John Remington's Journal Entry: Circa 1984
| Supernatural: The Remington Files | |
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Team Remington Scott Remington · Marcus Remington Amanda Grey A Dose of Doctors Dr. Alexander Airy · Dr. Richard Magnum The X-Files Ciaran Brennan · Jon Clarke Razik Ericson | |
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Áine Ni Seachnasaigh Gabriel, aka Loki | |
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Contacts · Lore Index Supernatural World Dad's Journal · Agatha's Book Supernatural Ritual Compendium Roman Rite 1999 English Edition |
(Context would date this undated entry to sometime 1984, or at least while Marcus is not potty-trained.)
Linda says it would be good for me in some thereapeutic sort of way to write about stuff from the war. If you’‘re writing crap in the journal, John, then include Vietnam, because that is some serious business, she says. And it might make you feel better. I asked her if she meant by getting it all out, or something, and she said no. She’s no psych. She said it’s therapeutic because I’ve been doing this for the boys. Leave a record, because you never know what they’ll run across, and that will ease your mind up for the future. Think of the boys.
Some people say bigfoot exists. Some folk say he does. Linda says all kinds of other things exist, which pretty much confirms what I’ve been taught that big furry lost tribes of ape men most certainly do not exist.
Then there was this one time back in ‘Nam. Linda is pretty sure it’s related. The nature spirits get pissed, you see, and they pretty much do the dirty work on their own. Nature spirits don’t like it when you go cutting down trees on the best of days, and they certainly don’t like it when you go waging war, killing civvies, and laying down the napalm. Thing stunk to high hell, jus made of the worst of both of us, the worst of nature, and the worst of men, rotten to the core. And unlike the VC, who wanted us to go home first before killing us, it just wanted to kill, kill, kill.
So, tangled mess of rotted earth and vines, rotted corpses too, shunning humanity until it’s pissed enough to kill. It might just be a bigfoot. Leaves tracks like one. Never assume it’s a happy Inuit shapechanger, okay? It could just be out for blood. Kill it good and dead. Go in with a squad, firepower, and backup, and maybe some explosives. Well, I suppose the domestic variety won’t need plastics, but you get my drift - tough ass sons of bitches.
And you’re just babies. Well, one of you anyway. Seem to have the chemical warfare down at least. I should write about these things more often.