CASE 7 - THUNDERBIRDS

Birds are bastards at the best of times, with all that undignified tweeting and flapping about the place, not to mention their stupid spindly legs. But at least they’re not that big, right?

Wrong!

Cryptozoology loves big versions of small animals. We’ve had big cats, spiders and monkeys and now YetiSmack is going to slap a massive bird around.

The ‘Thunderbird’ is a staple of Native American legend and is reputed to still be soaring in the vast American skyline to this day. Sightings differ wildly, with some people describing a dinosaur-like beastie, whilst others are basically gargantuan versions of normal birds.

This allegedly shows a Thunderbird stealing an elephant
from a private zoo in the US.
Unverified via email 2011.

Coming from Aberdeen, I am no stranger to massive birds. The seagulls are like flying hyenas; screaming and fighting and crapping all over the shop. My mate once saw one dig up a corpse in the Kirkyard. It tried hauling the body away, but it was too heavy, so it just thieved the guy’s wedding ring and ate his eyes instead.

Seriously, this happened on a Friday night in Aberdeen about 11ish and he had two mates with him as witnesses. These guys work in another country and don’t have internet and don’t come back to Scotland often as they’re minted and have a big jet and a yacht with a helipad and two pool tables and the yacht’s guarded by a tiger, and they don’t have a phone cos the CIA are after them. So I can’t corroborate this event with them, but it seems perfectly likely.

As I said: birds are bastards.

So imagine a bird ten times the size of a Torrydactyl massivo (the Latin term for the Aberdonian seagull). This Thunderbird would be one mean predator, and perhaps the most dangerous thing on the planet! Should I really be going after thumping this thing?

Yes. I can’t fanny out of this challenge.

When I think of Thunderbirds I think of a shite TV show populated by wobbly puppets fudding around in Airfix models. Utter pish. I also think of the rubbish effort I made at creating the HQ of the stupid family. What a waste of time. I should have been preparing for more important pursuits. Like YetiSmack!

Frankly, the word ‘Thunderbird’ itself has been done a disservice by being eternally associated with these boring dead-eyed gonks, as it is an awesome term for a creature. Some birds are potentially cool; eagles and pelicans for example, and thunder is almost always badass.

Therefore, the very mention of a ‘Thunderbird’ conjures up thoughts of a truly epic creature.

It’s like if you heard about an ‘Ironwolf’ or a ‘Machinegunshark’. You’d think: Christ that sounds pretty impressive. And you’d be right.

‘Fuckdragon’ is another one.

Two species of Thunderbird:
(L) giant predatory bird and (R) primordial pterosaur,
apparently holding hands in harmony.
Amy (age 5) 2011.

For some reason I allowed my niece, Amy, to do a technical drawing to illustrate the two Thunderbird species. I gave her all the most up-to-date data and photographs and let her loose on Paint for an hour, despite it being her bedtime.

The above is the result. While not totally shite, it is mostly bollocks. Evidently, she's been watching a lot of Pingu lately, and there is no evidence for the use of wee pink bows, or any headgear, amongst Thunderbirds.

I've had to include it or she'll go ape-shit next time I'm looking after her. But let's just say that the sun is happier about this pic than I am.

Well, it seems that aside from the badass name, Thunderbirds have a badass reputation amongst pilots in particular. A contact with the USAF informed me that in the last thirty years there have been 84 unreported ‘incidents’ in US airspace involving Thunderbirds and aircraft.

It is an astonishing statistic, I know.

More shocking though is the nature of these ‘incidents’. It seems the Thunderbirds are randy little sods and will attempt to have it away with almost anything in the air; be it bird or machine.

I don’t normally report on such mucky subjects, and I promise to keep this as PG certificate as possible, but it seems the Thunderbirds are nympho sex-pests who want nothing more than to bang the arse off a 747.

This will come as no surprise to most people, as many plane journeys can feel like a giant bird is ragging the fuselage. And how would you know? You’re 30,000 feet up and no rear view mirror.

Naïve WW2 pilots thought they were just messing around and allowed the smaller Thunderbirds to have a 'backie' as they trained in air combat manoeuvres. The backies were, of course, far from innocent.

A young Thunderbird playing silly buggers with a US military plane in the 40s.
Captain S archive. 

Like a wee puppy being a ‘naughty boy’, these antics were not taken seriously, until larger Thunderbirds caught onto the japes and joined in. The puppy on the leg had become a big massive shagging bear.

My USAF (retired) source, Captain S, tells me the problem came to a head in the 90s when Air Force One was given a serious rogering over the Rockies by a particularly determined Thunderbird. A Secret Service mannie had to hang out the window and shoo it away with a big rolled up newspaper.

