Greenstone Chronicles

The air within the pet store cloyed with fragrances of bones, chew toys, crystal meth, and other treats. Tyson, an eager and excitable ten-year-old boy, walked through the aisles with his mother.

Alone in a clear box was a small human about the height of Tyson’s forearm. He had long, fraying hair, an unkempt beard, stained, baggy clothes, and most of his teeth intact. His eyes were wide and darting around as he rocked side-to-side on the balls of his feet.

“Heeh heeh yeeyeeeh boaaah!” the little man screeched in his little box as he hopped from one leg to the other.

Tyson’s face lit up with glee as he watched the little man.

“Mommy! Mommy, can we please get a tweaker? Pleeeaaase?” He hopped up and down as he gripped his mother’s hands with his own.

“Sweetheart,” his mother kindly yet firmly began, “I don’t think we can afford one right now.”

“But look mom! He’s only one hundred-thousand dollars!” He pointed at the little slip of paper beneath the case that read, “$100K – This weekend only!”

The mother’s eyebrows went up. “Oh my, that is pretty cheap.” She leaned down to inspect the tweaker. He was inspecting something underneath his shirt through the collar, stretching it out until it nearly ripped.

“Please, can we?” Tyson gave his mother a diabolical puppy-dog face. Those rich, deep brown little eyes could stop a murderer in his tracks.

Curse my weakness for this child, Tyson’s mother thought.

His mother let out a breath. “How much allowance do you have left?”

“I only have ten thousand.” His countenance receded to disappointment for only a half second before he snapped back with hopeful energy and added, “I can do some extra chores! I’ll wash the mountains, I’ll vacuum the plains, I’ll even change the sun!”

“Will you now?” His mother raised an eyebrow, “Well, I think that’s a swell idea, but I really don’t think our family is ready for another pet.”

“But Geoff and Emuleigh have one! And even dumb, booger brain Beyerun has two!” Tyson’s tone started to take on a whiny edge.

“And I’m sure their mothers,” his mother said, emphasizing that last word, “take good care of their tweakers.”

“I promise I’ll take care of him! I won’t even ask you to do nuthin’!” Tyson pleaded.

“There is a lot of work that’ll go into taking care of him, you know. Do you even know what sort of food they eat?”

“Uh,” Tyson looked up to the ceiling as if hoping it would assist, “salads and whole foods?”

“No, I don’t think so, Ty. Here, let’s get someone who can teach you.”

After a quick look around, Tyson’s mother walked over to a button mounted on a wall nearby. The button was about the size of her thumb, and above it hung a sign that read, “Call for Help.” On the floor adjacent to the button was a little yellow and black striped square.

She pressed the button. With a resonant whir, a blob of black and purple ooze manifested in the air above the square.

“Ooh!” Tyson gaped wide-eyed in childlike wonder at the spectacle which he never grew tired of watching.

Bones spurt out of the ooze like newborn maggots and organized themselves into a humanoid shape. The goo shaped itself into sinews and muscles as it stretched across the bones. Lidless eyes squelched out from the skull’s eye sockets, and the creature bellowed a horrendous cry of pain.

“Cool,” Tyson gawked with a reverent sense of awe.

His mother checked her watch.

Once its skin blotched into place, clothes appeared on its body in a puff of smoke. A little white name tag pinned to his shirt read, “Dgreggury.”

The pained look on Dgreggury’s face shifted to indifference and apathy.

“Hello,” he sighed, “welcome to Subjugate Snacks, where you can find sweet, succulent sustenance for all your subjects. How may I help you today?”

“Hello,” Tyson’s mom squinted down at the little name tag on the customer service representative’s shirt, “D-greggury. Did I say that right?”

“It’s just ‘Greggury’,” he said, “the ‘D’ is silent.”

“Very well. Dgreggury, would you kindly explain to us what we’d need to feed and take care of this tweaker here?”

Dgreggury spoke in monotonous, single breaths, “Tweakers eat trash. Well, kinda, they eat food in thetrash. They won’t eat it otherwise.” He breaths in, “They’ll always accept cash though.”

“We won’t be letting him roam around, so I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“Then you’ll want an alleyway cage, a tent, and a cart with some junk in it.” Dgreggury tapped his fingers sequentially as he listed the items.

“Any foods you’d recommend?”

“Well, the crystal meth is just over there,” he said pointing to a direction behind the mother and son, “You’ll need that to keep him active and to avoid withdrawal symptoms.”

“Obviously.” The mother said flatly.

