WEASEL

                        To the Circle of The Golden Bear

        Everyone experiences unusual occurrences in life that point to
the supernatural.  Others may believe in the authenticity of
these claims, but, more often than not, such accounts are
considered the result of overindulgence or even insanity.    

        Keeping such tendencies of the human psyche in mind, I now wish
to relate an event which will raise many eyebrows.  Perhaps
others will now step forward and offer evidence similar to my
own, now that I'm going public.    

        Finally, as a conclusion to this preface, the names have been
changed to protect me from potential lawsuits, though my
involvement with terror makes any such action laughable in
comparison.    

        A place of business has many types of patrons.  There are those
who will sacrifice convenience and money to partake of the
services of one business, even when a competing business offers
similar services at lower cost.  These are the LOYAL customers.   
I am NOT one of these.  At the other end of the spectrum, there
are those who shun an establishment, who are critical of its
every action, who encourage others to follow their own example.   
Such an attitude can arise when a LOYAL customer is suddenly
insulted or "ripped off" as the saying goes.  But there is a
gray continuum between the two extremes I have described.   
Though I originally fell somewhere within the gray fog, I am now
what one might call an ANTI-customer.    

        It all began on a seemingly normal Saturday morning.  The
leaves had fallen from most of the trees, and the air was dry
and sterile, foretelling of approaching winter snow.  The sun
was bright in the sky, and Mount Nittany was framed crisply and
cleanly (with no caffeine-ly) on the horizon.  As I emerged from
the rear of the apartment complex, which I shall hereafter refer
to as Imp Towers, I felt no warning of what was about to
transpire.  My head was just a bit underweight due to the
previous night's drinking, and I was enjoying my momentary
thoughtlessness.    

        The walk to the market is conveniently short from my apartment,
which is the principle reason why I had chosen to shop there for
food.  Like many other people living on W- Drive, therefore, I
was victimized by geography (thus placing me within the gray
spectrum mentioned previously).    

        During that fateful walk, I marveled at the number of people
who had left the comfort of their warm beds so early.  A good
fraction of these individuals were on their way to campus,
bookbags slung over their shoulders.  The rest, mostly the
senior citizen crowd, were exhibiting a net motion toward the
shopping plaza.  As I walked along the paved roadway, I saw that
the plaza parking lot was full.  Cars were already weaving
through the rows of parked vehicles, awaiting the departure of
other shoppers.    

        Descending upon concrete stairs, I bounded across the street,
narrowly avoiding the lanes of opposing traffic.  Still, I felt
no unease as I stood now before the large brick wall.  Within
those walls of stone, unwary shoppers, as I had been for so
long, were going about the normal routine of food shopping.  I
walked those last hundred-or-so feet, avoiding as I did so the
stares of shoppers waiting in checkout lines.    

        Two employees stood at either side of the automatic entrance
and exit doors, their chests covered with white aprons.  Two old
women hobbled through the entrance door before me.  They laughed
while passing through the door.  I noticed the strained hum of
door motors as I passed over the same threshold.    

        Moving through the cart storage area, I was irritated by the
slow progress of the old women and the screams of two children
fighting over rights to the gumball machines.  The onrush of
warm air was pleasant, however, and the sounds of the registers,
of underlubricated shopping cart wheels, of the verbal interplay
of a hundred eager shoppers, flooded my hearing.    

        I was here at last.  And it was time to shop.  .  .    

        As usual at this market, I found the stack of red plastic
baskets and pried one loose from the pile.  Jockeying past the
cart hunters, I moved into the produce section and pulled a
plastic bag from one of the numerous rolls hanging above the
vegetable coolers.  The lettuce this morning was wilted and
filthy, so I opted for head lettuce.  But as I reached into the
pile of green, I felt someone bump into me from behind.  This
violation of space bothered me, but a polite "excuse me" was
sufficient.    

        Only several seconds after contacting the unknown shopper,
however, I felt a quick tug on my rear pocket.  I snapped
around, expecting to see some deft pickpocket strolling down the
aisle with my wallet.  I saw no one.  I felt the pocket, and,
sure enough, my wallet was still there.  With the lettuce
selected, I proceeded to the "soup aisle."   