A Thunderbird 'latches on' for re-entry.
Similar to the infamous 'Air Force Dong' incident.
Captain S archive.

Thunderbird fancies its chances, then lead it off on a wild goose chase away from the main flight paths, until the Thunderbird is too tired to continue its advances and returns home to its nest all knackered and probably with some serious ball-ache.

It seems cruel to lead them on, but the decoy operation is estimated to have saved hundreds of lives, and they don't have to mop the planes down nearly as much. Frustrating these flying menaces is a necessity, and me punching one is a must!

Two rare white Thunderbirds 'double-team' an unsuspecting plane.
Depraved.
Captain S archive.

Captain S met me at the airport in Arizona and whickled me off to a private airstrip out in the desert. He’d seen a nest and wanted to buzz me past it so I could get some photos.

He called them ‘T-birds’ which made me instantly dubious.

I tried explaining that I just wanted to punch the cryptid: that was the deal. I had nothing against its young, I simply wanted to give it a booting. I thought he’d understand this seeing as one had effectively molested his commander-in-chief, but he was annoyed at me, and told me he’d not let me do anything of the kind.

He wanted to preserve these horny beggars, and thought the decoy missions had tired them out to the point that they were no longer mating!

Good!

He reckoned it was like having too much nudiness on the internet, that the Thunderbirds were having too much fun chasing after the delights of man-made transport, and weren’t getting down to the proper business of making a good Christian home, and producing more little T-birds 'within the bonds of holy matrimony'.

I pointed out that rude stuff on the net hadn’t slowed our population any, but he was adamant. He was planning on baptising the creatures by dumping a bucket of holy water on them from above.

Why? Oh just because a new found spirituality would make them monogamous, and inclined to stay home of an evening and mate, rather than getting cheap thrills with an airborne fake floozy.

A decoy tempts a young Thunderbird.
I have no idea why they've painted wabs on it.
Captain S archive.

It was around this time that I realised this man was insane. Totally mental.

I went along with proceedings, in the hope that I may be able to lean out and at least lob a shoe at a Thunderbird before the captain could bring it unto the Lord.

Aye, and the plane was an absolute pile of shit, by the way: a manky old thing held together by rust and luck. There were no seats, just a sofa stuffed inside, and a big bucket of water with a wooden cross floating in it.

The words ‘74Heaven’ were scrawled on the door, which was clearly from a shed.

A Thunderbird would have to be pissed as a fart to fancy this junk heap, but I was ever hopeful.

As we taxied onto the dirt-track runway, the captain began singing something about being an angel. It was so loud I almost didn’t hear the massive clunk as a panel on the wing came off and clattered along the runway behind us.

Faith and duct tape can only do so much, but he was undeterred.

The song continued: a home-made effort about Jesus riding a T-bird to heaven. Sod this, I thought. I opened the door and jumped out. I don’t think the captain even noticed. The plane skittered about a bit then took off into the skies with a loud bang from the engine.

Should I have stayed? Should I have chanced the flight?

All I can say is that I was utterly convinced I was going to die: either by a bumming from a Thunderbird or crashing to my death in the flying baptismal. I made a last minute decision and don’t regret it.

I haven’t heard from the captain since, but I’m sure I’ll tangle with a Thunderbird one day.

I live to smack another day.

CASE 6 - Morag

Great news! My old pal Tom has just been released from his recent stay ‘at Her Majesty’s pleasure’, and he wasted no time in phoning up YetiSmack with his latest plan for monster violence; the fucking maniac!

You may remember Tom from my first ever crypto-hunt at Loch Ness, where we tracked down Nessie, then got hammered and he got arrested. I then had to evade the local constabulary by hiding in a bush whilst he was carted off for nicking gas canisters.

Tom’s a great guy, though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me saying he’s a bit mental. It’s not his fault, he got stuck in a bouncy castle when he was eight. He was in there for an hour before the mannie noticed his Hi-Tecs were still sitting there. By that point there were rowdy teenagers doing somersaults and necking, so he got his head knocked about a bit.

Since then he doesn’t like enclosed spaces. Or bouncy castles. The claustraphobia’s unfortunate since he regularly spends time in ‘confined areas’, though I doubt the bouncy castle thing affects him much.

Tom reported that he had put his Nessie capture plan on hold to go after another Scottish water monster. Yep, Loch Ness is not the only loch to hold a cryptid. Loch Morar also has a lurking nonce.

Artist's impression of Morag, complete with 'mad eyes'.
Tom 2011.

This cryptid’s known as ‘Morag’. Hmm… Flogging fluffy wee toys and fridge magnets to tourists is probably a lot easier if it’s called something cute like ‘Morag’ or ‘Nessie’. I doubt there’s so much tourist tat available for the ‘Mongolian death worm’.