“Right.” Dgreggury’s beady eyes glossed over, “Other than that, he’ll eat just about whatever. We have tweaker food over there.” He pointed in the same general direction as the crystal meth.

“Anything else?”

“Just make sure the trash is fresh once a week, give him at least a small hit of his treats twice a day, or one larger dose once a day. Oh, and you’ll want to make sure he has a fresh syringe every day to avoid infections.”

“Did you catch all that, Tyson?”

“I sure did, mom!” Tyson was beaming. “We need an alleyway, a tent, some tr-”

“Yes, yes, good job sweetie.” She turned back to the store worker and said, “Might I purchase this tweaker and all of the necessities today?”

“Sure thing. One moment,” Dgreggury said unenthusiastically. He walked to the back room labeled, “Underlings Only.”

Tyson started jumping up and down and grabbed his mother’s hand. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mom! I love you so much!”

Tyson’s mom couldn’t help but allow a slight smile to betray her satisfaction in seeing her son’s bliss. “I love you too, baby boy. You promise to help take care of him like we agreed?”

“YES!” Tyson nearly shouted with excitement.

A moment later, Dgreggury returned with a pair of chainmail gloves and a metal box with holes in it.

“Stand back,” he said. Mother and son obliged.

He opened the crate from above and grabbed the tweaker with one hand, which wrapped completely around the tweaker’s torso and was just as wide as its length. The tweaker squealed and gnawed at the chainmail glove with as much efficacy as his compromised set of teeth would allow.

Dgreggury held the tweaker out for the mother and son to see. “I wouldn’t try to pick this one up while he’s getting used to his new environment,” he said, “and especially don’t try to pick him up while he’s sleeping. They freak out real bad if they’re spooked. When you’re ready to hold him, wait until after he’s had a hit. Once he starts zoning out, it should be safe to handle him.”

Tyson’s mom smiled at the tweaker. “I suppose he is rather cute when he’s feisty,” she said as she cautiously held out a finger to scratch his head.

“GYAH WITCH!!!” Baring his crooked teeth, the tweaker swung his little arm in a sloppy right-hook, which was only a little longer than Tyson’s mother’s longest finger.

“Oh my!” Tyson’s mom giggled, “What a delightful little thing!”

Dgreggury opened the metal box. The insides were padded with soft cushion and fabric that was difficult to tear. He plopped him inside and quickly shut the lid.

“Here ya go. Watch your fingers.” He handed the box to Tyson.

“Woooaah!” Tyson peered through the holes to see his tweaker rolling around and running into the sides of the box. He gave the box a gentle shake and laughed when the tweaker squealed and rolled around some more.

Tyson and his mother finished gathering the items, completed their purchase, and drove home.

—

The hound ran around the corner to greet Tyson and his mom when they walked into their home.

“Hey boy!” Tyson gave the hound’s head a scratch, and its beady red eyes started to close from the pleasure when they shot open again. It sniffed aggressively at Tyson’s feet, progressing upward until it reached the box he held. It pawed the box and gave it a tentative nibble.

A tiny hand shot out of one of the holes and slapped the outer walls of the box. The tweaker muttered something indecipherable.

“No, no, Bob’s a friend, okay?” Tyson scolded the hound and held the box away from it, “No eating Bob!”

The hound sat and watched like a patient vulture as they set up the new tweaker’s dirty tent, which was nestled in a miniature alleyway inside a large, glass cage. The whole arrangement sat on a side table in the living room situated beside the family organ. They made sure to lay out some fresh trash for the tweaker before putting him inside to avoid being bit. When they placed the tweaker in the alleyway, he stood in place perfectly still.

“What’s he doing?” Tyson squinted at the tweaker from outside the glass case.

“I imagine he’s sensing his surroundings,” his mother guessed. “Moving into a new home isn’t easy, even for a tweaker, I presume.”

After a moment, the tweaker’s nose twitched, and he clumsily rushed to the trash cans, spilling them on the alleyway floor and sorting through their contents. Mother chuckled.

She picked up the sack from the pet store and began unpacking the items within, placing them in the drawer set into the table where the tweakers home sat.

“Can we give him his treats now?” Tyson asked his mom.

“Not yet, we should let him get settled first. We’ll give him some tonight before bed.”

Mother and son went about their day, occasionally taking a gander at their new friend in his cage. Tyson would tap the glass, causing the tweaker to jerk up and start fighting a nonexistent foe, which would invariably set Tyson into a fit of laughter. His mother offered a token effort to stop him from spooking the poor thing, quietly amused by the little show as well.