        The greatest impediment to efficient shopping is the presence
of aisle hogs, who think that their shopping carts are the
entire width of the aisle.  These individuals also tend to roll
the carts at an almost imperceptibly small velocity.  I found
myself behind such a shopper upon entering the soup aisle, but
the cream of potato was nearby.  This luck did not persist with
the bean soup, as the aisle hog was conversing fruitlessly with
her daughter in front of the shelf about which type of noodle
she was accustomed to eating with chicken broth.    

        While reaching over the toddler's head for two cans, I again
felt a quick tug at my pocket.  I spun my head around, and, just
as before, I saw no one behind me.  I did sense motion, however.
 I could have sworn that something had darted between two cans
of soup further along the aisle.  Just a split second flash of
brown, and then nothing.    

        I abandoned my quest for the bean soup and decided to
investigate.  Were my eyes playing tricks on me?  Surely such a
transient flash of light following a jerk of the head could be
illusory, perhaps SHOULD be.  Kneeling on the floor, I pulled
apart the two cans of soup in question and peered into the rear
of the shelf.  I placed my hand over the rear pocket again and
did not feel my wallet.  Jumping up, I felt another tug.  My
right hand was still near the pocket, and as I moved my hand
towards it, I felt a furry object pulling away.  The fur at the
front of the object felt long and coarse.  I also felt small
harder objects, in parallel rows, immediately around the coarse
hairs, which exerted some pain on my hand during the withdrawal.
   

        But the object, which I instantly concluded must have been a
living creature of some sort, was gone before I could catch
sight of it.  Again I saw the mere hint of a furry flash, and it
was gone, this time between two boxes of macaroni and cheese.  I
removed my wallet and checked the contents.  Everything seemed
to be in order, with one important exception.  Several dollars
were missing.  I distinctly remembered having eight dollars in
my pocket, and now only a five remained.     

        I cannot describe my puzzlement, but I was more nervous and
frightened than curious at this point.  The impulse to leave the
market was squelched by an intuition that I was trapped here,
that I had to find an explanation to my predicament before
leaving.    

        Discussing this with anyone else at the market seemed absurd,
and I decided to be very careful of the darting eyes of my
fellow shoppers.  They would no doubt consider me insane.  There
I would be, jumping frantically from aisle to aisle, tearing
apart the shelves to find the mysterious bandit.    

        I returned to the soup shelf and procured the bean soup.  Just
then, a light bulb switched on in my head.  The bandit appeared
to be interested in cash, as it had not taken my credit cards.   
Also, it must have known that there was more money in my wallet,
so it would probably return at any moment.  I had to make the
thing choke.    

        I transferred the wallet to my right front pocket and placed my
hand inside to protect it.  Proceeding immediately to the toy
section, I luckily found a pack of fake money.  The aisle was
clear for the moment, so I tore open the package and stuffed
several hundred dollars of worthless cash into the wallet and
returned it to the rear pocket.  I continued to shop for food.    

        Well, more shoppers were showing up at the market, and the
aisles were becoming cramped.  This would make tracking the
bandit difficult.  I decided to stalk my quarry in the spaghetti
sauce aisle.  If the bandit tried to squeeze too quickly between
the glass jars, perhaps I would hear it.  As I mulled over
whether to purchase a jar of Prego or Francesco Rinaldi, I felt
the telltale tug on the pocket.  Spinning around, I saw nothing
but Chunky Soup cans.  But two jars suddenly clinked together.   
I lunged at the bank of Ragu jars as one of the containers
teetered at the brink of the shelf.  An agitated squeak emanated
from behind the shelf, and then silence.  I inserted my hand
behind the jars and grabbed onto a small paper rectangle.   
Removing it, I was not surprised to see a crinkled counterfeit
ten dollar bill, the bandit's saliva stains wet on my hand, the
small pointed tooth marks running along its length.    

