I"m durnk so let's tell a story,

Yes I ran into COugar again whatr of it

She bought me a drink

What the fuck

Tucked a wad of cash itno my shirt like some cheep ass hooker. Who the fuck does he think she is anyway all up with her fucking sweet as shit perfume all fucjfikg liillies and rosemary.
jegus I'm cursing a lot tonight must be th booze

she'd be a goddamn agnel if she wasn't COBBPLETELY INSANE

compelety*

completey**

fuck

fuck

I can't type in the dark how the hell did I mange this in a HURRICANE
anyway i'm going nowhere fast (don't thihk i don't see you creepin' Dr. Stalktopus0 so what the hey. I might as well tell a sotry.

Sometimes I wondrr if she's not just playing games with me or somehting an then I realize yeah, she's playing wit you you fucking idiot. You're the gazelle to her cougar. The horny college kid to her experienced, kinky as hell middle-aged dominatrix single mom.


There are cougars in africa, right?

Acutally that metaphors's pretty much spot on. DOn't think she's got kids, though. I'd feel sorry for the por bastards who grew up under that chick's roof.

So anyway I was going to tell you a story fo some shit. Remember how I mentioned that I stuck at home for a while before shit went to hell? Yeah well most brillitant fucking move ever. We're bordering on fuckin - fuckin hold your fire there are no life forms levels of brilliant here.

So I meet this chick - this ridicuously insane chick - and she tells me we're oging to play cat and mouse. Cool. Whatevr.r I've had this rant before and I can already feel my blood bpoiling again so let's just skip to the part where Reynard is a fucking idiot for the second time since his life divided itself into Before and GogDamnitInEedAnotherDrink. So a week passes of me standing at attention in the lviing room with Moira at my side and watching each and every window like a fucking hawk. I don't sleep. M'parents think I"m up playing Skyrim or StarCraft or anythng that isn't doing my work and I spend the days sleeping when I know they're home, but I'm jumpy as all fuck and apparently I"ve started talking ot myself. Whatever. Cool. Insanity. I can dig it.

So two weeks of fuck and all come and go and i started sleeping again

Wait have I todl you this part

Shit I think I have

So eventually I spill to my parnets. Yeah they're pretty pissed but they sign me up for councelling right away and eventually I get it through my thick fucking skull that it's all just an 'acute stress hallucination' and I get some time off of school and work. Pay no mind ot the shadows shifting in the corner of your eye or the fact thata every blonde you come across looks exaclty like the angel of fucking death youv'e learned to associate high heels and gold curls and blue eyes with.

A couple months pass and I haven't shaken it. Save up to head to school again, get a ton of cash in my pockets. Take up a couple jobs. 'Course I tell the 'rents its for school but I know deep down I still see the tentacled basyard like some low-budget hentai film and her goddamn grin every time I close my eyes, flawless fucking white teeth without a smudge of the cherry red gloss of her lips.

So just when I'm pretty happy with my life again I hear a thump and the sound of heels on ceramic tiles in my kitchen

My first thought is who the hell breaks into a house in hells?


Then it hits me

Well fuck.


And I was doign so good, to.

"Hello hello hello, little moth!"


No.


"I see you haven't done too much since we first met."


NO.


"I gave you a head start, didn't I?"


no no fuck no this isn't happening nononononononononoonnonononono


"And here I was running around the state like you might have actually done something in my time away!"


She siiiighs and it's a sharp breathe of spearmint that collides with her soft prefume and just tastes wrong and before I can even wind up my swing to knock out of some those pervfect teeth (and whtaa damn shame that'd've been) she's pushed her waytooexposed tits right into my face and planted a kiss on my chin GOGDAMNIT I hate this women


"Maybe you just missed us?"


it's prtety obvious who she'd referrring to and for a seocnd i kind of want to sayyes. SHe's pouting and it makes her full lips look even fuller and despite the OBVIOUSLY CRZY vibes I"m getting off of her I can't really fins any reason to pull away. I think hey, dying here in't too bad. if my choic ewas running for my life or dying in a ditch somewhere as opposed to being shot in the head while suffocating in breasts I think I'd rather take the latter.

She's storking my hair as she speaks now. "You're not a very bright little moth, are you?"