In the early evening, they heard a car pulling into the driveway. When the front door opened, a tall man with a well-pressed shirt and tie stepped through.

“DADDYYY!!!” Tyson yelled as he raced through the house to be the first to hug his father, but was yet again beaten by the hound.

“Oh goooood boy, good boy!” The man rustled the hound’s black, leathery ears as its forked tongue stuck through its serrated teeth to lick his face.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Tyson yelled again.

“Hey little man!” Tyson’s father stood up and hoisted his son to eye level.

“Don’t throw up me! Don’t throw up me!” Tyson protested as he clung to his father’s wrists.

“Okay, okay, just a big squeeze then.” And his father hugged him in a tight, warm embrace.

Placing Tyson down, the father turned towards the mother and held her at the small of her back and planted a sweet kiss on her lips.

“How was your day, mi amora?” He said lovingly as he continued to hold his wife.

“It’s been an adventure, certainly,” she said with a slight smile. “Tyson, do you want to tell Daddy what we did today?” Then, to her husband, she whispered, “I hope it’s okay.”

“We got a tweaker!” Tyson said emphatically. He rushed to the glass case.

“Oh?” The father gave a questioning look to the mother.

“His name is Bob!” Tyson said, pointing to the little man within the glass case. The tweaker was reprimanding the bricks in the walls of the alleyway using language that would bring the devil to tears.

His father smiled. “What an exotic name. How much was he?”

“He was only a hundred thousand, can you believe it?” the mother said with some disbelief. “The cage was a little pricey, but I just couldn’t bear to cram the poor thing into something small.”

The father contemplated the new arrangement. He leaned down to observe the new family member and saw him pointing severely at the wall like it owed him money. The father quietly chuckled. “Well.” He allowed a pause to linger for a dramatic effect. “Okay, I suppose he can stay.”

“Yaaay!” Tyson exclaimed.

Thank you, the mother mouthed to her husband.

—

Over the following weeks, Tyson religiously kept his end of the agreement. He made sure his pet’s trash was stocked once a week and that he was supplied daily with his special treats.

One day, Tyson went to tidy up the bits of trash left strewn throughout the cage and noticed that the tweaker was out of sight. Normally, the tweaker would be found pacing the alleyway in a display of dominance. He peered around and found him sitting in his tent with his back facing toward the door. He wasn’t eating anything, nor was he enjoying a daily treat. He just sat there motionless. Not thinking much of it, Tyson finished cleaning the trash and went on his way.

The following day, a similar scene was observed. This time, the tweaker was facing perpendicular to the door, and now Tyson could see that he was reading a book. A book? Tweakers don’t normally read.

“Mom, Dad,” Tyson called out, worried, “I think something is wrong with Bob.”

Tyson’s mother was the first to walk in. Bending down to look in the cage, she said, “Oh dear.”

“What’s he doing?” Tyson said, looking up to his mother.

“It looks like he’s reading. It’s probably nothing, sweetie.” His mother rubbed his back. “These things are rarely permanent.”

“But his hair doesn’t look as frizzy as it usually does. Is that bad?”

“Perhaps he hasn’t groomed himself yet? Don’t worry about it, Ty, it probably won’t last.”

Tyson’s father poked his head into the room. “Is he rehabbing?”

The mother turns around with wide eyes and gave him a quiet shush.

“Oh,” the father said, wincing, “I’m sure it can’t be too serious. Here, let’s give him some treats, that’ll set him back to his normal self.”

He reached into the drawer beneath the cage and pulled out a tiny baggie, a lighter, and a pipe. He placed it next to the tent and scratched the outer liner with the tongs.

The tweaker eyed the gifts outside his door. At this point, the tweaker would normally drop anything he’s doing and snatch up the bag, sometimes eating its contents straight away like a wild animal. On one occasion, he was in the middle of pissing on the side of the alleyway as the tongs descended into his living space. He immediately scrambled over with such intensity that his urine sprayed all over the street, his tent, and the trash, never pausing to cover himself. Unfortunately, Tyson’s mother found no help in cleaning the cage from her son because he was so occupied nearly whizzing his own pants from laughing too hard.

This time, however, the tweaker hesitated. He looked from the baggie to the book, then back to the baggie. He slowly placed the book down, front cover facing the ground, and unenthusiastically smoked the drug.

“There,” the father said proudly, “that should fix his reading problem. He should be back to his good old self in no time.”