        I realized that the bandit must possess incredible intelligence
for a small animal, for it was able to distinguish real from
counterfeit within a fraction of a second.    

        As usual, I had become very wrapped up in my own affairs.   
Understandable in light of this bizarre turn of events, you
might think, but introversion is just that, no matter what the
circumstances.  I stood outside of myself momentarily and
thought of the other shoppers.  Were they experiencing the same
terror, the same puzzlement?  I concluded that the vast majority
of the shoppers would have to be unaware of those sneaky
squeaking bandits, the furry little beasts that dart between
jars and boxes with greenbacks clutched in their sharp jaws.   
But perhaps a handful of others had the same plight.  Perhaps,
even as I stood there, they were wrestling with what dark forces
in an empty aisle.  Perhaps they too wondered if they were alone
in facing the creatures.    

        If they were smart, they would avoid being noticed, just as I
was doing.  Strange as it may seem, I watched an older gentleman
stroll by me, his hands clenching his wallet over his abdomen.   
His hands were quivering, and I didn't know if it was fear or
the tremor of old age.  I had forgotten my initial fear, but it
came rushing back when I turned to continue down the aisle.    

        A man with silvery hair was standing further down the aisle,
his arms crossed.  He was staring at me, through me.  His eyes
were glazed and motionless, like those of a drunk about to lash
out at anyone who dares stare back.  I walked towards him, and
my heart rose into my throat.  I blinked furiously as I tried to
stare him down.  As I approached, however, he unfolded his arms
and swiveled on his polished shoes.  Like a robot he marched
from the aisle, and he disappeared through the swinging doors at
the rear of the market.    

        He knew that I knew.  I knew this.  I trust first guesses.   
That zombie -- I recognized him as the store manager.  He had
scared the shit out of me.  I had seen him so frequently,
standing behind the protective wall near the checkout counters.   
He had seemed like a nice enough guy, but perhaps he was nice to
harmless people.    

        In my daydreaming, I had forgotten the task at hand.  I reached
back to feel my wallet.  At times things just seem to synch for
me.  As my hand moved back, a bandit was a mere few inches from
my back pocket.  I felt the furry head jam into the pocket, and
my hand grabbed onto its squirming body.  I yanked it backwards
and flung the creature, which must have weighed only several
pounds, in front of me.  This was my first close look at the
bandit --a weasel.  The little critter slammed into the floor
and zipped through the rear door with amazing speed.    

        I looked back over my left shoulder and saw a butcher.  He
stood with his arms crossed.  Brown blood stains covered his
white apron.  Like the manager, he soon disappeared, this time
into the adjacent aisle.    

        How many weasels were there?  How much money did the little
rascals gather for the manager, that aging yuppie with the
potbelly and double chin, his clean starched white shirt tucked
in his trousers, his wire rimmed glasses gleaming beneath the
store's fluorescent lighting?  I realized that the key lay
beyond that rear door, where the money was counted.    

        As I stood before the swinging double doors, I glanced about
nervously, awaiting the moment when none of the other shoppers
were watching me.  But the meat counter was crowded with eager
beavers who grabbed at packages of red flesh and poultry.  This
is where the more primitive instincts of shopper are revealed,
the feeding frenzy following the kill.  Just then, making me
lucky a second time in the same day, a shopping cart flipped
over.  A little boy onboard had leaned too far to the side.    

        Dozens of items flew across the floor, and the mother screamed
as the boy's head struck the edge of the meat storage unit.   
Just then, before I darted through the doors, I saw a pack of
some five weasels darting from beneath the meat counter.  They
were working on the stunned crowd which surrounded the toppled
shopping cart.  Wallets were removed, money was taken, and the
billfolds were replaced with incredible agility and speed.   
During the short while that I observed the weasels' technique,
not one shopper noticed the pickpocketing.  No one shifted or
reached back for a pocket.  Even women's purses opened.  At the
last moment, I saw a weasel enter a purse and emerge almost
instantly with several bills.  Snapping the purse shut with
complete stealth, the weasel disappeared from view beneath the
meat counter.    

