When Kyle Met Threeperson (Aka. A Story for Another Time)

Not a frozen burrito.

They’re easier to steal, but I couldn’t heat it up. I had been crashing at my friend’s place for the last two weeks, and their microwave was broken. No, I didn’t break it.

I eyed the hot dogs, sizzling plump on a glowing wire rack behind glass. They’ll put chili on those for you, sometimes for free, if you’re a kid. And I was. Yay for fourteen-year-old me. But I couldn’t steal a chili dog. You had to do these things the honest way – plastic or cash. I had plenty of cash, the only problem was it was in other people’s wallets. 

Pulling my rust-orange hoodie over my head, I scanned the store aisles for lucky contestants. It was Thanksgiving night, and aside from the bored-looking doughy-faced cashier, currently draped over the counter engrossed in a paperback romance novel, there was only one other person in the Gas-N-Gulp. 

His back was to me, digging through the rack of cough syrup and cold meds. From behind, I gauged that he was Latino, tan skin, and a shaved head. Early thirties maybe, with the kind of lean, well-muscled frame that came not by accident, but from razer-cut discipline. His collar was flipped up, a glistening sprinkle of rain on the shoulders of his canvas jacket. I eyed his shaved head, my eyes traveling down to the leather gun holster strapped around the thigh of his tan cargo pants. This guy looked like he could gut me like a rainbow trout and not think twice. Probably not the smartest choice for my wallet donation project… 

Under the harsh fluorescent overhead lights, I noticed beads of sweat broken out on his head. His hands were shaking, his movements flustered and unsteady. Probably strung out. I couldn’t figure any other reason why someone would be at a Gas-N-Gulp on Thanksgiving, pawing through the drug aisle rather than chilling at home with his family. Me? I didn’t have any tables waiting for me. My last foster family was decent enough, but I couldn’t see a future with them. Futures meant repeatable moments, and the way I saw it, if you got it right the first time, no sense hanging waiting around for things to go sour. So I left on a high note. 

From behind the chip rack, I chewed my thumbnail, peering curiously at the man. Would this junkie even have any cash? Then I noticed the gold rings on his fingers, and the nice fat outline of a wallet in the back pocket of his Jeans. 

Hey-o. Junkie’s rich.

I slipped my hands into my hoodie pockets, sidling up closer behind him. His wallet was strung on a chain. That’s a problem. Luckily, Rich Junkie was too focused on ransacking the drug shelf to notice. I couldn’t believe he didn’t feel me reach up under has jacket and unsnap the wallet’s chain. I swiped his cellphone, too, for good measure.  

Sucker.

“Just like picking apples,” I muttered under my breath. Suppressing a giddy grin, I shouldered out the store’s glass doors and around the corner, dipping into a narrow alley. A chilly November drizzle was falling, just late enough into the season that most of the leaves had dropped, but still too early for sleet. Rain usually cleans the air, but not tonight. A spectacularly pungent smell of gasoline and car exhaust mingled with the sour aroma of vomit and stale French fries, no doubt thanks to the rusty Dumpster beside me. I pressed my back against the alley’s brick wall. Under the buzzing streetlight, I flipped open the man's wallet to survey my harvest. 

Three-hundred bucks cash. 

I raised my eyebrows, whistling softly. 

Three-hundred clams would buy a lot of chili dogs. Better yet, maybe hole myself up in a boojie posh hotel room for a night, one with HBO and memory foam pillows and free continental breakfast. Happy Thanksgiving to me.

Digging further into the wallet, I slid his driver’s license from its plastic sleeve. Only it wasn’t a driver’s license. Some kind of ID card I’d never seen before. Looked military…  I frowned, flipping it over. 

Anthony K. Threeperson.

A hand clamped suddenly onto my arm, spinning me around. Threeperson was leaning over me, looking decidedly less healthy than his ID picture. He was breathing hard, a sheen of rain and sweat gleaming on his shaved head and chiseled cheekbones. His dark eyes were bloodshot and framed in sickly purplish shadows, the kind you see on the first guy to croak in every zombie apocalypse flick.

I went to jerk away, but his grip on my wrist was surprisingly strong. Stronger than I would’ve expected from someone who looked like he was five seconds from having an alien burst out of his stomach.    

“Hey, what’s your problem?!” I barked.

