distance, and the hunt is on. Run, little fox, or the dogs will catch you, and the men with their rifles will sight you and shoot you and skin you and eat you.
In many ways, it’s the same as it always was, little fox, but clearly the rules have changed. What was once a fair challenge has been overwhelmingly tilted into the favor of the hunters. Where once you might have had thousands and thousands of acres in which to evade the hunters’ bullets and knives, now there are fences and dangerous highways and other critters fighting for the same slight refuge.
Run through the woods, little fox, but already the dogs have your scent, and the men on their horses are getting closer. You can smell their rancid stench and hear their excited yells.
There has always been a hunt. Once upon a time, little fox, a man alone would chase your ancestor on foot, armed perhaps with a club or a makeshift blade of questionable durability. A man alone chasing a fox – that was a fair contest, and it didn’t always end in bloodshed.
You’re a wily one, little fox, though I’m not sure turning back to their cabin will be of much use. There, they have additional implements of killing, all the tools of cooking, and boxes and boxes of ammunition.
There’s a gunshot. They’ve taken a rabbit. I’m sorry, little fox; that might have been your dinner tonight. Yes, there’s a moment of celebration amongst the hunters, but don’t mistake their brief joy for satisfaction. There are not after rabbit, though it will make a fine stew. The hunt is still on.
Ah, I see you’ve already got a way inside the cabin, so even if they locked the doors you’re safely inside. Look around, little fox. See if there’s anything to help you. The dogs are fast on your trail. You haven’t got much by way of time.
The hunters circle the cabin in two groups, surrounding it from both directions. I count five of them, little fox, and three dogs – too many to fight on your own.
I wonder: are you alone, little fox?
You’re desperate. The dogs won’t stop barking. Two of the hunters have dismounted and approach the door. What will they do to you, little fox, if they catch you alive? The dogs have found your point of entrance. There’s no way out of the cabin.
Obviously, little fox, you are done running, and you’ve transformed, taking on your feminine aspect, which an age ago might have been a surprise to these hunters but not today.
I admit, little fox, you are a beautiful creature.
They’re inside, the two of them, and you’re waiting for them gloriously nude and perfectly displayed. Even seasoned hunters such as these can be momentarily distracted by such fine, delicate grace. They don’t even see the rifle in your hands – one of their own – until you’ve pulled the trigger. Crafty little fox. You’re quick enough with the second shot, and accurate with both – but the other three, the younger hunters, less experienced but more emotional, come quick behind them with weapons already raised.
The next shot takes out the middle hunter. Sly little fox, you didn’t fire it. The front hunter, surprised, turns but never fully realizes what has happened. Your shot is low this time, and you must shoot again rather than mercilessly prolong his agony.
You drop the rifle after that. You run to the last hunter. He opens his arms to catch your embrace. You kiss, the hunter and the little fox in human guise, the forbidden lovers. You shut the door to keep out the dogs. You have fresh rabbit for stew. You have the warmth of his mortal body, nearly as perfect in its masculinity as yours in its femininity. You’re both strong, and your lovemaking wild, and you feed your hunter the most incredible of dreams.
In the morning, little fox, you leave him, and in pity you give the dogs the leftover rabbit, and you go back to your own world.
But I know your secret, little fox – your secret hunter lover. I know your passions go deep. I know how it breaks your heart to leave him.
I feel sad for you, little fox, but I will keep your secret. For now.
21 January
Corvette Stingray.
Let that sink in a moment. You’ve probably got a pre-conceived notion that looks a lot like mine: a ’72 with curves over those front tires, long and sleep, a fast as hell work of art.
For a long time, the Corvette was America’s premiere sports car. But there have been several re-designs, economic upheavals, a changing face of corporate America. In 1982, the last Stingray rolled off the assembly line.
Someone should have noticed. Chevy sold 30 or 40 thousand of them every year. It was an icon, a member of the pop culture elite, yet at some point it became merely the de-facto answer to the midlife crisis.
