Mythos- Risk Analysis

I had been chatting with someone in an urban myths forum during my the final year in college, and they directed me to a website called “known phenomenon”. It was a cryptic site, a collection of news stories from around the globe. Disappearances, unsolved murders, genetic anomalies, natural disasters. It was fascinating and creepy all at once. I sent an email requesting more information to the website's proctor and forgot about it, lost myself in my studies.
Several months later, while deciding on what subject to base my thesis paper on, i received an email from someone calling themselves “brian”. “brian” asked me about myself, what my interest was in mythology and folklore was, where i was from. I returned his email and moments later, he replied. “brian” asked if i was willing to come and see him at his cabin in saskatchewan, and being impetuous and stupid, i agreed.
During the three bus rides, the two commuter flights, and the ferry ride to the island where “brian” lived in a dilapidated cabin, i questioned myself, wondered if “brain” was going to gut me and wear my flesh like a leisure suit, cursed my maxed credit cards and compulsion to shed light on things that were unknown to me.
“brian” was waiting at the dock in front of a horribly rusty dodge pickup. He was tall, gaunt, his beard untamed and filthy. We drove the hour up and over mountains to his cabin in dead silence.

What followed was my first interview, conducted on the twentieth of october.

Interviewer- “well, here we are. You know, this cabin is a lot nicer inside than out, i must say brian.”
(we are sitting at a cracked formica table in a small dining area. Trying not to gag on the overwhelming odor of urine and stale tobacco smoke, i wonder if these are my last moments on earth.)
Brian- “my real name is christopher, just call me chris.”
Interviewer- “ok, Chris, i have to say, your website is fascinating. Have you always been a conspiracy theorist?”
(chris leans back, lights an unfiltered cigarette, unbuttons the top button of his plaid jacket.)
Chris- “You see, there, right there, that is what i'm talking about.”
(i remember swallowing, hard, fifteen seconds into my first interview and i had offended the interviewee.)
Interviewer- “beg pardon?”
(chris gets up from the table and walks to a bookshelf that is buckling under the shear weight of the hundreds of books stacked within it, on top of it, in front of it. He retrieves what looks like a photo album and returns to the table. He slams the book down and flips it open, revealing yellowed newspaper clippings glued to every available inch of page.)
Chris- “right here, see? Five years ago a deer was born in an italian wildlife reserve with a single horn growing from the center of its head. That is a fact. I investigate facts. That video from those two kids in philly who disappeared in the subway tunnel, the disappearances of those village kids in chile, the missing fishing boats in cuba, those are factual events. I do not theorize upon falsities, i search out factual events and try to alert the public to their existence. When you call someone a conspiracy theorist, i consider that a deflamatory statement. To be PC about it, i would say i am a risk analyst of the profound and unexplained. Now, let me ask you- why did you agree to travel all this way if you thought i was just some crackpot living in the forest because i couldn't handle the medicrity of our everyday world?”
Interviewer- “to be honest, i don't know. Your website and our email correspondence piqued some kind of interest within me, i suppose. I am finishing my master's degree in ancient history, and so much of what is on your website reflects directly the type of farcical ideaology that led to the creation of the myths of the ancient civilizations. I guess i just thought of you as some kind of throwback, someone prone to believe in those things that cannot possibly be real.”
(chris sat back and pondered this.)
Chris- “that's a damn fine answer. I was a professor in toronto for fifteen years. i taught a class based around folklore and urban myth, and i too share your interest in the unexplained. Do you plan on using this interview for a thesis paper?”
interviewer- “yes, i suppose so.”
Chris- “come into the kitchen and help me with something.”
(we stand, and walk across creaking, splintered floorboards into chris' clapboard kitchen, where he retrieves a huge mixing bowl from the top of his ancient refrigerator, takes a cutting board and two knives, and opens his refrigerator door. From within the hulking beast he takes bag after bag of fruit. Oranges, apples, grapes, bananas, cantalopes. He sets them all on the cutting board and hands me a knife.)
interviewer- “uh, i am really not that hungry, chris, i would love to continue with the interview.”
chris- “cut it all up very small, and make sure you remove all of the rinds and seeds.”
interviewer- “what are we doing, exactly?”
chris- “it will be so much better if you don't know. Now, cut.”
( i begrudgingly take the knife and spend the next thirty minutes or so peeling, paring, slicing and dicing. When all the fruit had been chopped, chris hoists the bowl onto his shoulder.)
chris- “follow me.”
(i follow chris through the front swinging screen door.)
chris- “hold up here, take a seat on the porch, and be very quiet.”
(chris walks down the stairs and down the gravel driveway to where his lawn meets the treeline, looks around for a moment, and sets the bowl on a tree stump. He returns to where i sat on the porch, smiling.)
Interviewer- “what is this? Are we feeding bears? Deer? I came to interview you, not witness the majesty of nature. What is going on?”
Chris- “please, remain silent.”
(chris leans back in his rocking chair and watches the treeline. I sigh and follow his gaze.
Ten minutes passed. Then, quiet at first, then growing louder, the sound of something large moving through the brush sends a shiver down my spine. I stiffen up and strain my eyes. a clicking noise, like someone flicking their tongue against their palette, and then another. Branches snap and leaves rustle, and something i would say that was at least nine feet tall stops at the treeline, reaches out a huge hand, and takes a piece of apple from the bowl.)

“atheism is a non-profit organization.”
george carlin, 2003

“sir, do you have a moment?”
“yes, of course, johnson, all i have is time.”
“sir, there has been another sighting.”
“goddamnit. Where?”
“detroit, sir. It seems he was seen conducting a sermon outside of a known crackhouse. Then, he, uh..”
“he what, jouhnson, he did what?”
“well, it seems he said a prayer over a junkie in a wheelchair and the junkie leapt up and ran off.”
“that is bullshit. It was street magic. People are gullible, johnson, don't bring me this bullshit. Get out of my office.”
“well, that's the thing, sir. It isn't bullshit. I checked into it and the junkie was a veteran of the gulf conflict. Parapalegic, post traumatic stress, heroin addict. I contacted his senior officer and his family, it was all confirmed. Seems that after the incident with mr. X, this soldier, matthew fleck, he got a job at home depot and reunited with his ex-wife. On two feet, walking, praising mr. x.”
“fuck. We have to handle this. I don't have to tell you, this does not leave this office. Get me flood. I want everyone dealt with. Fleck, his family, witnesses, mr. x. put them all in the fucking ground.”