“Tonight?” He tossed a wry smirk over his shoulder. “I’m gonna ignore the irony in that question.” His voice was throaty with a soft rasp to it, like tequila running over rocks, with a distinct Bronx accent. “So c’mon now. Hand it over.”

“Hand over what?”

“Look kid, I ain’t in the mood. In fact, I’m so many stratospheres beyond that.” He was close enough that I could smell his chewing gum. Cinnamon, a blessed improvement over the Dumpster. 

His voice lowered to a gruff whisper. “Sorry, but you picked the wrong guy on the wrong night. I’m only gonna ask once more. Give me back what you took.”

“Yeah?” I snarled. “Maybe you should watch your wallet better.”

“Keep the wallet. Just give me the phone.”  He outstretched one hand, flicking his fingers impatiently. I noticed how he kept scratching at his right arm. 

“This?” I pulled his glossy black cellphone from my pocket, holding it up to the light as though examining a diamond. “It’s a nice phone. What’s your data plan on this? Never mind, I’ll keep it. Thanks.”

Threeperson rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, clearly unconcerned enough to take his gaze off me. Either he knew he would have zero problem catching me if I bolted, or he viewed me as the lowliest threat level he’d ever seen. Maybe both.

He appeared to deliberate for a moment. Then a choice was made. Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs. I took a jerky step backwards – but he walked right past me, toward the Dumpster. He snapped one of the handcuffs onto his own wrist, clanking the other cuff onto the Dumpster’s rusty handle. 

“This–” He raised his shackled hand. “Is an out. Now, I’m gonna ask you one more time. Leave the phone…then turn around, and run. Get as far away from me as your feet can take you. Trust me, you don’t wanna be anywhere near me tonight.”

I couldn’t tell what game he was trying to pull, but I told myself I wasn’t falling for it. Maybe he was whacked out of his brain from drugs. All I knew was he looked sick. Genuinely, certifiably sick. And I wasn’t itching to watch a man die in front of me tonight. Or any night, really.

Narrowing my eyes at him, I scooted a few steps backwards, until I was sure I was out of his reach. Then I turned aside, tapping his phone. The screen glowed in response, prompting a passcode. 

“C’mon kid, what’re you doing?” he pressed.

“Ordering a pizza,” I shot him a look. “What else would I be doing? I’m calling you an ambulance.”  Most cellphones will allow you to dial 9-1-1 without unlocking them with a passcode. 

“Don’t do that. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look fine.” I snorted, pressing my thumb into 9-1-

His free hand grabbed my wrist so suddenly I dropped his phone, which he promptly snatched off the pavement. Dang, I guess I wasn’t out of reach. Either his arms were longer than I estimated, or he just dislocated his own shoulder in order to gain a few inches and Go-Go-Gadget grab me. Either way, I knew this man meant business. As if the look in his eyes didn’t hammer that message home already.

“DON’T do that,” he growled. “Hospitals ain’t gonna know how to handle this. Last thing they need’s getting this infection into spread.” 

“Wait. Infection?” My eyes darted to my hand that had previously been holding his phone. I began wiping it furiously on my hoodie. Threeperson rolled his eyes, shooting me a weary grin. 

“Don’t worry. Ain’t contagious.”

Rolling up his jacket sleeve, he held his arm into the light for me to see. I peered closer. 

A jagged, C-shaped bite wound was carved into his forearm. Frothy, greenish-white fluid had begun oozing from the ripped flesh. You don’t need to be a doctor to know that oozy green stuff isn’t a good sign. 

My eyes widened. 

“Are you telling me you got bit by a…werewolf or something?”

“A Chupacabra, actually. And yep.” He pulled his sleeve back down, wincing. “Figure I got about five to ten minutes before things get ugly. And I’d really prefer you not watch.”

Threeperson turned away from me, pressing his phone to his ear. I heard it ring once, then someone picked up. Threeperson started talking immediately. 

“Hey Goldie... It got a bite on me. I’m gonna need immediate extraction. I’m at a little Gas-N-Gulp, corner of Liberty and Beech. I’m ‘round back…by the…the Dumpster.” I heard muffled laughter on the other end of the phone. Threeperson clenched his jaw, impatient and exasperated. “Yeah, it’s great, real ritzy, you should try it sometime. You’re hilarious. Just shut up and come get me, or else get the dog kennel set up, okay?”

