Whiteout

Here is the second in a series of 3 ideas I have created for my NanoWriMo (November Write A Novel Month) idea. Let me know what you think. Only 3 days until the start!

Whiteout

By, Ashton Macaulay

     “So you want to know about the yeti.” The man is taken aback by my question. Clearly he thought there was going to be some sort of conversational foreplay before we reached this topic. I’ve never been a fan of small-talk, and since I’ve been back, the yeti seems all that people want to talk about.

     “Y-Yes.” He stammers uncomfortably. I’ve never seen a man try to talk and take a diplomatic sip of his tea at the same time, but the result is a burnt abdomen. “AH!” He shrieks, dropping the cup to the floor where it shatters on an oriental rug that no doubt costs less than the person he paid to find me.

     How did he find me anyway? “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to startle you. Here, let me help.” I bend to one knee and pick up the pieces of broken china. On the side there are horses, or llamas, something with fur and legs. I find that I am more interested in what used to be on those cups than recounting the tale of which this man seems to have so much interest in.

     “No, no, quite alright. Yes, I want to know about The Yeti.”

     Course he does, everyone does. This man is no different from the rest. He’s never been on the mountain, hell he’s probably never even been above 15,000 feet. The rolls of his belly threaten to burst from his patiently ironed white shirt. The man probably has trouble climbing out of bed, much less a mountainside. “That’s a long story. Why don’t you ask me your question so we can get to the answer quicker?”

     “I don’t know what you mean by question. I want to know your tale, all of it. Start at the beginning.”

     The beginning. Very descriptive. His fat little hands are quaking with the anticipation of someone who has just found a roll of quarters between the couch and intends to buy sweets with them. My hatred for him grows by the minute as every inch of his body seems to anger me in some way. He is lazy, circuitous, and rich. A long time ago I might have idolized his wealth, but the mountains change people.  

     “Look, I don’t have time for this. A woman told me that you might be interested in hiring me, but if The Yeti story is all you want, then I’m out of here.” I’m out of the chair and headed for the door. There’s no room for respectable monster hunters in the world anymore. All anyone wants is the spectacle, and that’s something I’m not willing to give them.

     “I can pay you.” That stops me in my tracks. I may not want to be rich anymore, but the rumbling in my belly is something that cynicism and isolation alone cannot satisfy. Something about him strikes me as familiar, but I can’t quite place it. “Three-Thousand, for the story, from beginning to end. I won’t record it, I won’t publish it, I just want to hear it.”

     “Three-thousand for a story? You must be some kind of bored pal.”

     “Call it curiosity. I’m a man of complex interests, and your story has peaked them. Will you stay?”

     A little spectacle never hurt anyone. Come on, he would have wanted it. He always loved the fame and glory of it all. “Your money has peaked mine. I’ll tell it, but I’m going to need a drink…”