No, no obviously I'm FUCKING NOT sititng here convtemplayting drowning in your lacy 32Ds. She talks to herself - no wait I think its' to me but I'm to transfixed on her eveyrthing to notice - before the words burn your house down come form her mouthn. All I do is gawk.

"...Wha... what?"


She laughs, a harpy ringing silver bells. At oen time she miht've had a laugh as nice as the rest of her but she's gone roten to the core and everthing;'s tunred ugly as a result, The crazy look is back in her eyes and somehow sh'es brandishing a lighter that I didn't see before and tests it on my arm

Lucky the rents aren;t home otherwise my screem wouldce woken them up.

"Just like that, only it'll be your faux-lather sofas instead of your arm, little moth. Have I made myself clear?"


From my postiong writhing on the dloor, I manage to nod.

"Good. You have one week before this all goes up in smoke, dear."


The ligter clatters to the groud beside me. It's been engraved:

Love always,
Cougar


I grab ti, blinded by the teras of pain in my eeys and try to throw it bac =k at her.

"Don't disappoint me."


The door slams and the lighter just manages to sail thourhg, landing beside her foot as she leaves.

When I go back to my bedroom, the same lighter is stitting on my night table.

One week, huh?


I left three days later. Told my prnets I was going to 'find myself.' Haven't een back since.

Seriously, what the fuck?

I'm kind of wondering when this started to become a regular thing for me. Maybe I should post tonight. Maybe I should shut the fuck up and focus on figuring out how much free food I can stuff into my jacket before the hotel staff starts to wonder why their supplies of cold cuts and bread have become seriously depleted and why their tip jars have vanished while they weren't looking.

Five-finger discount. I never thought I'd see the day where I resorted to it.

I mean sure, there were days in high school when we'd hop over to the local convenience store, filling our pocket with that five-cent gum while the cashier was distracted. That was petty stuff. Stupid teenagers doing stupid things for stupid reasons. We were all guilty of it. I'm still guilty of it. College didn't do much for me, though it might have done more if I had bothered to pass my first year.

Ecology was a bitch of a major, anyway.

It's been only a couple days, but I feel like I need to post. I guess it's a sort of... coping mechanism? A chance to vent? It's not like I have much to actually report on (other than oh god living is expensive , why does my ass hurt oh right because I've spent the last few months living out of a CAR, and my favourite this is my email, password, plate and current location. txt itttt!) so I guess that means you all get to put up with my bullshit.

At least until I get some unwelcome company. Who knows? Maybe they'll key more symbols into the side of my car. They go with the weather damage. I call it Urban Survival Chic, now with 50% more deranged psychopaths (or maybe just cultists, honestly the more I read up on this shit the more I think you're all just insanely devout. Or maybe drugged. Both? Who cares.) scrawling nonsense on the passenger side window and stuffing dead crows (and sometimes very much alive crows) into the grill of your car.


I once woke up to my door wide open and lipstick on my jugular, with a note from none other than the insane blonde bimbo herself.

You're very cute when you sleep.
Be careful, next time I might do more to your throat than just kiss it.
Love always,
Cougar


Fuck I hate that woman.

Just a short update.

I guess I should say sorry for not posting, but if the choice was between spending five bucks for a coffee and food at an internet cafe and keeping my kidneys (which are in excellent condition, by the way. Buy now, or before they're impaled on a tree somewhere!) exactly where they are, well, I'm going to take the route that involves me keeping my vital organs.

So I haven't gotten online much.

Sometimes I wonder how the fuck you people do this. I guess between the Organization or whatever the Proxies at least have a good source of income, (or something, are you sure you're not just some cult or something? Most businesses don't have a weekly quota of murders to fill.) but what about the Stalked? Not all of us can inherit millions from our gay best friends and I've learned to recognize cities by the sports playing in the backs of bars.

( At least they don't ask, right? )

They're a whole lot less suspicious than the cafes, anyway.

The weather is royally fucked up tonight, the car threatening to shake itself apart in the wind and the rain hitting like the chaotic beat of some shitty j-pop song, pon pon way way way except it's hail and raindrops the size of golfballs. McDonalds has free wi-fi now, did you know that? I'm at some 24 hour now, wondering if I should find somewhere at the edge of the plaza to crash for the night and see if I can break the record for most convoluted sleeping position ever attempted in the car, a competition in which I think I'm the sole participant and champion.

I guess... everything's pretty much normal here. Well, as normal as things can get. But your perception gets skewed after a while I guess. Nothing we can do about it, just learn to roll with the punches.