He punched the phone back into his pocket. I could tell he was trying to keep his breathing steady, but he didn’t sound too stellar. Sweat rolled off his clenched jaw. In the spitting drizzle, I thought I saw a curl of steam rising from his skin, though it may have been merely a trick of the dim light in the chilled mist. 

Sliding his back against the Dumpster, Threeperson dropped to a sitting position, one arm hanging from the handcuffs still attached to the Dumpster handle above his head. 

I frowned, my face burning. “So you gonna give me the old ‘stealing is bad’ preachy speech? Don’t bother. I’ve heard it a few times.”

“And how’s that working for you?”

“I’m great. All aces.”

“Yeah, five-star circus, ain’t it? Well, you’re doing a lot better than I was at your age.”

“I don’t need to hear your life story.”

“Oh good,” he leaned his head back against the Dumpster, shutting his eyes, feigning relief. “Makes things easier on me.” Glancing up at me, he added, “’Course I was out here ganking wallets because I was taught to. Once I hit fourteen, it was me doing the teaching. Bunch’a lostboys…just doin’ our thing to survive.”

“Huh,” I raised my eyebrows, trying to picture him as a homeless punk pickpocket. “You were a pro? I wouldn’t have guessed. And you seriously didn’t even notice me? You’re practically a walking neon sign saying, ‘I’m not paying attention, please rob me.’”

“Touché, your majesty.” He shifted his chewing gum, chomping through a pained grin. His eyes slid shut again. “What were you gonna buy?”

“Huh?”

Without opening his eyes, he flicked a finger at the store. I shrugged, feeling like a sack of slugs. 

“A hot dog.”

“Ah. They’ll put chili on those, you know.”

“Yep. It’s pretty awesome.”

“Must be. Enjoy.”

I jerked my chin at the store. “So what were you looking for in there? Magic werewolf potion or something?”

“Benadryl.”

I snorted. “In case you get a runny nose with your fangs?”

“Antihistamine. The Chupacabra’s venom…it’s like a bee sting, see. Gets into the bloodstream…then your body’s immune system starts freaking out, setting off a chain reaction… Listen, it ain’t gonna be pretty to watch, so–”

“Holy crap, YOU KNOW YOUR FINGERNAIL JUST FELL OFF?!”

Prying his eyes open with effort, he tilted his head and looked up at his cuffed hand. Each nail was slowly peeling off, nudged forward by hook-like claws emerging from his raw fingertips. 

“Well, yippee-ka-yay,” he murmured matter-of-factly. “Looks like it’s showtime.” 

With his non-handcuffed free hand, he unzipped his pocket and began digging for something. The pain hit him hard and fast, like an invisible bowling ball to chest. Grinding his teeth, he doubled over, and when I looked at the back of his neck, I could see black needlepoint spines sliding from his skin, between each vertebrae. Under the flickering alley light, his skin looked darker, his hands and neck a leathery olive-brown.

I wrapped my arms across my chest, slowly backing away. 

Threeperson looked up at me, and I saw his eyes...two gold orbs rimmed in burning red, rapidly swallowing up the white sclera around his eyeballs. 

With a tremoring hand, he yanked a small, silver syringe from his pocket.  

“Plan B,” he panted, holding up the syringe. “This…should knock me out while I transform.”

“Should?”

“This here’s a sedative. It'll put a three-hundred pound dude drooling to beddy-bye.” He grimaced, spitting each word through pained gulps. “But the jury’s s-still out on how well it’ll work on a Chupacabra, heh. Anyway, should knock me out…l-long enough…for my p-partner to come pick me up.”

“And take you to a werewolf hospital?”

“Heh, something like that. Take c-care of yourself, kid. I mean it.”

“Uh, yeah. Good luck with…” I swallowed. There was really no good response here. “Uh, good luck.”

Shoving my fists into my pockets, I took a few steps backwards. Then I left the alley and I never looked back.

That should have been where the story ended. Never looked back. That’s what I said, right?

But we know that’s not what I did. 

I didn’t go back for a chili dog. My stomach was churning around too much. I wasn’t in the mood anymore. So I just kept walking. Pointed myself toward the hotel strip. Maybe my guts would quit playing ping-pong and I’d order room service or something later, watch a movie lounging on my squishy, temporary memory foam pillow while that unbelievably hardcore military monster-hunting man underwent a horrific and painful transformation chained to a rusty Dumpster on Thanksgiving. How's that my problem? All I wanted was a hot meal…

How was I supposed to know he was a werewolf?

