Kornwolf by Tristan Egolf

Author:Tristan Egolf
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2006-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

Even though, afterward, the crowd at the Dogboy couldn’t agree on the grisly specifics, they would have to concur on several points. First and foremost among them being: the individual who entered the tavern that evening had a hairline down to his brow. Not an inch of the skin on his forehead was visible. Most of his skull was covered with hair. One patron claimed that it looked like a dirty old toupee nailed through the bridge of his nose. More clearly: “His eyes let off where the pompadour started.” He looked like a “hammerheaded Nixon.”

Another feature in little dispute was the smell he exuded. Everyone agreed that he stunk to have lost control of his bowels, with overtones of cleaning solvents. Moreover, his hygiene was visibly poor. His neck was marked with infected cuts. His clothing, a ratty old sport coat and field pants, was streaked with mud and torn at the seams …

Other details—his cryptic verbage, his darkly, otherworldly aura, his outturned nostrils and gnarled hands that were covered with coarse, bristly hair—would be subject to heated disagreement, as Lamepeter Officer Keiffer noted. Reports of his “glowing eyes” and his frothing mouth would be listed as “drunken conjecture.” After a point, collective memory folded on matters of visual detail. The stranger’s behavior, however, was generally agreed upon, running, chronologically, as follows:

At approximately ten o’clock, the individual in question—variously referred to as “It,” “The Shitbeast,” “The Devil,” “The Corn Dog” and “Dutchies’ Revenge”—entered the tavern. At that time, fifteen persons were present, including the bartender, Freida Baylor. A group at the counter was watching a boxing event on the TV, above the bar. According to Ms. Baylor, the “intruder,” as she called him, sat down and yelled for what sounded like food, though in some other language—“Dutch” (meaning: German, most likely) by the twang of it. He beat on the counter with a napkin dispenser. His manner was forceful, crude and belligerent. Baylor nervously gave him a menu … He pulled out a pile of dollar bills. He slid them across the counter toward her and, reaching over it, snatched up an unopened bottle of bourbon. The group to his left couldn’t help but notice. He leered at them, snapping in “Dutch” again.

Everyone glanced away uncomfortably.

The intruder motioned to Baylor, jabbing the menu with one of his crooked fingers. He seemed to be placing an order for steak and potatoes. She took it, keeping her distance.

Next, he got to work on the bottle, pulling in horrible, slobbering gulps. He drank over half of the contents directly. His pallor was blanched when he came up, grimacing. Closing his eyes, he appeared to be choking back vomit. He belched, breaking into a smile.

Moments later, he snapped from his toxic rapture, shifting, annoyed. He was restless. He bellowed for service. Where was his food?

“Coming,” Ms. Baylor assured him uneasily.

Looking around, he continued to shift on his stool, panting. He looked like a “madman.”

Beyond the counter, Ms. Baylor considered her options. Had she thought it would do any good, she might have called the township police.

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