold it forever, it seemed.

Finally with a lurch, Henry tugged the crate out fully. The Scout bounced a bit as the weight left it, and then Henry let go. The wooden box thudded against the cliff edge, tilted, and then went over. The crate-turned-coffin fell down and splashed noisily into the water. It sank like a lead weight, and with a gurgle and a few bubbles it was gone. Panting, Henry stood there for a while, just to be certain. The thing could survive hundreds of years without eating, but he was willing to bet it couldn't breathe underwater.

As he stood there, he witnessed the coming of dawn. The night had fled. He sighed. Closing the tailgate he got back into the Scout and started it up. He drove forwards and down the hillside, and as he passed the part closest to the lake he threw the purse and glasses out the window and into the lake. He began a leisurely drive home.

The sun was up and birds were chirping by the time he pulled the Scout into the driveway. Later, after a long, hot shower, Henry changed into some clean clothes and went into the bedroom where Dexter still slept. Henry used the telephone on the bedside table to phone Dean Parker and explain that neither he nor Professor Stanley would be in today, as they had both come down with colds. Hanging up, he sat on the bed and the mouse stirred a bit and slowly woke up. Henry smiled.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully.

Dexter rolled over in the bed and looked over at the cat. "What? Where am I?"

"In my bed," Henry replied. Where he had always wanted him, he thought. "You fell asleep last night. So I put you in here."

Dexter sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. He belched from the bourbon he'd drank. He seemed surprised and confused. "But, what about Wilma? Surely she'd never--"

Henry smirked and cut him off. "You don't need to worry about her anymore. Her opinions don't matter any longer, as of last night."

Dexter blinked. "What? What happ--" Then it hit him. "You didn't..."

"That depends. Do you want to know?"

"I, uh..." Dexter stammered.

Henry decided to make his move. He scooted over on the bed, closer to Dexter. Reaching up he touched the side of the mouse's face and slid his fingertips through the fur. Dexter couldn't have looked more surprised. Then, gingerly, Henry took the back of Dexter's head in hand and guided the mouse into a soft kiss, his lips touching Dexter's. Dexter didn't resist, nor did he respond. He was too flabbergasted.

When they pulled apart, Dexter licked his lips and Henry smiled. "I take it you've waited for that for some time."

"Henry, I...I have, yes, but...how did you--?"

"Sshhh," Henry said, a finger to Dexter's lips. "We'll talk later. Right now, I've had a very long and trying night. And I need you, Dex. I think I need you right now more than anyone has ever needed anybody in the history of the world."

For a long moment the mouse just sat there. And then the cat reached over and hooked a finger in his shirt collar. Then, feeling his ancient predatory instincts taking over, Henry growled softly and pounced onto Dexter, pinning the frightened and confused mouse to the bed. He grinned down at him and winked, to show him he meant him no harm. He knew Dexter needed such cues after what he'd been through.

Henry moved his hips. His jeans were swollen with his arousal, a large bulge evident in them, which he ground against Dexter's thigh, eliciting a groan from the rodent underneath him. Good, he thought. This will help him relax. And him, too.

Slowly, Dexter responded to Henry's attention, and the cat purred as he felt a bulge form on his friend's--no, his lover's pants. Dipping his head down he kissed Dexter and this time he kissed back, wrenching his arms free of Henry's hands and sliding them around the cat atop him.

Breaking the kiss, Henry sat up and peeled off his T-shirt, getting off of Dexter as the mouse set about undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. Dexter undressed faster. He was far more eager. More pent-up passions flowing out. Henry held back because he wanted to watch. Off came shoes, socks and dress pants, and finally the mouse's cotton boxers. The body Dexter hid beneath his clothing was unremarkable. Thin, with a mild paunch in his advancing age and lack of exercise. His erection was modest, but Henry found his little patch of pubes adorable.

By comparison, Henry was...well, not exactly muscular or anything. But very stocky and compact. Built thick all through his body. Including where it counted. They were vastly different in physical appearance and build, and Henry very much looked forward to seeing how well they fit together.

Dexter was deeply blushing beneath his gray fur. He wasn't quite sure what to do, so he just got back on the bed naked, as Henry stood and slowly unzipped his jeans. He wore cotton briefs and they left little to the imagination, in the way of his maleness. Dexter gasped and reached out, then hesitated, his hand shaking.

"It's okay," Henry said reassuringly. "Go ahead."

Gulping and flashing a nervous smile, Dexter slid his thin fingers into Henry's fly and cupped his warm bulge, causing the cat to moan. He bucked his hips reflexively. His jeans slid down his legs and he stepped out of them. Now he allowed Dexter to lead, to explore, as the mouse frowned in concentration and pulled Henry's underwear down, allowing a thick catcock to flop out, throbbing hotly with Henry's lust.

Dexter's fingers encircled it, gripped it, then Henry's hand was at the back of the mouse's head again, slowly guiding him forward. Dexter eagerly took what his friend gave him, opening wide and letting the fat head of Henry's cock slide into his mouth, buck teeth gently scraping the sensitive flesh, tongue wetly slurping along the underside. Above him, the feline was in heaven. It took every ounce of his self-control not to just explode right there. He wanted to do something else to Dexter first.

For now he let Dexter enjoy himself. The mouse sucked hungrily on the cat's cock. He was sloppy and inexperienced, but cute as hell. His thin pink tail swept side to side in the air behind him.

"Ahh--All right, Dex," Henry said, panting. "That's enough for now..."