I don’t want to say I felt an instant kinship for this guy. I wasn’t writing any Christmas letters begging him to adopt me or anything. But I felt something. He talked to me like a person, not a fire waiting to happen. Is that something? 

With a raspberry sigh, I spun around and ran back into the Gas-N-Gulp. 

Okay. Antihistimines. 

I sprinted through the store, breathless, my wet sneakers squeaking on the floor. I first spotted Threeperson in the meds aisle, so that’s where I went. The shelves were all helter-skelter. Boxes of cough syrup lying on their sides from his frantic search. I saw why. These shelves weren’t particularly organized. Cough syrup, shaving cream, toenail fungus powder…

“Where’s your stupid Benadryl?!” I hollered loudly, then spotted the pink boxes at the bottom of the rack. Liquid…pills…time-released gel capsules… 

How the heck was I supposed to know what he needed? Did he want non-drowsy?

Using cash from Threeperson's wallet, I bought two of every medicine. It seemed like a good plan. Cover all the bases. I barely heard the bells jingle as I tore out the door. Clutched in my hand were the ingredients to save a guy. Guess all his cards were in my hand. It felt good. Actually, I felt a little nauseous. 

“Guess I’m gonna cure a werewolf tonight,” I said it aloud, hoping it would muster a chuckle. But it no longer seemed funny.

I turned the corner and skidded to a stop at the mouth of the alley. It was too dark to see anything. Cold rain pattered on my shoulders. My heart was pounding in my chest. 

“Please still be human...please be human…”

In the greasy shadow that hid half the alley, I could just make out a dark shape, slumped against the Dumpster. Motionless. The only thing visible was his left arm, still hanging from the handcuffs on the Dumpster’s handle. 

I swallowed. 

Holy crud. What if he chewed his own arm off…? I clutched the bag, the plastic wrapped so tightly around my fingers it was cutting off my circulation. A shiver ran through me, and not from the drizzle on my face.

“Hey…Anthony Threeperson? I’ve got your Benadryl here…”

Silence.

“Just…kick your leg or something if you can hear me…”

Nothing. No movement. On a scale from “zero” to “horror movie setup,” this was definitely an eleven.

I started moving slowly toward him. My wet sneakers squished on the pavement with each step. A car’s headlights panned across the parking lot behind me, momentarily spilling its beam into the alley, illuminating Threeperson’s inert form. Collapsed against the Dumpster, he appeared to be passed out cold. His head drooped chin to chest, his cuffed arm hanging limp from the handcuffs. And in his other hand, just before the headlights slid past, I saw the silver syringe. Empty. 

Oh no. 

I ran over and dropped to all fours beside him, dumping the plastic bag out. Boxes and pill bottles tumbled across the wet asphalt. 

“Okay, okay…so which am I supposed to give you?” I wailed. Beside me, his breathing was a low, gurgling rumble. In…out…

I raked my hands through my damp hair. “C’mon, throw me a bone here!” Grabbing the two nearest bottles, I pressed their childproof caps down, twisting them open with unsteady hands. Then, setting both bottles on the ground, I wrapped my arms around Threeperson, heaving him into an  upright position. It was no easy task, since I was barely 5’ and him, a muscularly solid grown man hanging at a dead weight. I slung my arms around his neck, putting him in a sort of haphazard headlock, taking extreme care to avoid the two-inch spikes protruding from his spine. Threeperson hung from my grasp, listless and heavy. His skin felt hot as a boiler, even through his jacket. I hesitated. Then I squeezed on either side of his mouth, forcing his jaws open. His canine teeth were elongated into fangs. 

“Suh-weeeeet son of a crackerjack!!” I exhaled hard, blowing out a breath. 

I didn’t know the proper dosage for a Chupacabra. Who does? So I just shoveled a handful of pink pills into his mouth.

“I swear, if you wake up and bite me…” 

I poured a generous slug of grape-flavored liquid, half the bottle sloshing all over his face, all over me, and onto the pavement. Then I clapped one hand over his mouth, and tilted back his head.

