Fierce

Chapter 1 “Help!” I know, strange way to start a story, me screaming at you like that, but they say you need to grab the reader’s attention right off the bat. Help! I figured would do just that. Plus, you know, help was just what I needed. I mean, I was locked in a cage, my life in jeopardy of being snuffed out—which was par for the course, but still. In any case, help! seemed right on up there with the greats: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; Call me Ishmael; Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret. And I only needed four little letters to get my point across. Take that, Judy Blume! Anyway, back to that aforementioned help I was shouting for. No, it wasn’t my best moment, to be certain, what with me being a superhero and all. Fierce. That’s my name; pleased to meet you. Though I’m guessing you’ve probably already heard of me, me being famous and all. And yes, that’s me blowing my own horn. Louis Armstrong should blow a horn so well, in fact. All that being said, and in case you’ve been living under a rock and have yet to hear of my, you know, greatness, here’s my story in a nutshell: As a baby, I was raised by wolves in the mountainous wilds of Montana. I have super powers. Like, seriously super. I catch bad guys for a living. For free! Minus, of course, the well-merited and desperately sought-after publicity. But, you ask, raised by wolves? Come on now, Fierce, really? Does that actually happen? Wolves eat babies, don’t they? I mean dingoes do—or so I’ve heard, a la one Miss Meryl Streep—so it stands to reason that wolves do, too. Though not these wolves. These were tame wolves. Well, tameish. They were zoo wolves, hand-raised by humans. Except, they escaped during a freak storm, back to the wilds from whence their ancestors came, never to be seen again. I saw them right off the bat, though. Well, sawish. I mean, I was a baby at the time, my eyesight not what it is today—which is freakishly strong, by the way. And yes, toot, toot, my horn doth bloweth, yet again. Gabriel in the heavens up above turns green with envy at my tooting abilities. Oh, and in case you hadn’t already surmised it, superhero, at least in my case, equates to super ego. Freud missed out big time on the likes of yours truly. But I digress. Back to the wolves. Best I could figure it—seeing as, again, I was just a baby at the time—the initial wolf pack consisted of ten wolves that once inhabited a small zoo on the outskirts of Billings, Montana. One fateful day, a tornado hit. A big one. Huge even! Dorothy would’ve s**t her panties it was so friggin’ massive. Anyway, from what I’ve read, the storm struck quite suddenly, too suddenly for the folks at the zoo to be able to corral all the animals beforehand, so, when the fencing to the wolves’ enclosure twisted and uprooted, out they sped. The zoo figured they died in the storm, except, well, duh, they didn’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be hearing this account right now, right? Then help! would’ve been lost to the cosmos. A truly sad thought, I know. Now then, wolves, it should be noted, are wily and smart creatures, so the first thing they did was run. Free at last, free at last! In other words, once the storm broke, they found themselves as far away from humans as they could get. Eventually, they wound up along the outskirts of Granite Peak, which is the highest natural point in all of Montana, the tenth highest state highpoint in the nation. Granite Peak is also the second most difficult state highpoint to climb because of the generally poor weather and equally poor delineated pathways. Montana being so sparsely populated to begin with, the wolves could easily escape and literally never again be spotted. Which is just what they did, until, ultimately, they were spotted by the tiny likes of me. Fate! Or, you know, simply pure dumb luck. Depends on if your glass is half full, I suppose. Now then, the wolves’ story was easy enough to figure out. The tornado was public record, their escape as well. I was eventually found at the age of seven by some intrepid climbers along the slopes of Granite Peak, so that must’ve been where the wolves had escaped to. That part of the puzzle was therefore easy enough to piece together; my part, however, was far more complicated. Only recently did I uncover the pieces needed to finish that troubling puzzle of mine. Sadly, the uncovering led to that aforementioned caging, to that genius first line of help! As for being raised by the wolves, well, the memories are a bit hazy, like a dream, really. I mean, I was found by those climbers when I was seven. How much of your childhood do you remember from the age of seven and younger? Granted, my childhood was, shall we say, more feral than yours—or so I’m guessing—but still. And it was a happy childhood, of that I was certain. I was loved, tended to. I had playmates, however furry and toothy though they were. I suckled on my adopted mom’s teats as a baby—first and last time for everything—ate what the pack caught when I got older, and hunted with them until my eventual “rescue.” In other words, I had a family and learned of the world around me—not book smarts so much as street smarts, however rocky those streets might have been. It was an Eden-like upbringing, but eventually the apple was offered and promptly chomped upon. As to being rescued, it’s a term I abhor. After all, I had a good life, free of the evils of the world. I had a loving mother and family, a carefree existence. Still, I was a child, what the hell did I know? Eventually, I would’ve grown lonely, bored, more keenly aware of my differences from the pack. Evil, after all, is enticing to a human. I mean, why else would we have left Eden? For free cable and Twitter? Granted, a Big Mac is far more enticing than a bloody deer carcass, but, you know, what isn’t? Still, rescued is what I was. I’d been alone that day, out gathering berries along the pack’s outer territory. My wolf mom taught me hunting; I’d learned gathering on my own, had even fashioned a rather fetching toga out of deer hide. I guess my fashionista gene was loathe to remain dormant, even in the wilds of Montana. I spotted them below my gathering