Hug Chickenpenny

by S. Craig Zahler

  The teratologist hung the bundle upon the fence, reached into his left pocket, and withdrew a pair of laboratory goggles. These he affixed to the lumpy head of the adopted specimen, who then hissed, squirmed, wriggled, mewled, and grew calm.

  Doctor Hannersby reclaimed Hug from the fence.

  Protected, the anomalous baby tilted his head back. The sun shone brightly upon his thick black goggles.

  “That hellish orb of conflagration is called the sun,” stated the teratologist. “It provides light and heat for the various inhabitants of planet Earth—animals and animalcules; plants and fungi; regular people and those of teratological interest.”

  Hug slid his right arm through the wrapping. His four fingers trembled as he strained to touch the sun.

  A dog barked, startling the anomalous baby, who then hissed.

  “Focus your disparate eyes on these unique beasts!”

  Doctor Hannersby repositioned Hug to face The Canine Corral.

  Running up to the fence were two of the teratologist’s favorite dogs.

  One possessed five legs, and the other had a bald, venous, and grossly swollen cranium.

  “Fivepaw and Genius, I’d like to introduce Hug Hannersby, the newest specimen in The Hannersby Collection. Please make him feel welcome.”

  Genius barked thrice.

  Fivepaw stood mute and still.

  A moment of silence passed.

  Embarrassed, Genius growled at Fivepaw.

  The admonished dog barked a friendly salutation to the anomalous baby.

  Through oversized goggles, Hug stared at the canines.

  Doctor Hannersby descried and pointed to a dog that was currently loping toward the gathering. “Licker is en route.”

  The third animal neared the gate. Wagging in the dog’s left eye socket was a dripping tongue.

  Two welcoming barks were sounded.

  The teratologist carried his adopted specimen to the opposite side of the house, where stood the entrance of an enormous barn. Hinged creaked as he opened the door.

  Doctor Hannersby walked through the entryway and removed the goggles from Hug, whose pupils then dilated at different rates.

  “That ocular discrepancy of yours is quite splendid.”

  The teratologist carried the anomalous baby onto the dirt path that lay between the stalls. Somewhere in the dark vastness, a cow mooed.

  Doctor Hannersby swiveled Hug and gestured grandly. “Contained within the Barnatorium are many of the finest specimens in The Hannersby Collection.”

  The teratologist took one step forward, which officially commenced the tour. This important stride was followed by a bit of walking.

  Doctor Hannersby stopped, repositioned Hug, and gestured. “Look thither—”

  In the first stall stood a full-grown sheep that was no larger than a house cat.

  “This specimen is a pygmy sheep.”

  Shifting in the bundle, Hug appraised the little woolly creature.

  “Other than its stature, it is normal.”

  This was not uttered complimentarily. Doctor Hannersby had never been impressed by the anomalousness of the pygmy sheep.

  At present, the teratologist carried his adopted specimen past an empty stall to one that contained a two-headed pig.

  “This is self-explanatory.”

  The anomalous baby looked at the porcine specimen.

  Four pink eyes momentarily lifted from a pile of slop.

  Doctor Hannersby carried Hug five strides forward and stopped outside of a double-sized compartment. “The specimen herein is worthy of discussion.”

  Inside the stall and gazing at a window stood a small llama that had brindled silver fur.

  “This quadruped is a Sentinel Llama. It can see across vast distances, much farther than can any bird or modern day spyglass.”

  Oblivious of the visitors, the creature stared dolorously at a vast and distant mountain range that was visible through a wire-mesh window.

  “Years ago, during spring, the Sentinel Llama had stared at one spot in those far-off mountains for a continuous period of three days. It was later discovered that a hiker had dropped a sandwich at the exact location upon which the llama had been focused!”

  Happily, the teratologist recalled this irrefutable confirmation of the Sentinel Llama’s preternatural eyesight.

  The anomalous baby surveyed the silver animal.

  “It is currently unknown whether its eyes or its cerebral processes are responsible for its highly superior vision, but should I outlive this specimen, an eye transplant of the interspecies variety shall provide me with an answer!”

