I have no proof, but I suspect otherworldly creatures had a hand in the development and spread of COVID. As to whether they meant to kill over six million people intentionally is debatable. The fact they have benefited more than anyone is irrefutable.
Take Rassmussen, for example. While he can pass for human when standing in the shadows, by no stretch of the imagination would his pudgy nose and pointy ears pass inspection under fluorescent lights. The ratty duster he's coveted ever since I've known him successfully camouflages his wings. Gloves—goodness only knows where he finds them so large—conceal the claws, and if he keeps his big maul shut, the teeth that would make a lion envious can be overlooked. Of course, Rassmussen keeping his mouth shut is about as natural as a turtle tap dancing.
The masking that accompanied the pandemic has allowed my stone-hearted roommate an added layer of protection from discovery. He can stroll the malls at ease. He's joined an after-dark chess club where he trades tall tales with old men, and just yesterday, we debated the merits of playing warlock versus paladin for the new Dungeons and Dragons club he plans to start.
Can you imagine? Rassmussen is barely pleasant enough to keep his teddy bear from disowning him, and yet he thinks he can lead a room filled with strangers on a weekly basis. Why, I predict one player loses a hand during the first week of competition.
In the meantime, I sense a steady decline into discontent from the old fart. He keeps tossing one mask after another into the corner without putting on a one. Later, I heard him on the phone discussing vaccine production and how long it would take to rebuild a manufacturing facility. Of course, they could have been discussing the topic theoretically, but somehow I doubt it. I have this tingly feeling trailing up my spine that is ready to explode into a major migraine. I've experienced it before. It always means trouble.
The last time I had this feeling, a building collapsed downtown. I found Rassmussen in the alley behind the building playing some sort of a card game that was a cross between Truth or Dare, Poker, and Jenga. If proximity and the concrete dust coating the players weren't suspicious enough, the steel I-beam still caked with cement laying beside the card table certainly was.
I considered turning the culprit in, but I could never get one of the miscreants to confess, and if you've ever wrongly accused a mythical creature of a crime, you know the repercussions could affect future generations for centuries. It's enough to turn a breeder into a celibate monk.
I hope I'm wrong this time, though. The bail money fund is low, and I owe my editor new chapters by the end of the week. And most disturbing of all, I can't bare to think that Rassmussen would do anything so lowdown as to cost human lives. Since I feed and care for him, wouldn't I suffer from guilty by association? How does one recover from something like that?
Perhaps Rassmussen and I should have a serious chat about boundaries and respecting the property of others. But first, I've got to finish this article about how to upcycle face masks into charming sofa pillows and patchwork quilts.