Which is a shame, but I don’t know what you’d call it. ‘Mongy’? Not likely to be such a big seller. And probably offensive to just about everyone.

I have nothing against selling shite to visitors. Hell, fill your boots guys! Sell them rocks and bottled fucking mud for all I care. I heard someone was selling Hebridean seawater to restaurants. Good. I like to think someone’s boiling up a lobster in the water that drains my uncle’s septic tank.

Flog it all off. Some people are so gullible.

Tom told me he’d already seen the beast! It was dark and he was probably very well refreshed, but he was adamant that he saw a huge serpent-like head and neck emerge from the loch and scan the area. But was it Morag?

Possible explanations for sighting.
YetiSmack 2011.

Just to be on the safe side, he later made a sketch (above) of the only three other explanations for what he saw. Intriguing, but let's apply some science to the situation...

Well, the first possibility is a ‘duck or something’. But the duck would have its body OUT OF THE WATER, unless it had reduced buoyancy resulting from a big supper, which is unlikely due to a lack of bread crumbs in the immediate vicinity. Ducks are also usually the size of a duck, so not massive. He didn’t hear any quacking, which would be a total give-away. So, not a ‘duck or something’.

‘Diver with a hose’ is very much possible, but Tom reckons the beast winked at him; a typically cheeky action from a crypto-bint. Hoses DO NOT HAVE EYES and are incapable of winking or blinking. Therefore, it wasn’t a hose.

It was unlikely to be a ‘balloon animal’ as it would be burst on jaggy rocks or when attacked by an eagle defending its chicks, as they are wont to do. That happened to a rubber ring I had once: a big seagull mauled it and then pooped on it. Those animals have no fucking dignity.

No, it had to be Morag.

I met Tom by the loch and was immediately impressed with his latest scheme. He was building nothing less than a submarine. Fantastic! He’d taken inspiration from the latest Hunter-Killer submarine that the Royal Navy have just gotten hold of. You know, the one that ran aground off Skye and made them look like arseholes.

She was called 'The Violent Gannet', which is a lovely name. Much better than 'Shiteanic', as the locals were calling it.

The Violent Gannet in all her resplendent glory.
YetiSmack 2011.

Tom, as usual, had some shocking news for me: I’d just missed a terrifying second encounter with Morag. The night before, he’d been doing some final technical alterations to the submarine steering systems, and having a few beers, and he was attacked by Morag!

He played his audio recording to me and I nearly shat my spine out my arse. Sorry to be so graphic, but it was the horrible guttural sound of a primeval beast ready to prey on humanity. It sounded like a seal shagging an inflatable mattress.

I am serious, this is a bum-spasm inducing noise. Only listen to it if you have all your faculties. If you’ve had heart surgery or are a bit of a fanny, then just don’t listen. Put it this way, I wouldn't allow my granny to hear this, and I once allowed her to watch Gremlins 2 with me; which is the third scariest film behind Arachnophobia and the 'bad gorillas' in Congo.

Perhaps get a hard mate to listen and report back. I guarantee, it’ll still be scary. This is balls-to-the-wall freaky even by osmosis.

He managed to capture all this on his Dictaphone, whilst lying under a crate of tuna. In fact it’s my Dictaphone, but he somehow has it now. No matter. He could see something huge and dark out of the portholes, with what seemed to be tentacles scratching and groping the flanks of the sub. It was then Tom realised his peril: Morag was mating!

Luckily, Tom had a pan of beans on the go and, thinking quickly, he lobbed it out the door at Morag. Then he passed out. When he woke up, there was water everywhere. Morag must have known what he was up to and had tried to sink the sub; that or humped it half to death.

Well I was ecstatic. Here I was on a loch, in a soggy submarine, with my mate and a few beers. We were off on another cryptid adventure! But this time it was a randy cryptid, which was new one for even an experienced crypto-hunter like myself.

I helped Tom with the new post-coital waterproofing problem. We ran out of superglue, so we bought some toffee from the shop and soaked a load of bars and jammed them into the holes. It worked really well, and if you got peckish, you could give the caulking a lick for a lovely taste of toffee.

Up yer arse Willy Wonka, Tom’s got a toffee flavoured submarine!

Tom's control console: surprisingly complicated.
YetiSmack 2011.

Just as we were casting off for the expedition, a guy came down from the other side of the loch to complain about the noise and the state of some fir trees that were damaged recently. Tom looked sheepish, but denied all knowledge.

It was about this point that we realised the fatal flaw in the submarine. It might be possible to see by the above photo, but it’s not technically a submarine. It’s floating too much: if anything it’s TOO successful. Any scientist will tell you that the point in a submarine is for it to sink. The trick is in sinking it in a ‘controlled manner’.