        I walked through the doors.  As they swung shut behind me, I
could hear distant squeaks and the muffled voice of a man.     

        Numerous cardboard boxes lined the walls.  They formed
passageways of their own.  A path proceeded to my left.  As I
tiptoed between the tall walls, the sounds of the market began
to disappear.  This place was well lit and cooler than the
shopping area.  The path ended about fifty feet in front of me,
opening into a larger storage chamber.  The voice I had noticed
was getting louder as I continued.  The voice had an angry tone,
and between sentences, I could hear the squeaks of one or more
weasels.    

        I am mentally sensitized to the presence of others.  I had the
distinct impression that someone was watching me.  I swept my
glance about the passageway.  To my horror, a large brown weasel
had poked its head from between two boxes on my left.  Its beady
eyes glimmered as I stared into them, and it hissed, its jaw
opening, its tongue curling and flicking rapidly between the
rows of teeth.    

        Instinctively, I acted to silence the weasel.  Perhaps its hiss
had alerted other weasels or, worse yet, the store personnel.   
Thus, I tramped on the beast's head with my left foot, as hard
as I could manage.  The thing was stunned, its eyes half closed.
 It was breathing irregularly, and its head trembled.  I stooped
down and grabbed it by the neck.  I pulled its shaking body from
between the boxes.  Moving my grip to its hind legs, I swung it
full circle and brought its head crashing to the floor.  I
repeated this several times, until the animal was completely
limp.  Blood was trickling from its mouth and nose, so I tossed
the corpse to the top of the pile of boxes.  It was then that I
noticed that the man's voice had ceased.  Not a weasel was to be
heard.  I turned to run, and that's when I saw the butcher,
standing about ten feet behind me.    

        I can hardly relate to you how my heart sank, how it fell my
full height and more, beneath the linoleum floor tiles, into the
ground beneath the foundation of that building.  There I stood,
without a weapon in my hands.  As the butcher moved closer, he
withdrew a foot-long blade from behind his back.  He was not
very large, but I sensed his experience in these matters.  His
stubbled face was expressionless as he inched forward, his black
shoes sliding in small jerks on the floor.  From behind me,
those unforgettable words were heard.    

        "Bring him in.  I think it's time we had a little talk."   

        Trusting that I was not about to be skewered by the cool metal
blade, I turned and walked the length of the hallway.  The
butcher was following me closely, and I heard his shuffling
feet.  As I emerged into the open area, I turned to the right.   
I was standing before an office doorway.  Bright ceiling light
flooded the small room beyond the entrance.    

        The store manager was seated at a desk.  His back rested
against the rear wall, and he stared into my eyes.  The subtle
smirk on his face disappeared as he spoke.    

        "Come in and have a seat."   

        He leaned forward and extended his upturned left palm towards a
chair.  I glanced behind myself to see the butcher several feet
behind me, the blade positioned horizontally in his hands.  I
stepped into the office and seated myself.  The manager leaned
back in the squeaky desk chair, and he folded his hands behind
his head.    

        "I've been in this business for twenty years now, and only
three other people have been as unlucky as you.  You see, it
takes a remarkable sense, perhaps what some call a sixth sense,
to see my little friends about their business."    

        "What business is that?" I asked.    

        "The business of making twice as much profit as I would
otherwise." The butcher stood in the doorway, his hands a mere
foot from my head.    

        "So, how long have you known about my little friends?  You seem
rather at a loss, so I assume it hasn't been that long."   

        "Well, actually, a couple of my friends told me about the
weasels in the first place.  They're waiting for me outside
right now."   

        I realized my utter stupidity in such matters, and I saw by the
look on the manager's face that he knew likewise.  My hands were
shaking, and my tremulous voice didn't help much.    

        "You're a neurotic with a gift that you'd rather not have.   
Actually, as you're about to find out, you'd probably do
anything to go back home and pretend this whole mess never
happened."   

        "Okay, so I won't tell anyone .  .  .  all right?"   

        "We cannot afford to let you tell anyone about anything.  I
will not trust one solitary word you say.  This conversation
serves no purpose, and you have murdered one of my best
workers."   