“Okay, be a good boy and swallow…”

He did. At least, I think he did. The weird purplish tint to his skin started fading. Gently, I pulled up one of his eyelids, peering at his iris. Dark brown. More like Bambi than the Demon Chupacabra of Beech Street. 

“Okay,” I whispered, relief flooding me. “You’re okay.” I patted his motionless arm. Pulling his wallet from my pocket, I weighed it in my hands for a moment. Then I slid it back into his own pocket. 

When he suddenly sputtered, my skeleton nearly jumped out of my skin.

“HEY-Y-Y!!” I yelped angrily. “You’re not supposed to be awake!!” 

“Yeah…and you ain’t supposed to still be here,” he coughed the words through a mouthful of half-melted liqui-gels. Waving me away, he wiped a hand across his sweaty face, blinking drowsily down at the mess of bottles that littered the ground. Through a pained chuckle, he nodded at the mess. 

“You spend the whole three-hundred bucks?”

“What was I supposed to do?” I grumbled, my cheeks flushed. “You didn’t exactly specify!” Standing up, I added quietly, “Look. It’s my fault you’re in this situation, so…just let me do what I can to get you out, okay?’

I watched as he tossed another handful of capsules into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of the purple liquid. For a moment he just sat there breathing, his head back against the Dumpster, and I thought maybe he’d konked out again. He really looked like someone had slapped him on the mats and counted to three. But at least he looked human. 

After a moment he pressed redial on his phone, shouldering it to his ear again. 

“It’s me. Yeah…I’m good. All clear.” He tossed me a grin. “Had some help. I still need you, though.”

“Aww, I need you too, bro.” 

“Shut your yap and just come pick me up, will ya?”

“I’m about five out. Hang tight. See you soon.”

Threeperson dropped the phone into his lap, exhaling. Wearily, he rubbed a hand over his face. 

“Alright, should be good now. Thank you. Go get your chili dog.”

I looked around. “Your partner’s not here yet.”

“He’s coming. I’m good.”

I plopped down beside him, slinging my hands over my knees. “I’ll hang here for a few more minutes. 'Till he gets here. Just to make sure you don’t puke and choke or anything.”

Threeperson grinned, white teeth in the buzzing light. No fangs in that grin. 

Wow. First time I had ever been relieved to say that about someone. 

“Thanks, kid. Really.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I hope I didn't just help you overdose on allergy meds.”

He chuckled. “Not what you planned on doing tonight, huh?”

“Not really.” I leaned my chin onto my hands. A smile crossed my face. “You jerk. I could be at a fancy hotel right now.”

A black SUV came roaring up behind me, its headlights flooding the alley. I heard someone jump out, leaving the car door open, and Threeperson’s partner jogged out of the light. A young guy with a brown leather jacket, a West Coast swagger, and a face that belonged in some Calvin Klein ad. His blond hair was wet, lazily raked into spikes. 

“Pam says the stuffing’s getting cold,” he announced with a smile. Squatting down, he quickly uncuffed Threeperson, working with the brisk, practiced movements of someone well-versed in trauma situations. Jabbing his thumb at me, he snickered to Threeperson. “What, I took so long you had a kid?”

Quietly, I mumbled, “I’m fourteen, Ken Doll.”

“Sassy little spider monkey, ain’t she?” The young guy raised an eyebrow. “I like her.” 

“Show some respect, compadre,” Threeperson grunted.  “She saved my life.” 

He left out a crucial chunk of the story…but sure.

Leaning one elbow on his knee, his partner twisted around and looked at me again, surveying me in a different light. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. 

“Huh. Nice work.”

He slung Threeperson’s arm over his shoulder, and just like that, they stumbled off into the blinding glare of the headlights. A light drizzle was falling again, spraying tiny rainbows through the light around the two men’s silhouettes. 

A lump welled up in my throat. I didn’t want him to leave. The craziest part? I had never been so freaked in my life, but at that moment, I would’ve given anything to relive everything I’d just experienced. How can you see something like that and just clock back into life as it was before? I didn’t want to. 

“Hold up.” Threeperson raised a hand and they stopped walking. He turned to me. “I bet I already know the answer, but…you got anywhere to go tonight?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I smiled wordlessly, shrugging at the Gas-N-Gulp.

“Okay, kid. Forget chili dogs. Figure I owe you more than that. You like cold stuffing?”