Also, the propellers don’t reach the water.

We weren’t sure how best to go about the half-sinking, as we termed it. I wanted to remove some of the toffee, but Tom just kicked a hole in the floor. Well that certainly got her going. Water was pishing in at quite a successful rate, and Tom was splashing around in what was now the bilge, trying to retrieve his tinnies.

By this point we’d floated out into the middle of the loch and were clearly going down. I abandoned ship, but Tom was determined to go down with the ship. This lasted until the water touched his nipples, and he jumped out too.

We watched the Violent Gannet go down, then swam to the shore.

It was a dissapointing end to a very promising expedition. But I'm not one to be downhearted, you can't win them all. Tom provided some excellent evidence for Morag's existence, and I'll be back to give her a good kick on the chops another time.Next time I'll bring my own dingy.

Tom has since sent me the below photo, but I’m not sure about him anymore. It would be incredible if true, but elements of it just don't stack up. Would a captain wear his hat sideways like that?

Attack on pleasure craft by unknown cryptid, Loch Morar.
Tom 2011.

CASE 5 - GIANT SPIDERS

We’ve been through a lot together folks, so I’m offering you a warning: this case contains really scary-ass photos, abnormally terrifying situations and I also spoil the novel 1984. I’ve previously spoiled the ends of Seven, The Usual Suspects, Fight Club and Das Boot for my mate Matt, so I’m just letting you know.

I don’t like spiders. In fact, I’m very scared of them. Even more scared than I am of cryptids. My Room 101 would have spiders and cryptids in it (not just friggin’ rats – what an anti-climax that was). That was the 1984 spoiler by the way: rats.

So just imagine my terror when I found out there is a giant-spider-cryptid. Just my bloody luck! Happily, it’s miles away in the Congo basin. Unhappily I’m gonna have to go give it eight black eyes.

J’ba fofi is what the Baka folk of the Congo call the Giant Congolese Spider, which can grow to have a six foot leg-span. Recent sightings describe it with only four legs, a hairy back and a tail. It’s likely that the giant spider imitates dogs to get near its prey. This would also explain the woofing.

The below image is a stirring representation of what a six foot spider may look like. John F Kennedy, most famous for being exactly six foot tall, stands as a human comparison. Christ, what am I thinking? Look at it, I’m going to die! The spider is on the left.

I'm going to batter one of these.

 

Fact is spiders are mental. I once caught one in my living room. It crashed out of a shoe and made for my chip supper that I’d placed on the ground as I turned the telly on. I was having none of it and quickly downed my beer and trapped it under the glass.

I know what you’re thinking: ‘what a snob drinking beer out of a glass’. Well you’re wrong, it’s not posh because rats wee on the beer cans in store rooms and you get Weil’s disease, so back off. Maybe Winston wasn't so wrong about rats (again 1984).

As I ate my tea, my eyes wandered down to the glass, and there it was staring back at me. Now, you know I don’t like being stared at, especially by some beady dick wanting my chips. It was putting me off Takeshi’s Castle, so I removed it to the kitchen.

I went back in later and there was the maniac with only three legs left! It had actually ripped five of its own legs off. It was that pissed off at me. Well I’m not one to allow such cruelty so I did the humane thing and lobbed it out the window. I swear it hissed ‘death’ at me as it went.

Perfect spider trapping equipment - a rude postcard & a glass.

Well, that was just a British house spider. Imagine what a big bastard spider six foot across could do? If it had come out of my shoe, it would’ve gotten my chips no questions asked, though not the haddock – it’s over a fiver from the chipper. Bloody ridiculous.

I asked about in the library for advice about how to track down this cryptid and received sod all help except Auld Jim telling me to put salt on it. Slugs, man, slugs! I also got an abomination in the post. My ‘friend’ who sent it meant well, apparently thinking it’d be good for training purposes. I’m not sure they’re ‘technically mental’, but I still wouldn’t let them near my cutlery drawer unattended.

'Spunky': A lovely gift, but seriously,
what the hell is going on here?

I spoke to a guy in Edinburgh zoo about tracking down and punching a giant spider. He laughed at first, but then got that I was serious. Basically, he asked me not to try and hurt what was probably a highly-endangered species. He wanted photos, or a bit of web at most. I told him I’d bring him the spider’s ass in a bap, and he asked me to leave the zoo.

As I was escorted out, I asked him for any anti-spider advice. He told me to grow up. Ha! That’s exactly what I’m doing. Every cryptid that gets a hiding is one less lurking baddie to put the willies up the subsequent generations. That zookeeper doesn’t know that one day I intend to sleep without a rolling pin under my pillow.

