Another June's Tuesday!

Three years back during the campfire when Jordan called me a dork, and I retaliated by spilling Coke all over his fatty face. We didn't know the lurking horrors hidden behind. We were having fun. 

Echoed in the air was a muffled laughter, alongside the smoky fire, inside a cave where we gathered in a circle—dancing—giggling—making memories of timeless fun that never surfaced again.

My Aunt Casey prepared pancakes that day. Another June's Tuesday, 7th of June exactly when the balloon of summer raged, scorched high above. 

The day when Michael visited me alongside Jordan, Steff, The brawny genius Kepler whom I gave this title because of the name Kepler—based on a space telescope. In reality, he was another nuthead full of stuffed muscles. 

Jordan was fatty fluffed with Uncle Myre's delicious chicken nuggets crammed in his belly, but he knew the mathematics and science of living, unlike Kepler. Kepler knew shit; Kepler knew that Johnny Whales hated the idea, the very idea of dating Steff the charmster. A dream girl in a sleepless night of a puberty stricken 17-year-old boy. And Johnny Whales knew Steff the sweet pinkish brunette would never come close to holding hands together, cupid in love fantasies. Kepler disclosed Johnny's feelings in the air. Yes, Kepler knew shit!

I disgusted my identity as Johnny Whales. 

I combed when Aunt Casey taunted my long hairs, while preparing yet another omelet for breakfast—part of my morning routine. 

I sang shit in my bathroom (another morning routine) with a braying voice that always triggered the next door German Shepherd that never lived in Germany. 

Nonetheless, the owner of the dog Mr. Bukowski (who was German by birth) disliked me naming his pet Husky, (he called that German Shepherd his son, you believe me?) because you know that's a different breed. I personally liked the name and Mr. Bukowski hated my personality.

Dogs aside, I was another cat lover! Fluffy feline first introduced to me by Michael. 

He brought a kitty drenched in sand and some stenchy fluid which I didn't wanna talk about. 'Where did the stinky kitten come from? A sewer?' Too dirty. 'Was the stink of fish crept around Rogy's fur mixed in sewer's dirt?' 

Rogy the cat never went inside a sewer or a gutter as Michael said while he gave me Rogy. I named her Rogy because I wasn't good at naming. I felt names were otherworldly concepts for beasts and insects after Mr. Bukowski's speech on nomenclature. Still, I named her Rogy and she approved, littering all over the carpet the feces or as Aunt Casey said, 'fishes!'

Now the day, the beginning of nightmares. Inside The Mulberry Apartments where I stepped in the hallway led by Michael in front. My left was Jordan holding chicken nuggets in the paper basket, a nugget he chugged. Kepler was right in the obscurely wrong way, hitting his muscled heels against the wooden floorboards. 

I should've told the brawny genius about German Shepherd when we exited for the campfire in a cave near Garnish forest, Dubi river which cascades north from Merania's Sloppy hills downwards the south of Korret, streaming along the whole forest. 

That was that, but I never told him about German Shepherd; unluckily, Husky the son of Mr. Bukowski was an inch away, tearing a chunk off Kepler's calf.

Kepler sprinted to my left side on the verge of tears. 'Crybaby,' I whispered.

"A brawn head with a damn cat printed shirt," Mr. Bukowski growled alongside Husky. "You are lucky because last time he tore something like a stuffed toy in a million pieces."

"Was it cat shaped?" I inquired curiously.

Mr. Bukowski penetrated his pointy stare toward the group of five, especially me. 

"You care?" he questioned back.

I closed my distance with Husky, stooped, patted his head. Kepler hissed as he clung on Jordan, Jordan pissed as he lost concentration on his chicken nuggets. Kepler backed away, sensing hostility from his good (best for his chicken nuggets) friend. Steff confused as she waited back for the commotion to halt. And Michael was doing what Michael should be in a scenario like this. Leading the front.

"There's some kind of confusion, sir. Your dog attacked us, growled at us. And you are treating it like a child's play. Respect a human is the first teaching one should impart to his/her pet," Michael's speech was full of eloquence.

Michael's father, Uncle Terry, was a biologist plus a doctor who got his medical degree from Zoomed Medical University. Main point was Uncle Terry's orator skill. Something Michael boasted on a daily basis. It was so often that the countless days were like another june's tuesday. Unforgettable loop of 24 hours.