        His face displayed anger as he opened one of the desk drawers
and reached into it with both hands.  He smiled gleefully while
removing three of the strangest creatures I have ever seen.    

        Three small and identically proportioned weasels lay on the
desk in a row.  The first was the most delicate shade of powder
blue, with deep blue eyes.  The second was bright pink, and the
third was snow white.  They held their mouths shut and stared at
me.  I sensed a great intelligence behind those beady eyes.    

        "These are my front three.  They've been here from the start.   
By your naivet=82 I know that you are in this alone.  Also, you
must seriously be questioning your own sanity at this point.   
Well, I'm going to answer your question by letting my little
friends here have their way with you.  When they're finished,
you will be free to go, but your brain will be pretty much
worthless to you.  All traces of this experience will vanish
from your body, so it will be your word against mine.  Yes, the
word of a dangerous lunatic against mine."   

        He placed his hands on the silky body of the pink weasel.    

        "This is Lucy.  The blue beauty is Sky.  And the white one,
yes, white as snow, he is Diamonds.  They will render you
harmless to me."   

        The three beasts opened their mouths in perfect
synchronization.  Their teeth were pearly white, with one
important exception.  Their canine fangs had been replaced with
miniature hypodermic plungers.  The twin sets of needles
glistened with fluid.    

        Sky suddenly lunged forward and sank the needles into the side
of my neck.  I felt only the prick of the needles and the
scramble of the weasel's feet.  Sky jumped back to the desktop.    

        Every creature, including a human, reacts instinctively when
the survival urge is violated.  I felt myself rolling to my
right just as Lucy sprang from the desk.  My head struck the
wall as I fell, and I heard a man screaming.  I scrambled to my
feet and saw Lucy's fangs buried in the butcher's leg.  I felt
another prick on my back, and I reached back to crush the life
out of Diamonds, but the deed was done.    

        The manager had risen from his chair during the commotion, and
the weasels were squeaking and scurrying about the desktop.    

        "Stop him!" he shouted.  "He'll make it if Lucy doesn't get
him!"   

        But the butcher was momentarily panic-stricken.  The knife had
fallen to the floor, and he gripped his thigh tightly, his eyes
wide with fear.  I bolted through the door, knocking him to the
ground.    

        I began retracing my path down the hallway.  Suddenly, the
overhanging light bulbs exploded, and flame jetted from the
sockets.  It was a pressurized flame, like a flame thrower.  The
orange billows engulfed many of the boxes, but they were
unaffected.  I dove through one cloud of flame and experienced
no pain, just a numbing cold.  As the lights were spaced about
ten feet apart, I had to run through more of the flames before
reaching safety.    

        The floor spun wildly to the right, and I felt myself colliding
with a tumbling mound of boxes.  I stumbled to my feet and
almost collapsed again from a strange dizziness.  I heard a loud
snarl, and, as I turned, I saw a giant weasel bearing down on
me.  It was wearing the butcher's apron.  One of its claws held
a gleaming silver snake.  The snake raised its head, and a large
hood ballooned to the sides of its neck.    

        I looked around for help and noticed that numerous artillery
shells were rolling by my feet.  Grabbing one with my left hand,
I hoisted the heavy projectile and slipped it, casing first,
into an aperture at the front of my right arm.  I flexed my
shoulders, and the yard-long metal barrel swung up and took aim
at the weasel.  A shower of sparks flew from the barrel, and the
shining projectile struck the monster in the head.  The shell
did not explode, thankfully, but merely glanced to the side and
bored a hole into a box.  The weasel fell backwards to the floor
and lay motionless.    

        I felt the barrel convert back into a usable right arm.  The
weasel's body was liquefying, and a pink puddle was growing
about the smoothing form.  Four symmetrically spaced lumps began
to grow from the puddle.  The fluid congealed into four smaller
weasels within seconds.  They bared their needle fangs and ran
towards me.  I reached to the side and hoisted a cube shaped
boulder above my head.  My arms were about to give way, but I
fell forward, enabling the boulder to crush the quadruple
Lucy's.    

