TWO WOLVES [ mo & katty ;) ]

[PASCAL FISCHER]

There were a lot of Indians in Minnesota. Not like the sort of Indians who actually came from India, raiding the private schools and outshining the inferior white populace in brain capacity; but like those Indians who came from America (therefore deeming the term "Indian" very nonsensical) and hunted down Christopher Columbus and the pilgrims back in the olden days.

Once, in the fifth grade, Pascal had been forced to visit a museum dedicated to the history of such Indians on a school trip. He was not much of a museum person– so much information all in one place was bound to overwhelm his troublingly small mind, and besides that there were always so many terrifying stuffed animals that made Pascal nearly want to pee his pants.

The Indian museum was different because, first of all, there was much less information and much more tribal bullshit that you'd expect to share at a campfire rather than in a historical museum, and secondly, there were no scary stuffed animals, only a lot of demented statues of Indians with bohemian face paint and minimal clothing.

Regardless of the Indians' exhibitionist ways, though, they were an intriguing species, no doubt! They fascinated Pascal, those red-skinned beasts and their museum full of screaming fifth graders and distressed teenagers who would much rather be comfortable at home smoking a joint with a loved one. The museum was ample with their tales, the whimsical adventures of make-believe people and animals and totem poles and other stereotypically Indian things.

One such tale had particularly interested him– haunted him, rather, from the fifth grade to now, like the growing shadow behind him that refused to go away, stuck to him like glue. Grandfather Indian had been lounging in his teepee one balmy summer's day when Little Boy Indian plowed in, eager to be educated in Grandfather's overwhelmingly sagacious ways. Grandfather Indian had a tale, of course (old people always have tales, regardless of their race), a glorious tale of ardent battle and wolves (wolves were supposed to be symbolic in Indian culture, reckoned Pascal, because they were in just about every story ever invented by the bastards).

"I've got a battle raging inside of me," said Grandfather Indian, though of course he said this not in Pascal's English but in tribal mumbo jumbo (when would the Americans just make English the official language of the world??). "I've got a battle inside of me, between two wolves," and needless to say now that wolves had been mentioned, Little Boy Indian was sitting at the edge of his seat (just kidding, Pascal is very aware that chairs don't exist in India). "One wolf represents all the good in me, while the other represents all the bad, and they're fighting to the death. This battle is in you, too, Little Boy Indian, and all the Indians and other people in the entire goddamn world."

"So then," asked Little Boy Indian, who had a lot of questions because that is what little Indians do, "which wolf is winning?" Grandfather Indian gave Little Boy Indian a knowing look, because Grandfathers indubitably know everything. "Whichever wolf you feed." This part of the story was what riddled Pascal with goosebumps, chilling his blood and rushing his heart. Pascal had always wondered which wolf would win in him, but he could never actually decide.

Once, he had asked his brother, and his brother had said that it was a dumb question and soon after, Abel had died and Pascal's whole world had somersaulted, never to be the same again. It was then that the bad wolf went in for the kill, sinking keen fangs into the good wolf's flesh, digging black claws into its counterpart's heart. It was then that the bad wolf won and Pascal went crazy with his kleptomania.

Now what was he? The Big Bad Wolf itself, supposed the Scallion. He couldn't control himself, couldn't control his evil. He had such a hankering, a raging hankering to take and take and take some more; Pascal could hardly leave his room without lunging for the nearest student store abundant with treasures just waiting to meet his sweaty palms. He couldn't stop the urge, the urge that shook him to the core, the urge to steal.

Wilbur had a lot of things. Why did Wilbur have so many things? Weren't they not supposed to have things, down south? Just a lasso and a cowboy hat, maybe a pair of star-studded boots. Wilbur had much more than that, each less costly than the last but nonetheless just as taunting. His mouth watered at the sight; he longed to take something, anything, to feel that feeling that always accompanied the stealing.

This was how he spent his afternoon, struggling to battle the bad wolf that begged him to follow his impulse and lay hold of Wilbur's everything, Wilbur's anything. It lasted for moments, minutes, hours, hours of agonizing confusion. And just when he was about to give in, just when a tentative arm was about to reach out and dip into Wilbur's treasure trove of things, the door opened and in walked the good wolf, Pascal's savior, here to stop his kleptomania.