For a brief time, I had the chance to drive a white ’95 Corvette. It was, unfortunately, an automatic. But the power. Seriously, when the light turns green in a regular car, you let go of the brake and apply some gas to move that car forward. With the Corvette, you’re restraining a beast with your foot jammed down on that brake; let up just a little, it will burst forward.
In its heart, the Corvette has always been such a beast. And maybe we didn’t notice when they started to tame down its look – maybe a bit more aerodynamic but losing some level of excitement. What was once distinctive became almost mundane. Only 11,647 new Corvettes were brought to the world in 2012. 13,596 in 2011. There hasn’t been a major re-design in nine years. The Corvette, sadly, was becoming just another car.
Yes, it’s still an icon. It’s got 60 years of history. It is still the dream car du jour of many red-blooded Americans. But ask around a bit, and you’ll find people looking to the past, to the ’63 or the ’72, maybe the ’58 or the ’67. You think of Alan Shepard, whose ‘Vette is displayed at the Kennedy Space Center. You think of Price’s Red Corvette. You think of Route 66.
The truth is, the Corvette never stopped being America’s premiere sports car. It never gave up any of its power or magnificence. However, in popular culture, its excitement has dwindled.
There hasn’t been a Stingray since 1982. Not until now.
It’s new. It looks like a Corvette should – how the Stingray would have evolved into the 21st Century.
They say it’s got 450 horses, that it’s the most fuel efficient Corvette ever, that it’s given up its fiberglass for composite and carbon-fiber, and its all-new V-8 goes from 0 to 60 in under four seconds. General Motors knows you might not buy it; but they hope you’ll come to look at the Corvette and still go home with a new Chevy. Maybe a Malibu.
I don’t care about any of that. I want to get behind the wheel of one of these new Stingrays, drop it into gear, and unleash the new beast.
The excitement is back.
22 January
The old god huddled under his blanket, crouched in the middle of the living room, shivering, cursing in forgotten languages. He hadn’t paid the electric bill again. He also hadn’t eaten anything but a raw, scrawny rat he’d managed to catch – what, three days ago?
It was a blizzard out there, the likes of which were unheard of in his old country. There, it had been glory and warmth year round, and his people had marched far in every direction to conquer in his name. There’d been women, endless feasts, music – he missed the music most.
Another night, he might’ve escaped his misery by finding a band at any bar or club. It didn’t matter if they worshipped blues, soul, country, or rap, so long as they were loud and earnest. But this night, the coldest of the year – of his life, which had indeed been a long one – the whole city had shut down. The snow fell harshly and heavily, the wind was relentless, the windows fought a losing battle to keep the cold outside.
It didn’t help, not having heat.
The window – his basement apartment had only one – had frosted over, inside as well as out. There were laws, he thought, that should’ve keep his lights on at a time like this.
Once upon a time, there had been sacrifices, volcanoes and storytellers, oracles and fortune tellers, dancing girls, and so much music. He could almost, even now, hear one of those ancient rhythms. It made him smile, though the smile cracked his brittle skin and h
urt.
He didn’t used to feel pain.
He should have been dead. Old gods went away and died, or were overthrown, vanquished, destroyed, obliterated. Strengths faded with time. Immortality was a myth.
Yet he had survived so many thousands of years, soldiering for a time, leading bandits, hiding amongst Visigoths and barbarians and crusaders, but time proved unkind.
There were no other gods as old as he. Death, in its mercy, took them all.
Now this last old god shivered and waited for a mercy that refused to come.
He’d had his time. He’d wasted it. He never understood the ways of Change, except in the forms of music. Music always changed and grew. It was an area of expertise, of explicit joy.
Definitely, in this tiny broken apartment, enveloped by a living, breathing freeze, he heard sounds he had not heard in thousands of years. It wasn’t much, three instruments only – a string, a wind, and a drum – but they were, as far as he was concerned, the original instruments, and they played the very first song.
Long ago, he had heard this song in temples and shrines and palaces. He had danced with mortals and goddesses alike, drinking wine and gorging themselves on the flesh of their lovers.
He opened his eyes. He’d been drifting, near to sleep, lulled by so impossible and familiar a song. It did not come from inside his head.
He roused himself, no easy task. He shed the blanket. His skin