"Who are you brat? And why should I care about filthy humans like you when I already gave Sky his rabies shot?" Mr. Bukowski said, irritated.

Sky was the dog's original name. I preferred calling the name I gave, regardless. It's like 'Hu-Sky,' but I called him 'Husky' (Huski). Pet names that never make sense.

Michael stood beside me, around my own height—5'9. His body structure was the same as ever the last time we hit the gym together. We both left because of the love of calisthenics. Pull ups, push ups, squats repeatedly on the beat every morning in the nearby Holly's Park. 

Michael weighed similarly all the same. 69.5 kg along his chiseled body and mine was around 68.5 kg, but Michael insisted on hitting the mark of 69 together. 500 gram gap of glory.

"I care, Mr. Bukowski, and please teach your dog about surroundings and mannerism in front of people. Who knows when a psycho will shoot Husky out of fear. His teeths are the proper embodiment of horror," I said, backing away.

"Guys we should go, mom wants me at home around 9 o'clock. It's past twelve already," Steff muffled in her sweet voice.

"Who's Husky? Damn Johnny that's my last warning. Never. Ever. SAY THAT NAME AGAIN," Mr. Bukowski shouted his throat out.

Before I could reply and begin a back and forth argumentation of why the name Husky sounds great, Michael pulled me over. He shot a final glance at Husky and Mr. Bukowski before we stepped out of the apartment building. 

Michael knew my weakness, my short tempered personality. I knew everyone's weakness. I have to; survival of the fittest. Either my Aunt Casey or my best buddy Michael, every minute details about their personalities—hobbies—the favorite color of Michael, pink and 'Yuck!' disgusting. 'Girlish choice!'.

Under the rampage of the boiling sun we walked the streets of Korret, soaked in sweat. I walked shoulder to Michael, kicking the stone which finally found an escape route underneath a sewerage. 

"Are we staying 7 hours straight in that cave? I'm claustrophobic and I heard deadly spiders lived in a similar kind of habitat," Kepler spoke uneasily to Jordan, who gulped the last piece of his chicken nugget.

"Ghosts too, Kepler. I watched a documentary film about it." Jordan burped and continued, "Ghosts that'll creep around your guts when you stop thinking about non threatening spiders."

"Is that what the documentary said? They are awfully truthful or you are making things up. Which one is it?" Kepler halted then walked again catching up with Jordan.

"Whichever you like, Kepler," I joined the conversation.

"Johnny, how can that be possible? Statistically you are wrong. Unless." Kepler puckered his brows thoughtfully.

"Yup, he is joking around Kepler, don't bother," Michael interjected as the entrance of Garnish Forest came into sight.

"I thought—"

"You thought shit Kepler, didn't you?"

"—Jordan himself made that documentary," Kepler finished the sentence, disgusted.

"Gotcha! like I always did. You never learn and fall over and over again," I demoralized him.

I laughed alone at Kepler's stupidity. And if Michael and Jordan thought I hated Kepler then we lived in a free world of free thoughts. 

I hated Kepler bone crushingly. I wanted to stomp his stupid face beneath my Jordan shoes. Not Jordan the stuffy, but real Jordan branded shoes. I would tear his jaw and fill his mouth with shit and dirt. Kepler already was shit, beyond the awful smell of his yellow teeths that stinks like onions fried in fish oil. Literal oil directly from the belly of fish. Nausea was my norm around Kepler and his stinky breath. And life was never lively again, never fragrant.

I thought I was the only one who laughed at his stupidity. Steff broke too, a slightly mild giggle barely heard by insects. She told us about the cave which her Uncle Muse discovered while on his way back from fishing. A basket full of Carps, some Crabs, an eel fish which was a rare site in Dubi river held in Uncle Muse's right hand. Left hand gripped the fishing pole and his backpack on shoulder contained the fishing net. He fumbled near the cave when his eel fish jumped off the basket and looped its way near the bushes. Beyond was an opening the size of a bear, which many visitors in some point of time might have neglected because they don't have an eel to guide.

When Steff related the discovery to Michael, the immediate response wasn't that of a shock or an O shaped mouth. It was a grin. Grin that led us to a nightmare. Nightmare which haunted us in Korret. Korret, the town of lively generations that never laughed again.

In Korret, only giggles echoed. Sometimes heartly—sometimes gleefully.