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.