Out in the car park, a hooded figure approached me. I wasn’t in the mood for being mugged, as I couldn’t even find my car, but the figure just walked swiftly up to me and shoved a note into my hand, then turned and ran away. I recognised the socks and sandals: it was the hostile zookeeper!

I opened the note and it read: ‘Joseph K, Democratic Republic of Congo, +243 1### ###’ (phone number obscured for security purposes). Brilliant! I made the call. Within the hour I was on a flight to Kinshasa! I didn’t have my vaccinations so I popped a berocca and two aspirins.

What a lovely chap Joseph K was! He sent a car to the airport and had me taken out to his home in the country. There was a coke dispenser in the back of the car, and when I put in a Congolese franc, it gave me two back! And then spat out an Irn Bru!

I was living the high life, but this was serious business. Joseph K’s home had been under constant attack by giant spiders. He said they rattled his windows, messed up his lawn and stole his charcoal.

I got to Joseph’s estate, and it was incredible! I met the man himself round the back of his bad-ass castle, as he sat in one of his three hot tubs. I’ve no idea why you’d have three, and not one big one. I mean they were just stacked up next to each other. I didn’t get to ask. He took one look at me and his smile fell.

Joseph K's hot tubs: I really wanted a shottie, but couldn't find a hose.
YetiSmack 2011.

He squeezed my arm, and asked what military organisations I had been involved with. I mentioned the scouts, which was a lie as I’d only been a beaver. Wrong move. He stormed off, with his driver and guards in tow.

Unsure of what to do, I decided to be professional and pitched my tent, found a big stick and had a wander around the grounds hoping to find these spiders that were bugging him. After all, I was in Africa, and I still had a job to do.

Christ, Africa’s really muggy. I had a few beers to keep cool…

I woke up to carnage. I have no idea what happened. The local beer and the heat must’ve done something to me. Or maybe it was mixing aspirins and beroccas. My tent was a state, there were bottles and cans all over Joseph’s nice lawn and one of his bloody hot-tubs had been ripped up and was sitting incriminatingly near my tent.

The Aftermath: I feel pretty bad about this.
Joseph K's rubber duck was never found.
YetiSmack 2011.

I have no idea where the big inflatable cock came from.

This was now an international incident. The spiders went out the window. I’m not proud to say it but I ran away. I grabbed my tent and scarpered. Tail firmly between my legs, I made for home.

I know that you’re thinking: ‘Another piss poor effort from YetiSmack what a knobber he never even found a giant spider in that one.’ Well you’re wrong, your grammar’s terrible and you’re the knobber if anyone is.

Just as I got home from my adventure, my phone went… it was Joseph K thanking me for solving his giant spider problem. They’d not been back since my shenanigans in the garden. He then sent me an astonishing photo he’d taken in his grounds. We're assuming it's aimed at me.

Cheeky bastards.
Joseph K 2011.

What the hell happened? Did I actually find a giant spider, gave it a doing, and they all ran off? Did I party so hard that they were put off and left the area? Had they been attracted to the hot tubs, and saw my destruction of their habitat?

Whilst putting this together, I noticed something amazing. Look back at the photo of Joseph’s three hot-tubs… What’s that poking out from the side of the far left one? Yep, it definitely might be a giant spider’s leg. On camera! Incontestable proof!

This case has been a wild success. I made great new friends in a country in which I am mostly still welcome, had an awesome rammy near a bitching castle and may have punched a giant spider in the chops. Whatever I did, I definitely pissed them off.

I faced two fears and came out drunk and violent. I am very proud of myself.

CASE 4 - Bigfoot

My quest to find and punch cryptids is going very well. Thus far I have very nearly tracked down and punched three dangerous creatures previously unproven to science, allowing hundreds to sleep soundly at night.

My work is proudly featured on the ‘Local Heroes’ board of the library. They finally took down Auld Jim’s shite poem about the war to make space. It wasn’t even about fighting, he spent four years on the Burma Railway. Come on Jim, I’ve inter-railed about Europe and though the toilets can be pretty grim, it wasn’t that bad.

The public need to know about YetiSmack’s quest and the message board’s the way to go for local support. But pride comes before a fall, and my latest case very nearly ended me. I realise I’m writing this now, which cuts the tension, but I could be writing from beyond the grave. Except I don’t believe in ghosts: I’m not mental.

Bottom line: if you want to enjoy this case to the max, assume I could’ve been killed by Bigfoot. Shit I gave it away early. I should say I’m dictating this over the phone from LAX via my friend Peggy in Westhill. She doesn’t know how to use delete. Peggy’s an idiot. Did I get her? Bet I did.