  Contemplating illegal surgery, Doctor Hannersby continued forward, stopped, and aimed Hug at the next compartment.

  Inside this sparse, metal-reinforced cell stood a jet-black goat that had a red whorl on its chest and white, blind eyes.

  Hug shrank within his bundle. “The Devil Goat of Nagathraxis. As a newborn, the Devil Goat killed and consumed its mother, its father, and all nine of its siblings. Its original owner then sold it—cheaply—to a circus in the Far East that promptly placed it in a sideshow. Somehow, the Devil Goat burned down the sideshow, and following that incident, the barns of its two subsequent owners.”

  Doctor Hannersby shook an admonishing finger at the Devil Goat. “Bad boy!”

  Inscrutably, the black creature stared at the teratologist with its white, blind eyes.

  “I am unable to explain how the Devil Goat of Nagathraxis can manufacture a conflagration, but whether this is accomplished by frictional activity or by some flammable chemical that its body produces or by unholy means, this specimen’s pyromaniacal activities are now over.”

  Pleased with himself, Doctor Hannersby grinned.

  “Since my acquisition of the Devil Goat, I have detected the odors of charred hay, singed wood, and burnt fur upon my entering the Barnatorium, but on none of these occasions was there any fire, thanks to my installation of these!—”

  Doctor Hannersby tilted Hug back so that he might better survey the ceiling.

  From the wooden support beams sprouted eight iron sprinkler heads.

  Hug blinked, sequentially, and tilted his head down so that he could look at the Devil Goat.

  White, blind eyes gazed back at the anomalous baby.

  Hug hissed.

  Doctor Hannersby gestured importantly. “This is a very expensive specimen, since it is of both teratological and demonological interest.”

  Blindly, the Devil Goat of Nagathraxis observed the humans.

  Doctor Hannersby sniffed the air, smelled no smoke, and carried Hug along the path to another stall.

  This very large compartment was occupied by a plump old moose, which was currently staring into a dark corner.

  The teratologist sighed.

  “This specimen has proven to be a tremendous disappointment to me thus far. An effervescent woman of advanced years who had lived alone in the woods for five decades told me in great detail of this animal’s elocutionary abilities—albeit in monosyllabic words.”

  Another sigh issued from the frowning mouth of Doctor Hannersby as he recalled the money, effort, and time that he had wasted on this specimen.

  “In short, the observer reported that this moose’s lexicon included such words as ‘yes,’ ‘food,’ and ‘friend,’ but I’ve not once ever heard anything intelligible emerge from its mouth. Blast!”

  Startled, the moose faced the teratologist.

  Hope blossomed within the compact chest of Doctor Hannersby. At present, he tucked the bundled baby under his left arm and walked up to the railing.

  “Friend . . . ?” the teratologist suggested to the moose.

  The animal took a step forward and opened its mouth.

  “Friend . . . ?” repeated Doctor Hannersby, whose pulse was quickening.

  The moose sneezed. Lugubriously, the animal turned away and resumed its itinerary of staring into the dark corner.

  Hope died within the teratologis
t, who had learned from this debacle to doubt the testimony of crones who lived alone in the woods.

  The tour resumed in a separate room that contained sixteen chicken coops. A hanging bulb that mimicked blue daylight illuminated these cages, which were empty, excepting one that was covered by a thick black cloth.

  “My Poultrytorium—which should never be confused with an aviary!—is inchoate at present, though its first occupant is one of my finest teratological specimens.”

  Hug gurgled.

  Doctor Hannersby seized and yanked the chain that was attached to the blue light bulb. Darkness spread throughout the room.

  “Allow a moment for dilation.”

  A brown eye, two bulbous blue eyes, and a red eye gradually adjusted to the dark. The teratologist walked to the covered cage, withdrew the fabric, and held the anomalous baby at a favorable angle.

  Hanging from the top of the coop by its clenched talons was a black, plump, and upside-down chicken. The creature was currently asleep.

