Count Beetle
Even now I try to outrun the sounds of the bullfrogs and the smell of black night molds in that gaping hell that holds Billy Wolvendale’s skeleton, but not his bastard’s mind. Even now I try to outrun the smell of his fishing tackle and the scent of the fat and slimy catfish he embezzled from the bloated depths of water holes that should have been too small to have went so deep; and for the last year I have found that old and abandoned houses are more of a sanctuary than the woods from which I rob insects and beetles from rotting tree stumps and eat wild bushes to survive against nature- which is the ancient enemy of all good men. I have come to hate the sleeping world of men and their industries and have found strength only in the innocence of mammals, particularly those that borrow- how much I find myself with a certain safeguard around these, as all other aspects I find no companionship or consanguinity therein.
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