                I was in LAX not long ago waiting to come home after my Chupacabra adventure, and I got another email. That’s two emails! Incredible. This time it was from Craig in Washington state telling me he knew how to find Bigfoot.

Craig is a proud American with a small collection of firearms.
Craig 2011

‘Oh Christ, this is it.’ I thought, ‘This is what YetiSmack’s all about. I’m going after a proper big bastard cryptid this time. The daddy of them all: Bigfoot.’

This prick’s been roaming around North America for donkey’s years, scaring the arse off all sorts of folk; with many being surprisingly proven sane afterwards. If I could kick Bigfoot in the cock then I’d be a proper cryptid hunter, a proper scientist.

America’s a great country, full of nice folk. Nice folk who like guns, and aren’t shy of using them on the other animals charging about the place. So Bigfoot’s had to learn to be a sly little sod. No one’s ever gotten a definitive photo of him... Until now that is!!

Craig took the below photo on a wee walk he was having. It's truly stunning. The bugger leapt out at him and he managed to take the photo before Bigfoot scarpered.

Bigfoot encounter in Washington state, June 2011.
Craig 2011.

Bigfoot’s a complicated character. Some see him as a nature-loving tree-dweller at one with the ickle animals who scamper around his toes, whilst others (me) see him as a bush-lurking menace and a smelly man-botherer.

The good Bigfoot of popular misconception:
At one with nature and worried about pollution.
YetiSmack 2011.

The bad Bigfoot: Now we're talking. Woah, look at this psycho!
This one also likes flashing his junk, which has been censored.
YetiSmack 2011.

 

At about ten foot tall, Bigfoot is one big hairy galoot. He may also be omnivorous and know tool use. This means he may be able to use a telephone. The last thing I need is for the polis to rock up as I’m laying the smack down; or is that laying down the smack? Peggy?

I don’t know, Ivar.

Did you write that down?

Yes.

Jesus wept.

You said write down everything. That It’s all gold.

Ah Christ Peggy, don’t use my name, I’m incognito! Never mind, folk’ll assume it’s a pseudonym... You wrote that too didn’t you? Forget it, my flight’s in ten so let’s crack on.

Craig’s a park ranger who pronounces his name ‘Creg’ for some bloody reason. His location is classified (like my name used to be, Peggy), as he’ll get the sack if they find out he’s letting violent folk like me get up close and distinctly personal with a national treasure.

We got a plan together. I’d hide in the boot (trunk) of the car and Craig (Creg) would lure Bigfoot (arsehole) out with some saucy mating calls and a lovely big steak from a disposable BBQ, or some crisps (chips) if he’s vegetarian. I had an inkling that shifty tosser would be a vegetarian, seems the type.

I took up my position in the car boot with my equipment. I had a load of JD and rubbish US beer to keep me going (it was a working holiday after all), and some cement to make casts of footprints.

To be honest, I needed some Dutch courage to take on this cryptid, so I got into the bevvies pretty sharpish and soon I was extremely refreshed!

I was in for a treat: An evening of JD, beer and cement.
YetiSmack 2011.

I lay in the boot and waited. I knew Craig was nearby, but I felt totally alone. This was it, this was what YetiSmack was all about. That night I was going to fight a legend. I kept drinking to stay good and sharp.

The growling woke me, causing me to spill my beer and knock over the bottle of JD. Then the car began to shake up and down, as if something huge was on top of it. I could hear roaring right outside the boot door, and scrabbling at the door lock! Bigfoot was after me!

 I could hear a second voice. It seemed to be laughing. Christ there were two of them, and they were pissing themselves. This wasn’t part of the plan.

All I could think was ‘escape’. I’m a brave guy: I once gave a policeman the fingers from the back window of a bus and he totally saw it. But this was too much.

I didn’t stand a chance against two Bigfeet.

It was then that I realised the critical flaw in the plan. You can’t open the boot from inside. Have there not been enough murders and kidnappings in America for manufacturers to put a handle on the inside?

I went apeshit. It was unprofessional of me, but I lost it. Unfortunately, I kicked open the cement bags, which promptly mixed with the JD and beers to produce an excellent patio/man-trap on the boot floor. So that was me for the night...

I woke up the next morning with a massive hangover and covered in cement. I felt a total fanny. I eventually chipped myself free with a tyre iron and kicked the boot open: the car deposit was gone, so why bother with niceties. I rolled out of the boot onto the grass, and my blood ran cold.

There on the ground was a single polaroid photo. It’s meaning is lost to me, and only raises more questions.  Is this the face of Bigfoot? Is this his accomplice? Is it an innocent passing monkey? 

There was no sign of Craig anywhere, so I legged it.

Left by Bigfoot to taunt me, the cheeky sod.
Bigfoot (?) 2011.