Dexter pulled back and looked up at Henry. The cat reached down and scooped the mouse up, lifting up by the armpits. Then they resumed their earlier position, only reversed. Henry laid Dexter out on the bed and got on top of him, then smiled and rolled them both over, Dexter giving a little yelp as he suddenly found himself sitting astride the cat's lap. Leaning back a bit he erfed as he felt Henry's erection prodding under his tailbase.

Nervously he looked down at Henry. "Henry, I don't think I--"

Henry ignored him. Taking the rodent's thin hips in his hands he pushed back and down, and at the same time, he thrust up with his hips. Dexter's cry of pain and pleasure as he was invaded by Henry's thickness filled the bedroom. Dexter slowly sank down onto the hot cat cock that filled his rear, his chest heaving as he breathed fast and deep. Both of their bodies vibrated with Henry's purring.

"Mmm, looks like I found the mousie hole," Henry said, grinning.

Dexter laughed. It felt good to laugh again. And laughing while making love to his best friend and longtime crush was even better. Now, with his hands, Henry guided him, making him rise up, feeling the cock slowly being pulled backwards out of his ass. When the head was about to pop free, Henry pushed him back down hard.

Dexter quickly got the idea and Henry's hands went away. From now on the mouse used his legs, rising his body up slowly and then letting it fall back down quickly. He shuddered with delight as he felt the slick cock tease his prostate with each reentry. Beneath him Henry watched his mouse riding him with delight-filled eyes. As he rode the cat's dick, Dexter gripped his own erection tightly and began jerking it. Now this he was used to. He grinned crookedly down at Henry.

As his hand slid nimbly over his rodent cock, he soon felt a familiar sensation in balls, building at the base of his penis. He inhaled sharply, then came hard and true. Thick squirts of mouse cum shot out and onto Henry's stomach and chest.

"Okay, Dex, you ready?" Henry asked rhetorically. Dexter didn't reply, he simply kept jerking his still-hard but spent cock. Henry too had felt the tingling at the base of his cock, and now ge was ready to fill Dexter Stanley's virgin ass with his cum. With a mrrrowl of passion the tabby thrust upwards with his hips a final time and exploded deep within his mouse, letting Dexter feel the new and exciting sensation of thick, hot cum flooding his bowels.

"Oh, God, Henry..." Dexter said, panting, as he slowly fell down onto Henry.

Henry wrapped his arms around him, and held him close. Kissed him, nuzzling into his hair. He didn't care that Dexter still stank of booze and sweat from last night. All that mattered now was that he was finally rid of Wilma "Billie" Northrup, and had Dexter Stanley in his arms at long last.

They slept until noon. Slowly the two roused and exchanged kisses, before Henry recoiled with mock distaste and said, "Dex, I think you need a shower." He hadn't minded that Dexter stank of sweat and alcohol when he was horny as hell for him, but now, he would prefer that the mouse get cleaned up. And so while Dexter bathed, Henry dressed and gathered up his lover's clothes. They'd need to go through the wash. After doing that, Henry went into the kitchen and dumped out the pots he'd let soak overnight, and then began making them both something to eat.

A few minutes later, Dexter wandered in wearing Henry's green bathrobe, and sat glumly at the table, hands clasped in front of him. Frowning, Henry turned and eyed him. "What's wrong, Dex?" he asked. He was afraid he had done something wrong. Had their bout of lovemaking been too sudden?

"The crate, Henry," Dexter said.

Henry realized that in all the excitement he had forgotten to mention what he'd done with the crate. He filled Dexter in on the events of the previous night. Wilma's much-deserved demise, and his struggle to dispose of the beast and its wooden domicile. "The crate," he said finally, "is at the bottom of Cascade Lake."

This didn't seem to satisfy Dexter. Looking worried still, he said, "What if it gets out, Henry? What if it gets out of that crate, and kills someone else?"

Henry smiled and came over. "I chained that sucker up good. That thing is drowned in its box seventy feet down. Relax, honey." He bent down and kissed Dexter on the cheek, and said, more softly, almost a whisper, "Relax."

Finally, he got Dexter to smile, and he resumed making them brunch.

~*~

The bottom of Cascade Lake was dark and deep. Contrary to what Henry Northrup believed, the ancient creature within the crate was having a difficult time drowning. Unfortunately, it was also having a difficult time escaping from the crate which had held it for so long. But finally, the combination of the water and the wood's age allowed the beast to tear through it. The nails and chains certainly didn't bother it now!

It swam upwards, leaving its broken former prison behind. As the monster broke the surface, it glared around at its unfamiliar surroundings with its piercing green eyes, and then began wading ashore. It would find the feline that had tried to drown it. It would have its revenge. It--

Its thoughts were interrupted as it heard a soft, slimy gurgling sound. Its pointed ears perked up and it looked around. In the bright afternoon sun, it saw something shiny, like an oil slick, on the surface of the water a few feet away. The creature was puzzled. Even moreso when the mass began moving towards it. The crate monster did not know what this substance was, but it knew enough that it was dangerous. It turned and resumed its attempt to get to shore.

It never made it. The black slime that coated the surface like oil was quicker than the beast had given it credit for. Like a tidal wave it rushed forth and engulfed the monster from the crate. The slime wasn't quite certain what this new prey was, but it was at least a welcome break from its usual diet of swimmers. The other beast howled and struggled, but its claws and teeth were useless against this thing with no flesh, no internal organs to damage. Simply a mass of black sludge.

Swallowed up with a gurgle, the crate monster disappeared into the bulk of the lake monster, which then turned and headed back out to the center of the lake with a sickly belch.

The End