More to come whenever the fuck I feel like it. Good luck and stuff.

So, I'm running out of money.

Surfuckingprise.

I did my research. I read blogs, I watched vlogs. I knew this was coming. After two weeks of cramming on the couch, too paranoid to sleep, I learned that even if this recent and unwanted addition to my life (who at first I wasn't entirely sure was real - but that's a whole other set of brain-meltingly stupid decisions by me, to be discussed at length some time that isn't now.) was just some psychopathic bitch - which she is, don't get me wrong - that there wasn't such a thing as overly prepared.

Okay, so maybe the baseball bat with the nails was a little extreme. You go through that and tell me you wouldn't do the same fucking thing.

I call her Moira.

So when I learned that I'd most likely end up hotel hopping, I started to save up. Took a second job and starting looking into a car that would be cheap and good for travelling - I was out of college by that time anyway, living with my parents and without any real future to look forward to, so I didn't have much else to do with my time. My parents weren't pleased but hey, they were never really pleased. Loved them to bits but I guess I never quite lived up to their standards.

Bluh bluh whatever.

So I started doing whatever I could, pulling in as much cash as possible. O'course I wouldn't get more than a few weeks to get my shit together before tall, blonde and infuckingsane showed up on my door, (well, technically in my kitchen) but that's a story for another time.


Things went pretty quickly after that. For the first month I lived pretty well, stopping at the regular chains for a decent night's sleep and some free breakfast in the morning. After stuffing about fifteen buffet sandwiches into my bag, I'd head out and try to move to the next city. Just wanted to stay alive, y'know? I wanted to be the goddamn posterchild of Runners everywhere. A shining example of how to be Stalked and keep on living, not just surviving.


Oh, how young and damn well naive I was.

Of course, she didn't really help.

It was okay at first. The free breakfast sandwiches lasted me a week at least, which meant I didn't have to spend too much money on food. It was easy to steal the packets of jam and peanut butter and stuff some toast in my pockets (pocket toast is, by the way, not nearly as appetizing as it sounds) to eat later, even if the bread was stale after keeping them locked in the cooler for a few weeks - anything to prolong their life, I guess. I didn't want to die of starvation or scurvy or some shit.

Really, that's my only fear. (Aside from the obvious, of course.) Fresh fruit is expensive and doesn't last long. Juice goes bad quickly and needs to be kept cold. Even though I eventually I just settled on buying lemonade powder in bulk (thank god for the internet) and filling the same ten bottles of water up at every fountain and sink I can find, I'm burning through cash faster than I'm comfortable with. I'd consider selling my liver or my laptop or hell, even the car if it means I can stay alive for a few weeks longer. Internet cafes are common enough now, but I've already lost my phone and can't afford to stay in hotels. The last thing I want is to end up on the street - well, more than I already am - but, really, what choice do I have? It's not like I can settle down somewhere and get a job. Stopping isn't an option. I can't even afford to stop and take a piss anymore, let alone find somewhere to park the car and sleep for the night.

This isn't a game anymore. This is a running down.

And really, I wonder why I ever pretended it was anything but.

But whatever. I'm not going down without a fight. If it's cat and mouse she wants, it's cat and mouse she's going to fucking get.


The cornered rat bites the cat, Cougar.


Don't think I've given up yet. I've still got plenty left in me.

I know what you're thinking.

Who's this douchebag, and why do I care about him and his idiotic shenanigans?

Well, imaginary recipient of this twenty-something's frivolous and largely inconsequential thoughts, allow me to begin by saying:

Fuck you.

You know, normally when you're approached by some chick, mid-30s at the most, who beckons to you with a coy grin and an even coyer wink, you initial reaction isn't holy shit, this woman is going to be the bane of my FUCKING existence from now until somebody takes this miserable piece of shit out of his, well, misery. No, no, of course not. In a display of genre-savviness for the goddamn record books all I could seem to think about was the valley that was peeking out from her practically non-existent neckline, and how I could see the black lace of her bra through the sheer fabric of her blouse. It's about the time that I managed to separate one head from the other that I realized that she'd already walked up to me and, purring soft as a fucking summer's breeze, said "Let's have some fun, honey. Just you and me." 