  “The West Caribbean Bat-Chicken,” Doctor Hannersby whispered to Hug. “There are seven others in existence, though this one is by far the least intelligent.”

  Undisturbed and inverted, the portly Bat-Chicken slept.

  The teratologist wondered if the bird were dreaming of the islands.

  Watching the slumbering specimen, the anomalous baby yawned.

  The inside of his mouth appeared to be a very interesting shade of purple.

  “Splendid.”

  Doctor Hannersby recovered the coop and carried Hug to an isolated stall that was in the southernmost portion of the Barnatorium.

  Most of this huge compartment was filled by a bull that had twenty-seven horns.

  The anomalous baby shrank into his bundle.

  “This specimen was acquired by me for its pecuniary value. Extra horns are quite common anomalies and not of much teratological interest, though this fellow certainly has an uncommon number of pokers. Three different arenas in Spain are already interested in purchasing Spearblossom for their bullfights.”

  Spearblossom snorted.

  Hug hissed.

  Agitated, the bull swished its massive tail and groaned.

  The anomalous baby mewled.

  Spearblossom stamped its hooves.

  Concerned, Doctor Hannersby considered the situation. “An abridged tour of the estate should provide ample stimuli for—”

  Hug shrieked.

  Spearblossom roared. Twenty-seven horns were lowered in anticipation of a very elaborate goring.

  Frightened, the teratologist wrapped the baby’s screaming head, held him close to his compact chest, and fled.

  “To be resumed at a later date!”

  ———

  Safely evacuated from the Barnatorium, Doctor Hannersby elbowed shut the front door of his home and carried Hug deeper into the foyer, which was decorated with portraits of anomalous circus persons. The teratologist paused in front of a sepia-toned photograph of a tented wagon that bore a sign for The Highly Odd Hannersby Roadshow.

  “My grandparents.”

  Hug blinked his red eye and yawned.

  “Presently, I shall escort you to your stall.”

  Doctor Hannersby carried Hug down hallways, through the Skullatorium, up three creaky flights of stairs, along a narrow passage, and into a room, which was dusty and covered with peeling, brown-and-green wallpaper. Books, discarded medical apparatuses, a bucket of draconian bone saws, and scores of opaque jars were scattered throughout the enclosure. Upon a wooden cot that lacked a mattress stood a chicken coop.

  The teratologist carried the anomalous baby toward this cage.

  “I apprehend that this bedding is a bit substandard, but once I sell Spearblossom, I’ll purchase for you a proper upgrade . . .”

  Leaning over, Doctor Hannersby set Hug upon the crumpled newspapers that covered the bottom of the chicken coop.

  Headlines crinkled as the anomalous baby stretched out his four-fingered hand and kicked his strong leg.

  The teratologist patted his adopted specimen on the head, turned off a standing lamp, and exited the room.

  “Sleep well.”

  Gently, Doctor Hannersby shut the door.

  ———

  Hinges squeaked, and a latch clicked. Darkness filled the room, excepting only the few rays of moonlight that sneaked through the filthy window. No mobiles of outer space hung over the chicken coop in which lay Hug Hannersby.

  Mismatched eyes dilated, blinked, and sparkled.

  “Georgie . . . ?”

  IX | The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences

  Seated upon mismatched leather chairs in the center of the luxuriously carpeted parlor was the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. This grand trio was comprised of a rotund, red-faced, seventy-one-year-old who was named Sidney; Phalanges, a tall, skinny, and bald octogenarian with uncommonly long (and dirty) fingers; and the founder, Doctor Hannersby. All three men held pipes and wore dubious formal attire.

  Smoke rose while the oldsters ruminated.

  Thinking importantly, Sidney leaned forward in his chair and surveyed a bowl, which contained nothing but a very small amount of viridescent liquid. “I propose that the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences acquires another can of boiled peanuts.”

  Phalanges nodded his skeletal head. “Sounds good to me.”

  “I shall requisition another can,” stated Doctor Hannersby, who then pulled upon the cord that hung beside the arm of his chair, pulled again, and pulled a third time. “The acolyte shall arrive presently.”