        My feet were moving quickly again, and I found myself at double
doors leading to god-knows-where.  Just then another giant
weasel appeared in the doorway.  It swatted a claw and caught me
in the shoulder.  I felt my skin tear, and I looked to see blood
trickling down my arm.  Again I was falling, this time
backwards.  The floor rattled, and it jerked forward so suddenly
that I did a backwards somersault before landing on my ass.    

        The silver snake was writhing on the ground next to me.  I
grabbed the snake by its leathery tail, and it attained strike
position, its hood inflating to reveal curious white patterns.   
The weasel was almost on top of me as I jumped to my feet and
flung the tensed serpent.  The snake hissed, and its bared fangs
found the weasel's abdomen.  The weasel shrieked and collapsed.   
Charging at the beast, I slammed my right foot into its head and
kept running.    

        A haunting Beetles' tune was blasting my ears into oblivion as
I finally escaped from the Weasel's inner lair.    

        I had emerged into a brightly lit cavern.  The walls were
painted brightly, and torches burned in the ceiling at regular
spatial intervals.  I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the
Victims, oh the poor Victims of the Weasel.  The pity was, they
came willingly and regularly to be ravaged by the awful Beast,
and I don't even think they knew what was happening.  The
Victims shuffled about the cave floor, pushing their balls and
chains in front of themselves.  I saw despair in those hollow
eye sockets.  The young Victims were placed atop the balls and
chains.  They wailed tearfully to no avail.  The cave was quite
a labyrinth, with ornate walls separating the passageways.  I
would help these poor Victims later.  .  .  now I had to escape.
   

        I charged forward, narrowly missing the Prisoners as I did so.    

        "I will return for you!" I shouted as I ran.    

        Whether it was good instincts or blind luck I cannot remember,
but I emerged from the maze.  Freedom lay only feet away on the
Outside.  The Weasel was so cruel!  It had constructed a
transparent force field at the mouth of the cavern.  This
enabled the Victims to view the Outside and long for their
freedom, only to be ravaged by the Weasel once again.  I ran
full speed and dove into the transparent barrier.    

        The barrier shattered with a deafening tinkling sound, and I
noticed numerous gashes on my body as I rose to my feet.   
Plunging headlong to make good my escape, the following several
days were hard to remember.    

        Oh, I suppose I can recall bits and pieces of what happened
after my Escape, but suffice to say that I endured alternating
periods of warmth and cold, that I was drenched with water for
over a day during the worst of those extremes, and that the
gashes on my body caused me some discomfort.    

        But when I finally awoke one fine morning, I knew that my mind
had somehow remarkably returned to me.  The powerful drugs
inflicted by the Weasel were no longer influencing my
perceptions, and I at last went about caring for my hungry and
injured body.    

        With the remainder of the money I had retrieved from my bank
account, I booked myself a motel room and purchased a cheap
typewriter.  I have been writing this story ever since.  The
management here is very polite, and they don't ask many
questions.  Unfortunately, I occasionally return to fits of
emotion as a result of the injections.  But believe you me, if I
had to do it again, I wouldn't do it alone.

        Of course, this is just the beginning.  You don't think I've
forgotten the sufferings of the Victims, the Shoppers, do you?   
Bullshit!    

        I am laying plans for my return there in the near future.  This
time, however, I know the Weasel well.  And I have new and
better allies with which to fight.  I described earlier the
silver snake; why without him I would almost certainly be dead!   
Well I found a new species, one that roars and spits small beads
of metal.  They are more effective at a distance against those
sniveling little beasties.  One of my friends can spit
multitudes of beads simultaneously with a wide dispersion, thus
increasing efficiency.    

        And so I conclude my account.  To the reader, I say BEWARE!  I
feel sympathy for anyone else who has undergone my torments.    

        I'm not through yet!  And, always remember, THIS AIN'T NO
PARTY!  YA HEAR ME?  THIS AIN'T NO DISCO!  YA HEAR ME?  THIS
AIN'T NO FOOLIN' AROUND!  YA HEAR ME?