'Course I followed her. I'm a college kid who hasn't been laid since he dropped out. So when she took me to some shady-ass hotel in the middle of nowhere and sat down, crossing her legs in the most ladylike goddamn fashion and undid another button of her blouse, what do you think I had in mind?

I was grinning like the horny asshole I was, but didn't even get a chance to take my jacket off before she raised her hand, saying:

"Just a moment, little moth. I have a proposition."

A couple thoughts struck me then.

One, she just called me little moth. Alright, so many this chick's into nicknames - I'm cool with that. Whatever. She can call me Emperor Saggynuts, Lord of the Crooked Dick Dynasty if it means I'm getting laid at the end of the night.

Two, I was in some seedy hotel that I didn't remember the name let alone the location of, with no car and no money for a taxi. How the fuck this happened and where my wallet went remain mysteries to this day.

Three, I might still get laid.

Wait, I said two didn't -

oh fuck me.

Whatever. I'm beyond caring at this point. I was beyond caring a long time ago. Looking back I should have noticed that she was smiling like a bird of fucking prey and her nails were cherry red and sharpened to points and that behind the layers and layers and layers of blush, eyeshadow and foundation I could see crow's feet and frown lines.

Hindsight's a bitch, huh?

Well, it at least explained why she called herself Cougar.


I guess somewhere in that network of hers, somebody's got a sense of humour.

"A proposition?" I asked, still standing awkwardly with my jacket half off. I'm a little struck by how quickly she's become disinterested in me and the room around her, tapping impatiently with black pumps against the carpet.

"A game," she continues, and it just occurs to me that her voice has this really acrid tone under it; a sharp hiss over the purr (and now I'm staring to see why the name is so fitting) that flows from her mouth like silk. "Cat and mouse, little moth. You Run. We chase."


We?

... No, no, I think I said that.

"We?"


Much better.

"Have you heard of the one called Slenderman?" and with that, her interest in me seemed to fade completely. There's an emery board she's somehow managed to keep wedged in one of the tiny pockets of her shirt (neon pink zebra print. Classy.) that she used file down her nails, refining the already near-perfect tips to points. "Surely you've seen the blogs, watched the videos? The series dedicated to Him have gained quite a following lately. It's become something of a topic of interest among people. What with all the..." Her lips twisted at the corners, grinning at a distant memory. "Disappearances."


It's about this time I started thinking

oh


shit.


Oh.


SHIT.


I'm not sure if it's curiosity or stupidity or some bastard child of the two that kept me from ignoring the common fucking sense currently screaming in the back of my mind to run as far and as fast away from this chick as I could, or maybe the party in my pants hadn't figured out that sticking around, regardless of what she might do, is not worth losing any vital - or non-vital, for that matter - parts of me.

So of course I just kept standing there like the idiot I am, gulping loudly before choking out: "I - I'm sorry?"


She laughed at this. It was the laugh of the Wicked Witch of the West; a demented cackle I swear should've been followed by when shall we three meet again or preceded with a massive neon sign with the words CAUTION: ABSOLUTELY BUGFUCK; WILL CUT YOU and about a dozen others with warnings like DANGER and HAZARDOUS MATERIAL and  AVOID AT ALL COSTS.

"We're going to play a game, you and I," oh god, oh god, oh sweet and merciful lord in his cloud palace up above, she stood up and started walking towards me, running one of those razor-sharp nails along my skin. Not enough to actually draw blow, but enough to leave a pink trail wherever she went. Could nails even get that sharp? That's another thought I didn't have until I was above five miles down the road, out of breath and without any idea of where I was.

"You're going to Run, as far and as fast as you can..."


And somewhere in the back of my mind I thought wow, I'm so stupid that my possible murderer is even telling me to run away. 


Of course, the front of my mind was just screaming at me.

"... And I'm going to try and catch you. And when I catch you, little moth..." her mouth formed into a delicate pout, blue eyes widening in feigned innocence (and at the same time, my own widened to reach the size of dinner platters) before she continues. "I'm going to kill you, present you as a trophy to my master, and then cut you to pieces."


Her voice never wavered from the silken purr.

And what did I do?

I ran.


I fucking ran. I ran and ran and ran and I swear, I could her hear laughing even as I flew out of the doors of the hotel and onto the street.

And I kept running.

And I'm still running.

Two months later.

And you know what?

She hasn't caught me yet.


The name's Reynard. Welcome to my hell.