Ancient warriors had feuds that lasted for years, there have been wars that have spanned centuries, and bank queues are often really long as there’s never enough staff to man all the desks. On top of that, there’s usually at least one of them clearly just wandering about doing bugger all, making themselves look busy but probably thinking themselves too good to be helping me pay my leccie bill, which was only overdue cos I didn't have a stamp.

The point is, that there is now a full-blown feud between YetiSmack and the Bigfoot/Bigfeet. Perhaps I was naïve in thinking that this case would be as easy as jumping out of a car boot and punching a ten foot monkey-man.

We live and learn. Mark my words, Bigfoot has it coming.

CASE 3 - Chupacabra

‘YetiSmack is now an international sensation bitches!’ I shouted in the library.

‘Liar! Fraudster!’ ‘Arse!’ ‘Where’s the evidence you liar?’ They screamed upon my joyous pronouncement. Well Mr Gregor, Ms Casson and Auld Jim, I can now prove my claim. I got an email on the hotline from Wendy, who lives in a desert – how exotic!

Now, there are no deserts in Scotland (beaches don’t count), so that means we’ve gone ‘international’. And a ‘sensation’ in that Wendy likes the site and needs my expertise. Hooray!

Wendy runs a goat farm in New Mexico. She specialises in goats’ cheese, which I hate, and goats’ meat, which I’m open to tasting. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one. Business was good until last year when she started finding her goats dead on the ranch. These weren’t the usual deaths by suicide or rioting that she’s accustomed to: these were bloody chilling.

Wendy and just a few of her surviving goats.
YetiSmack 2011

Wendy’s an experienced goatherd, and knows ‘weird ass shit’ when she sees it. And these dead goats were definitely weird (ass shit). They had been totally drained of blood, by three holes in their necks. Nothing else: no signs of struggle or violence, just a dead bloodless goat.

To the layman, this may seem oddly similar to alleged ‘alien cattle mutilations’. But don’t worry, we’re not talking about aliens here. There’ll be none of that pish on YetiSmack. We’re only interested in what hasn’t been proven to science yet, not mince made up by numpties.

‘wat coould do such a ting?!?!’ (sic), Wendy asked via a poorly written email, ‘mai goats r bff (best friends forever?) an must b protected frm munsters’ (sic). I knew she meant ‘monsters’ and not the classic TV show, but I also knew that she was talking about a cryptid: a chupacabra!

I was ecstatic; this was a massive deal. Chupacabras are mental.

Chupacabra means ‘goat-sucker’, as they love nothing more than sooking out all the blood from goats, but also sheep, cattle and probably rabbits.

Chupacabras are usually described as reptilian, with big red eyes and spines coming out their backs. They have strong hind legs, fangs and claws, and are known to emit a horrible sulphuric stench when startled.

My brother once put a photo of a big hairy yeti in my bed and I experienced a similar reaction. So I can really empathise with this creature; which is good, as it’ll make hunting it down and kicking it in the chops all the easier.

Chupacabra (Artist's Impression).
YetiSmack 2011

Despite her hugely annoying writing style, I decided to help. This wasn’t some animal thought extinct, but a totally new species! I got the first flight out to New Mexico, and Wendy kindly put me up in the tool shed on the west side of her ranch, where most of the attacks had been.

Goats are effectively less useful versions of sheep, but Wendy didn’t appear to think so. Honestly, I don't think you'd get chupacabras in Scotland, as the sheep just wouldn't have it. Plus they'd never get their fangs through all the wool. I don't have a particularly high esteem for goats, as shown by the following.

Christ, there were goats everywhere, and they were annoying as hell; shagging and shouting and fighting and crapping all over the shop. I got jobbies all over my new flip flops I’d brought out of ASDA, not a week before. Seriously, they were new on. Wendy didn’t seem to care about the poop.

Wendy, you’re an attractive young lassie, but you live alone... with 200 goats. Think about it.

Wendy's prize goat 'Alberto' has witnessed many chupacabra attacks
and is now in hiding somewhere in Arizona.

I spent three days and nights sitting on top of the shed with my night-vision goggles, and came to one conclusion: turns out goats are arseholes. Fucking staring at me all day and night. You’d think they’d have better things to do, like organising self-defence classes or a night-watch system. But no, staring at me was the thing to do.

Then the breakthrough came. Wendy had set up some motion-sensitive cameras, and she caught this near fatal goat attack. Maybe the click of the shutter put the chupacabra off, or maybe it just wasn’t ‘into’ that particular goat, because the goat was later found hiding under her car.

I inspected the survivor and it seemed normal, if a little less attractive than the other goats, but by no means ugly. Perhaps I had been on the shed too long. I was beginning to have complicated and conflicting feelings towards these stupid goats.

