Not Titled Yet (standard:adventure, 3396 words)
Author: Spotlight	Added: Apr 08 2002	Views/Reads: 3455/2483	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Just another humorous tale of a man changed into a fox with superpowers and his adventures to save the world from aliens and the government and Native Americans. (Chapters 1 and 2 included)

1 

Yesterday had been a good day for Matt.  He had finally paid the last
payment on his Toyota pick-up truck and somehow life seemed to fit into 
place. 

A smile lit his chapped lips, like a jackolantern of relative
contentment at the moment, while the dull, slightly popping roar of the 
faded metallic-blue truck glid along with unease.  The radio blared 
silently, waiting for his finger to gently touch the "on" switch.  But, 
Matt's right fingers were busy driving, while his left set were opening 
and closing to air currents, his elbow extending further out the window 
then the mirror.  Matt swerved around a tight corner, his mind suddenly 
having a creative idea about a guy who would scream his whole life, at 
everyone, especially people he didn't know, and then finally when he's 
put in a home, they find out half his brain is a terrier's brain, but 
he lost the idea when the corner was done and tried to search for it in 
his head for the next five minutes.  He knew it started with a "g", or 
something close. 

Some dirt crinkled and broke apart like sand in a wind tunnel, across
his floating fingers, followed by a few particles of dust between the 
tan joints.  His worn blue jeans were surprisingly spotless, except 
around the ankles where the ridges touched steel toed leather boots.  
His bleached white t-shirt appeared spotless over his pudgy gut, muddy 
handprints hidden beneath the tucked sides, another startling fact 
considering the nature of construction work.  Today, four hours early, 
he was sent home with the promise of a paycheck in the bank, and 
compensation for the afternoon.  Three months of government roadwork at 
forty-one dollars an hour, was complete, and the final inspections this 
morning were smooth and quick under the cover of thick, white clouds 
and a stiff breeze.  Matt was not pondering any of this, having dwelled 
on every method of relaxation he would force himself to endure for the 
next few weeks, over the last three hours of his daily commute.  
Actually, he was still pondering this a little, but more of his effort 
was focused on thinking about nothing for a while. 

So, the road went by unnoticed, and the emptiness of the road went by
unnoticed, and the ominousness of it all went by unnoticed and trees 
passed by, and the road curved some more.  And after three hours and 11 
minutes, and 231 miles of Highway and country back roads, Matt steered 
onto the gravel driveway that belonged to his home, a double-wide, 
light blue trailer complete with an awkward looking two car garage 
painted dark green.  His nearest neighbor lived a quarter-mile away, 
through dense forest.  The house stood, off-centered by the garage, in 
a circular, man-made clearing, leveled and green with Bermudan grass 
freshly cut in eye-catching patterns that Matt idly formed with his 
riding lawnmower.  A single telephone pole arched wires to the roof, 
and on the ground ruined every single one of his planned patterns.  
Matt had once left a ring of uncut grass in a perfect circle around his 
house to bypass the telephone pole and still make a simple, decorative 
statement.  This idea worked for about three weeks until he happened to 
step across the knee high mess and step into a snake burrow, twisting 
his ankle and franticly hopping away from a perturbed copperhead. 

His right hand swung effortlessly close to the silent radio dial as Matt
turned off the ignition, letting the truck engine happily collapse to 
silence.  No dogs barked or cats meowed, because Matt didn't have any.  
But, Matt did have a yellow Iroc-Z parked in the second space of his 
two car garage, but it was covered with a cotton sheet covered in lots 
of dust and four paint cans at the corners which were empty so as not 
to injure the paintjob.  Matt consciously patted the car that day, 
laughed, and then smiled like a jackolantern of relative contentment 
again, rubbing the dust from his hands.  Three years ago, Matt had lost 
the keys to the car. 

Inside his house, the television buzzed with news reporters across all
stations, but the cord was unplugged.  Matt set down his keys on the 
kitchen table, and ripped the soiled boots off his feet, tearing the 
brown socks along with them.    After a quick, healthy stop at the 
toilet, Matt rewrapped his swollen ankle and remembered that it started 
with an "s", not a "g" and hit himself in the head.  He then made faces 
in the bathroom mirror for five minutes. 

Somewhere along the way to a chicken salad sandwich in the refrigerator,


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