grounds, down in a valley I’d never visited before, owing to the steep descent needed to reach it. I gasped at the sight of them. They looked like me, however oddly they were dressed. They stood on two legs, moved their mouths like I did, had hair like mine, hands like mine. They were far down below, but I saw them clear as if they were twenty feet away. Again, I’m a superhero. I have superpowers, super sight. But just wait, that part of this tale is coming soon enough. Anyway, I’d never seen humans before, never even given my humanity much thought. I knew I was different from my mom and dad and siblings, but so what? They loved me in spite of my differences. Or maybe because of them. I loved them because they were my family. Love is love. Still, upon seeing these strangers, I was immediately intrigued. Adam, I’m guessing, bit that sweet, little apple for the same reason. Curiosity killed the cat—which, by the way, tastes like chicken. Not that we had chickens in that part of Montana, but cats, yeah, cats made for a tasty little snack. In other words, I risked the climb down for a closer look-see. Only, like I said, the path was steep, treacherous. And though, while super, I wasn’t impervious to tripping. Or to gravity. And when your head hits a rock, super doesn’t quite cut the mustard—which the wolves surely could’ve used, cat being rather bland. When I eventually came to, I was in a strange room of smooth white. No rocks, no trees, no shrubs, no berries, and certainly no wolves. I blinked into an unnatural light, my eyes watering, tears streaming down my cheeks. I was in a light hide of some sort. I wondered what animal it’d come from. A cold one, I figured. Mainly because I was shivering in it. I spoke. I said, “Where the f**k am I?” Only, I barked more than I actually spoke. The word f**k comes out more like a growl, by the way. The wolves didn’t think it a curse word, either. Wolves, after all, f**k like rabbits—which also taste like chicken and could’ve used some mustard. A hand reached out and smoothed my hair. I’d never been touched by a human before, at least from what I could recall. It felt nice. Not like a paw, no, but it’d do. “He’s awake,” I heard. “Do you know where you are? Do you know who you are?” The noises these animals made scared me. They didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before. I cowered beneath the strange pelt they covered me with. Again, I cried. Where was I? Where was my mom, my dad? I whimpered, I barked. I was fed a hamburger, with mustard and ketchup. Suffice it to say, I quieted down some. Why, I thought, didn’t my parents make food like this for me? And where was all the blood and—cough—fur? I cried for my mom and dad; my cries went unanswered. I cried for my brothers and sisters; I was fed a candy bar. I stopped crying. People came in, took my picture, talked to me in soothing words I couldn’t understand. I was scared, though still intrigued. I sensed I belonged, even as I missed my home and family. Men in white came in, ran tests on me. They pricked me with needles and shined lights in my eyes and looked inside my ears and mouth. I was poked and prodded and peppered with questions. I shrugged throughout, devouring the hairless, bloodless food as I watched the strange box that hung off the wall. A woman named Maude—or so I gathered—was henpecking her husband, who was named Arthur—again, or so I gathered. Me being a gatherer, like I already mentioned, my gathering abilities, even at seven, were astonishing accurate. Anyway, this Maude woman reminded me of my wolf mom, graying black hair and all. So, I ate and watched and allowed for the poking and prodding, with only a few of my own nips and bites given in return. Tit for tat, I figured. Eventually, I was taken from the white place and put inside a car. The device scared me. I’d never seen metal before—let alone an orange Prius. It might as well have been a flying saucer, for all I knew. I scraped and scratched at the glass and leather. I barked and whined. I ignored the candy. I threw the hamburger in their faces. I howled to the ceiling for my parents. What was happening to me? Where were they taking me? How were we moving so fast on these round feet? Would Arthur ever escape Maude’s clutches? Questions, questions, questions. But there were so many more to come for the likes of me, for a fish out of water, so to speak. I was taken to the home of one of the nurses. The search went out for my parents. The press camped out for several weeks hoping for a photo of me. I was kept inside. I watched TV. I ate. The nurse lady, a woman named Joan, sat with me throughout. She started to teach me her language, dressed me in clothes, cut my hair and brushed my teeth and showed me where to s**t and pee. Turns out, the corner of the living room wasn’t the best place for either. Go figure. Time went by. My parents were never found. I learned English at a rapid rate—superhero, remember? The press stopped dropping by. The pokers and prodders stopped poking and prodding. Joan and her husband, Brett, didn’t have any children. Fate, yet again. I called my new mommy Maude, for a time. She never understood why. I could never explain why. It just felt right, comforting. The years went by. The memories of my wolf parents faded. In my dreams, I could sometimes see my actual birth parents. It always felt like we were escaping something. I’d wake up in a pant. Still, I grew to love Joan and Brett. Joan and Brett grew to love me. Eventually, I called them Mom and Dad. As a child, I ran outside. I ran fast. I ran faster than the other kids, faster than the dogs in the neighborhood, faster even than the Prius—well, at least around the neighborhood. I saw great distances without the need of binoculars, heard the TV from five houses away. It was super. I was super! Wait, in keeping with my overinflated ego, SUPER! Still, I kept my abilities to myself, my id restraining my ego with a rather fetching collar. Humans, I learned, tended to be average, and tended even more to abhor difference. Me, I was anything but average and as different as a guy could get—in more ways than previously listed. But wait, that parts coming, too. In fact, here it comes now.