…IN THE MOST remote uninhabited region of Amazonian jungle, three friends gathered.
“I’m telling you. They’ll find us!” said Bogeyman, his voice like a bass guitar.
Yeti nodded sagely, fidgeting his large feet. “It is only a matter of time..”
“You’re the idiot that managed to get yourself caught on film!” Chupacabra threw the barb Yeti’s way, needlessly shouting as a result of his Napoleon complex. “And why is the Bogeyman here? You’re meant to be seen! You should be under a bed somewhere!”
Bogeyman looked over from his tree stump, head low, his eyes sad. “I don’t like doing it anymore…I want to make people happy. To like me for who I am.”
El Chupacabra looked disgusted at such weakness, and glanced at Yeti to gauge his reaction.
“I am sweating like a mother fucker…It was so much more homely in the Himalayas. I cannot last in the jungle my friends.”
“You’re ditching us? Great!” Chupacabra looked at Bogeyman, wondering if he could abide his melancholy by himself or whether to make the dangerous journey back to Mexico. That got him thinking. “Yeti, how the hell did you make it from Tibet and cross an ocean?!”
Yeti wiped copious amounts of sweat away with a furry forearm, already drenched. “I chose wisely. I made the journey over two days: on Halloween followed by a plane journey packed with ComicCon fans. Nobody suspected a thing.” His face brightened. “Actually, I won first place in a costume competition on the way down here too.”
The other two nodded. They loved to hear Yeti tell stories.
“I do miss the mountains, the snow underfoot, devouring climbers…And in my homeland, some referred to me as ‘the real Chewbacca’. I had fame, and things to eat…” From the glaze of nostalgia Yeti patted his belly, “Look how much weight I’ve lost. I cannot live off primitive amazon civilisations forever. They taste…different, weird.”
Chupacabra licked his lips, fiending for a goat. The familiar flesh, the strong taste. Jungle pecary’s didn’t satisfy him. He knew how Yeti felt.
“What do you eat Bogeyman?” fired Chupacabra, looking to create animosity.
He took his time to answer. “Nothing…and I feel so…empty.”
“Jeeez. The moods low enough.”
Yeti piped up. “Why are we hiding? Maybe people could accept us for who we are?”
Bogeyman turned what looked like a head, slowly. “They won’t. Trust me Yeti, they never will.”
“For once I agree,” said Chupacabra agitating, rocking side to side on his stump.
Watching sweat ooze out of himself, Yeti looked disgusted, then stood up defiantly. “I’m sick of this! I’m leaving. I’m going to Hollywood. Who’s with me?”
Chupacabra mulled it over, but figured with all the gangland activity he would be shot within a month or become some drug cartels pet, to be reported on by Sean Penn. He shook his head, “I’m staying.”
Bogeyman craved to be under a bed or hide in a closet, to see the terrified face of a child but could not bring himself to leave. He needed time to reinvent himself, to find himself, to get rid of the addiction. “Me too.”
Yeti shrugged. “I’ll myth you.” And crashing into the jungle he went.