She must have been an angel.

☆ COUNT um 900
☆ NOTES adohfakldfkajfdl I wasn't sure what was happening, but I rolled with my idea and oh my god I know this wasn't quite what you had planned for the first post, but you know... if you don't get it, aim me babycakes

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[KATRINA CLARK]

So hereio was the dealio. Katrina had heard about this here new rule at Baum Academy ‘bout how students wasn’t allowed to go out in the woods out back anymore without parental guidance, and dang nabbit, Katrina was not on board with this rule. Now who the Sam Hill were a bunch of old dumb grown-ups to tell Katrina that she weren't allowed to go in the woods anymore? Well, Katrina wasn’t going to stand for that, no siree. No logic behind it, no reason, none o’ that garbage. How were them kids supposed to have adventures if they wasn’t allowed to go in the woods? Dang tootit, sometimes Katrina was pretty certain she was the only ‘telligent person in this whole place.

No, those adults could make all the dumb-o rules they was wantin’ to, but they wasn’t stoppin’ Katrina from goin’ on her there adventures, no siree they were not. Katrina was gonna go on whatever adventures she was wantin’ to, no matter who was a’tryin’ to ruin her fun. But there was one thing that Katrina absolutely needed for ideal adventurin’ time, and that was Wilbur Hicks.

Well, Wilbur Hicks, and some walking sticks. No way was Katrina goin’ adventurin’ without some walking sticks. All the great hero dudes had walking sticks, so no way in all hell were Katrina and Wilbur gonna not have ‘em when they went on their adventure. That much was certain, yes siree Bob. And this was gonna be the dangdest good adventure ever, Katrina knew, except for maybe that one time when they’d climbed that big rock and planted that flag and done a little dance that only she and Wilbur Hicks would ever know how to do. She and Wilbur Hicks were the dream team, the best hero adventurers there ever had been and ever would be, just like those storybooks was always talkin’ ‘bout. Those were the stories she and Wilbur Hicks would be part of, one day, she and Wilbur Hicks and none o’ those other stupid toots and their stupid stupidness.

She could see it in her mind’s eye as she began to walk down the hall where she thought Wilbur’s room was. This was a really strange hallway, a hallway Katrina was pretty danged sure she’d never set foot in before today. She and Wilbur never spent any time inside. ”Now, kids, before we go to sleep,” said an old grampy in her mind, rockin’ back and forth in a rockin’ chair beside the fire, ”Let me tell you the story of Wilbur Hicks and Katrina Clark, the best and the bravest adventurers that history has ever known.” The little chilluns in her mind squirmed around, squealing and cheering with excitement, because the story of Katrina Clark and Wilbur Hicks was betterer than all the other stories in the whole wide world, and everyone knew it too.

”Wilbur Hicks!” she hollered at the top of her lungs, shovin’ some stupid little chillun’ boys out of the way as she rampaged through the hallway where the boys lived. ”Wilbur Hicks! Anyone seen Wilbur Hicks ‘round these parts?”

After being pointed to the ‘ppropriate door by a terrified freshman boy’s quivering finger, Katrina arrived at Room A6. She turned the knob on the door and shoved it in fervently, crashing into the room. ”Wilbur Hicks? Wilbur Hicks, where the Sam Hill are…hey!” That wasn’t Wilbur Hicks. That was some random little skillet who was…about to dig into Wilbur’s stuffs? ”Hey! Who’re you? Where’s Wilbur Hicks! That’s Wilbur Hicks’ stuff, you dang nab rotten jilly!” Katrina sprang forward, grabbing the nearest object, a long cardboard tube, and brandishing it like a sword. ”You better get that there hand outta Wilbur Hicks’ stuff! I’ll fight ya! I’ll fight ya!”

The heroes in books never let evil villains take their friends’ stuffs, so Katrina weren’t gonna do that neither, dang nabbit.


Wordz:650 (not quite 900 sorry wamp wah)
Notez: Shitty post is shitty sorry I haven't posted with her in literally 4 months #failure

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