—

Days later, on one bright and mostly cloudless Saturday, a light wind hushed against the trees as a single, small cloud in the sky began passing over the sun like a lonely boat crossing a great sea. The father walked to the living room to restock their pet’s trash food when he noticed the tweaker.

“Oh, shoot,” he muttered to himself. He didn’t bother to restock the trash. He went to look for his wife and found her reading the morning newspaper over breakfast in the dining area.

“Hey hun, I think you should look at Bob,” the father said, deflated.

She frowned, placed her mug back on the table, and walked with her husband over to the living room. When she peered through the case, she saw the tweaker sitting with his legs crossed, his pants worn properly, no stains on his shirt, and his hair combed down. Finally, the telltale sign of no return for the little tweaker, a book in his hands that bore the title, “Holy Bible.”

“Oh no,” the mother said sadly, placing her hand on her chest. “Tyson is going to be devastated.”

The father sighed, “I know. How did he even get that book?” he said with disgust in his tone.

“It must have been in his trash.”

“I thought that trash was regulated by the Pet Health Administration?” With some annoyance in his movements, the father reached for the bag of packaged human trash, inspecting the company brand and product information on the back.

“Not well enough, I suppose,” the mother said, defeated. “I knew I should have taken it out when we first saw it.”

“I’m going to call that company and let them know. Maybe we can get some compensation.”

“I’m more worried about Tyson. You should have seen him at the store when we picked him up. Oh, dear, we’ve only had him for a short time.”

A few minutes later, Tyson hobbled into the living room with tousled hair and squinted eyes from a night of deep sleep. The mother was sitting on an armchair while the father was tidying up the kitchen nearby.

“Morning, Mom. Morning, Dad,” he said groggily.

“Heya, Champ.” His father smiled at him and walked into the living room.

“Good morning, Ty,” his mother said sympathetically. “Hey, sweetie, your father and I have something we need to show you.”

Tyson looked from his mother’s face to his father’s and saw concern in their eyes. He frowned.

“W-what is it?” he said.

His mother motioned for him to look at Bob. Tyson walked over to the cage, leaned in, and saw what his parents were concerned about: the calm demeanor, the clean clothes, and that book.

Tyson’s little lip quivered, and he leaned in for a hug from his mom and let out a sob.

“I know, I know, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” She stroked his silky black hair surrounding the stubby horns on his head.

“Wait!” Tyson perked up a bit. “What if he just needs another treat?”

“Sure, little man, we can try,” his father said with waning conviction while scratching the back of his head.

Tyson opened the drawer beneath the cage and grabbed a miniature bag of white, powdered meth, then another one for good measure, the pipe, and a lighter. He gently placed them by the main opening of the tweaker’s tent.

The tweaker looked up briefly, considered the contents laid out before him, and pivoted so his back was turned to the treat.

“Awww,” Tyson cried and resumed sobbing into his mother’s shoulder.

Tyson sniffled between his words, “Do. Do we have to… to…”

His mother looked at his dad with a silent request for help.

His father knelt by his son and said quietly, “I’m afraid so.”

This sent Tyson into deeper sobs. Tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped onto his mother’s lap. She held him for a moment while he vented his grief.

Tyson’s father held his son’s shoulder. Tyson detached from his mom and hugged his father’s broad shoulders.

“Do you want me to handle it, son?” his father asked while giving Tyson’s back a comforting rub.

“No,” Tyson sniffled, “I can do it. I’m responsible for him.”

His dad hugged him tighter. “My brave boy. We’ll be right there with you.”

“We can hold a nice funeral service for him out by the tree in the back,” his mother said tenderly. “How does that sound?”

Tyson nodded with his eyes downcast. “Good.” He straightened himself up a little and wiped away his tears.

Tyson’s father picked up the cage and walked to a nearby cupboard, where he retrieved a small object hidden on the highest shelf. The silent family procession walked out to the back yard. Through the living room window, the small cloud could be seen nearly finishing its hurdle across the sun. Below it, a great willow tree lazily rustled in the sweet, summer wind. Long grass swayed rhythmically around the feet of the family that stood beside the tree.

The father handed the object to his son and patted him on the shoulder.

Tyson widened his stance, aimed the object at the cage sitting on the ground before him, and squared his shoulders.

BANG!

The small cloud cleared its hurdle, allowing sunlight to spill through the window. Particles of dust traced the edges of a beam of light which highlighted the table where Bob’s cage once stood.