  Sidney licked his lips. “I hope he’s not delayed.”

  Doctor Hannersby eyed Phalanges. “How are your mycological studies coming along?”

  “Very well. Since our last meeting, I boarded up all the windows in my house.”

  The teratologist did not at all understand the meaning of this response, and the red face of the portliest oldster displayed the same lack of comprehension.

  “And why was that, Phalanges?” inquired Sidney. “Why did you decide to board it up?”

  “I ran out of space in my work shed and the garage and over in the guest shack and needed to bring the collection inside. I couldn’t risk too much direct sunlight falling upon my little babies, now could I?”

  “Definitely not,” affirmed Doctor Hannersby, who was impressed by how thoughtfully Phalanges had cared for his mushrooms. “And how did Mrs. Phalanges react to relocation of so many mycological specimens to the domestic area?”

  “She filed for divorce.”

  “Did she?” inquired the teratologist.

  “Yes. Though fortunately, she didn’t want any of the mushrooms.”

  “That’s the important thing,” remarked Sidney, who was visibly relieved.

  Squeaks emanated from behind a closed door and turned the heads of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences.

  There was a gentle knock.

  “You may enter,” Doctor Hannersby called out with no small amount of importance.

  The door opened.

  Into the room walked Hug Hannersby, who wore a tailored red tuxedo, a white shirt, and a bowtie (all of which came from a ventriloquist dummy) and shiny loafers that were two different sizes. Atop the lumpy head of the four-year-old was a neatly combed mass of white hair. His curved leg was supported by a metal brace, and his limp left arm was missing.

  “The acolyte is here,” remarked Sidney.

  Doctor Hannersby was impressed by how professional Hug looked that evening. The dummy’s red tuxedo fit him very well.

  Across the carpet strode the anomalous boy. His lopsided gait was awkward, but did not retard his rate of progress overmuch.

  In the middle of the room, Hug stopped, caught his breath, and faced Doctor Hannersby. “You jingled?”

  “I did. The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences is in need of additional bri
ned legumes.”

  “Is that all?”

  “For the moment.”

  The brace on the anomalous boy’s left leg squeaked as he turned from the oldsters and ambled from the room.

  Sidney and Phalanges nodded in approbation, and Doctor Hannersby swelled with pride.

  “He’s a very well-trained acolyte,” remarked the portly phrenologist. “The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences appreciates his work.”

  “You’ve done real well with that specimen,” added the mycologist, whose long, dirty fingers were elaborately tented. “He has the best attributes of both dog and parrot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Might I put some calipers to his head in the future?” inquired Sidney. “The phrenological value of such a skull cannot be denied.”

  Doctor Hannersby wrinkled his mouth. “You injured the specimen during your previous examination.”

  “There were no lacerations.”

  “No . . . but in addition to being a valuable specimen, Hug is my adopted son.” The teratologist sucked on his pipe and was eerily illuminated from below by the burning tobacco. “There are parental responsibilities . . . and so forth.”

  “Understood.”

  “I had a question about the boy,” stated Phalanges.

  Doctor Hannersby expelled milky smoke. “Yes . . . ?”

  The lank mycologist remained silent for a ponderous moment. “It seems . . . that I’ve now forgotten what it was.”

  “I told you to write things down!” barked Sidney, who was not the most patient member of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. “That’s why I gave you that notepad on your birthday!”

  “What notepad?”

  “Bah!”

  Doctor Hannersby reclined in his creaky leather chair and eyed Phalanges. “What type of question was it that you forgot?”

  Ruminating, the lank mycologist sucked air through his pipe, which had become unlit at some point.

  “Philosophical?” suggested the teratologist. “Psychological? Ontological? Cosmological? Cosmogeneological?”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Phalanges. “I remember. What happened to the acolyte’s left arm? He had one the last time I was here, didn’t he?”

  “I noticed that as well,” remarked Sidney. “What is the fate of that retractable arm of his?”