A Bear Creek conspiracy.

They came back last night. The ones who disguise them selves as shrubs and rubbish bins. Slinking from the shadows they make their stealthy way to the edge of the wooded path where the body is lying. Another late night jogger had been brutally struck down hours before. His frantic screams for help rending the twilight calm of Bear Creek. Sadly no one was around to hear them, except me. And I would not give my aid, for I knew from the first whimper of fear that he was beyond all help. “ Yes fool, cry out to your god if it gives you solace” It’s doubtful that even God could have saved him from the menace that stalks these creek banks. For dear jogger, you have been snagged by a Great Crested Grass Weasel. 70 pounds of bone crushing fangyness and rippling muscle. It is the great weasel whom the cammo shrubs protect. Driven by environmental protectiveness, it is they who remove the bodies night after night, wiping the weasel spittle from their faces, and dumping them far away as John Doe corpses. It is only I who seek to warn of these great beasts. Though more often than not the signs I nail to trees vanish in the dark of night. I would not be surprised to find that it is the weasels themselves who remove them to protect their own evil identities. So on it goes, the three shrubs and a waste bin have finished their work this night, dragging the body of the slain jogger behind them as they move silently around the bend. Peace returns to my little bridge world beneath G street. A wind springs up, and one brave cricket sings his troubles to the night in a monotonous soprano.