The Monster of
Leroy never left the shade of her porch, nor did she ever need to. People came
Sitting on her swinging bench, the old
woman would watch the town of Hinchley. The cars scooting along, people
walking, children playing. People waved as they passed, more often than not
completely stopping, so they could sit and visit awhile. Everyone knew Mama
Leroy was always there to talk. Often when some were feeling down, or simply
didn't know where to turn, they came to her.
If something truly needed handling away
from the porch, Mama would call her boy, Flick. A whisper in the ear and he was
off completing his task. Standing seven-feet-seven and weighing over five
hundred pounds, there was little Flick couldn't handle physically. Although
people liked saying it around town, he was no moron, either. It was an
assumption, among others, that people always made about him because of his size
and the way his head tilted so his left ear was sitting upon his shoulder. Also,
his voice, the fact that no one had ever heard it, not even people say, Mama
In town, kids laughed at him and ran,
shouting at the top of their lungs, "WATCH OUT! WATCH OUT! IT'S THE
MONSTER OF HINCHLEY!" Flick never minded them.
Littering the usual tasks put upon Flick,
there was always an odd one. One time, R. W. Barnett came running up to the
porch, shouting that a fight had broken out at his bar up the street, and those
bastards were gonna wreck the place. Mama called for Flick, and he went walking
up the street at no hurried pace. As he entered the bar, the few wise fellows
stopped what they were doing. Two middle-aged men, who created the main ruckus,
went at each other on the floor. Flick simply picked them both up by their
collars and took them out. That was that.
None of this ever bothered Flick, because
he was doing it for Mama. He'd do anything for Mama. There was only one other
person he cared for as much as he did Mama. A girl he knew back in school named
Kate. Now, I don't know if this is true because Flick never seemed like the
social type to me, but some say back in the day, those two were thicker than
thieves. Sounded like she was always an oddball type as well, so rumors could
be true but either way, it was her that Flick's heart beat twice for.
Out of school Kate got herself married to
a local boy and had a kid. The years passed under growing clouds until one dark
day. Mama Leroy sat swinging on her bench when a little girl came fast down the
street, tears rolling down her cheeks. It was hard to understand through the
sobs and cries what exactly she was saying, but Mama finally deciphered it. The
little one's Mommy was in trouble and her Daddy was mad. It was Kate's daughter;
Mama Leroy knew it and so did Flick.
The door flew off its hinges as Flick ran
out of the house. No one had ever seen him run, but today he was sprinting up
the street. At Kate's house, he entered shoulder first. On the living room
floor, Kate laid unconscious. Entering from the kitchen was her husband, drunk
"What the fuck are you doing
here?" he yelled.
Flick grabbed the man's throat and lifted
him off the ground. With some of the largest hands in the world, Flick crushed
the man's neck, letting his head fall limp and dead. It's said that he was
still holding his lifeless body when Kate came to, on the floor. She looked up
at Flick with her husband in his hands and screamed and screamed and screamed.
Dropping the man, Flick ran back out of
the house. When the cops nabbed him, he was in the fetal position at his
mother's feet, bawling his eyes out. Mama Leroy was on her bench, Flick’s big
hand in her lap. She patted it, and whispered to him, trying to calm him, tears
running down her cheeks as well.
Michael D. Davis is an author and cartoonist from Iowa. He has written a
multitude of short stories and drawn a feverish amount of cartoons in his
measly years on this rock. Author of one short story book, four cartoon
collections, and one coloring book (all available on Amazon), and he is just
getting started. If Michael isn't at home doodling or working on his next book,
he just may be in a field somewhere laying an egg or blowing his nose. I should
know because I am Michael D. Davis or at least I think I am. I just might be a
talking dog named Theodore, you'll never know.
If Charles Addams, Edgar Allan
Poe, and Willy Wonka sired a bastard child it would be the fat asthmatic by the name of Michael D. Davis. He has been called warped by dear friends and a freak by passing
strangers. Michael started drawing cartoons when he was ten, and his skill has improved
with his humor, which isn’t saying much. He is for the most part self-taught, only
ever crediting the help of one great high school art teacher. His art has been shown at
his local library for multiple years only during October due to its macabre nature. If
you want to see more of Michael’s strange, odd, weird, cartoons you can follow him
on Instagram at mad_hatters_mania.