The haunting image of a chupacabra attack.
Note vicious claws, evil eyes and glowing death-stick
contravening NM State Law regarding smoking in the workplace.
'Wendys Plase' Security Cam 3, May 2011.

Having lots of spare time up on the shed, I fired up my laptop and got some graphs on the go. They look really professional, as I’m sure you’ll agree.

The pie chart below shows some shocking statistics. The number of chupacabra deaths account for nearly a quarter of all goat deaths: a shocking attrition rate. If these goats were soldiers or kids, there’d be some kind of government enquiry set up, but goats apparently aren’t as important as soldiers or children.

Graph 1 - Goat Deaths May 2010 - May 2011
YetiSmack 2011

The United Nations weren’t at all interested in Wendy’s suggestion that a war crimes trial be initiated to bring the chupacabra to justice. They claim to be busy dealing with Ivory Coast, North Africa and the Balkans etc. Wise up UN.

Wendy also believes the three goat suicides were in response to the stress of the constant attacks; with goats witnessing the traumatic aftermath and attending the numerous funerals. She said that ‘Moe’, ‘Randy’ and ‘Rose’ were always in good health until the attacks began, but were pushed over the edge by the year’s events.

I have to say that I reject Wendy’s suggestion that the chupacabra may have gained access to a motor vehicle and is targeting goats at the roadside, or that it has infiltrated goat society to ferment ‘socio-political discord, leading to increased inter-goat violence, which may culminate in all-out civil war; akin to recent unrest in Syria, which the current regime has blamed on outside agitators’.

What annoys me is she can speak perfectly well, and yet sends out emails with phrases like ‘com 2 mai place an stay 4 as long as u like’ and ‘il pick u up frm airprot @12 brng a pleeping bag’. Wendy, use your spell check and get a better fence. That will keep them off the road. As for violence, they seem like violent animals. Farm kittens if you're afraid of civil unrest.

Graph 2 below shows a timeline of chupacabra-related deaths in the last year. There were no attacks prior to May 2010, but they reached a peak last September. At that point Wendy got a dog: Blinky. It was useless and had rickets and no teeth, but seemed to deter the chupacabra, as attacks ceased from October to December 2010.

Graph 2 - Timeline of Goat Deaths.
YetiSmack 2011

Unfortunately Blinky was beaten to death by a riled up goat gang last Christmas eve; possibly as a response to increased holiday-season stress levels. I was surprised by this, as they’re not turkeys or anything. Why would they care about Christmas?

Wendy claims goats are notoriously emotionally erratic, and may suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). From my experience, they are cocks.

Unsurprisingly, the attacks resumed in earnest. There were three in April, and already four by mid-May. That’s when Wendy called YetiSmack, hoping I would do better than a decrepit one-eyed mongrel. Cheers Wendy!

Sitting up on the shed, I soon noticed lights coming from a massive barn in the next ranch. If they were running a 24 hour operation, then perhaps they’d seen some goings-on during a fag break.

Wendy pissed herself when I said that. Apparently a ‘fag break’ is something different in the US. I told her to lay off! I’m here risking my very rare AB- blood for her. The days up on the shed had clearly taken their toll on my mind.

I wandered over to the big barn, scaling the waist-high fence and knocked on the big sheet metal doors. I could hear machinery inside. It stopped, and the door opened a crack. At that point I was nearly shot, but only received a beating.

When everything calmed down, I explained myself to the owner, Sandy Buchan. Turns out Sandy’s from the north-east of Scotland too. What a shocker! He moved out to New Mexico with his US-born wife a year and a bit ago, and set up his ranch. They specialise in black pudding; a particularly tasty treat.

He thought I was mental over the whole cryptid thing, but soon changed his tune when I showed him the YetiSmack blog, and the photos I’d already gathered. Sandy was really interested in the chupacabra evidence that Wendy and I had gathered and said he’d keep an eye out for ‘any o’ yon Bigtwat balls an’ goat bangers’.

He cut me down from the meat hook and handed me some black pudding for my trouble. He lit a fag and asked if Wendy had thought of replacing Blinky yet. Turns out he’s terrified of dogs, the big Jessie! As I left he asked how much blood there was in a human body. Told him I’d no idea. 10-12 pints apparently. Strange guy.

Wendy and Blinky 2.
Wendy 2011

Since returning home, Wendy has gotten a big bastard devil-dog to replace the original Blinky and the attacks have stopped again.

I doubt this is the last time I'll be after chupacabras. I never got to punch one, which was a disappointment, but if they keep attacking goats, then I'm not bothered.

Sandy's black pudding was fantastic.