Strange Mammals by Jason Erik Lundberg Read Free Book Online Page B

“Let’s go home.”

Strange Mammals
    The wombat stood on its hind legs, four feet tall, eyes set wide on its head. Its whiskers twitched as it waited for me to invite it into the apartment, dark brown fur matted in places and twined through with leaves and nettles in others. The animal smelled faintly of fish and vodka.
    “So who are you then?”
    “My name is Parasch Zee,” the wombat said, its voice full of gravel, and pushed its squat muscular body past me into the apartment. “You will call me P.S.”
    “Parasch Zee? That’s a strange name.”
    “Not strange for a wombat. Would you rather I be called Craig or Anthony? Now that would be fucking strange. Anything to drink?”
    I closed the front door, walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Bottled water, chrysanthemum tea, grapefruit juice, and an open bottle of Perrier Jouet.”
    “How old’s the Perrier Jouet?” the wombat called from the living room.
    “Vintage is 1995, but it’s been open for, I don’t know, six months or so? At least since my divorce was finalized.”
    “All right, fetch it here.”
    I brought the champagne into the living room, and the wombat snatched it out of my hand. It sat on the couch upright like a person, instead of the expected way: on its belly, like a dog or some other pet. It guzzled the bubbly in great gulps, polishing it off in less than a minute.
    “Shit,” the wombat said. “Pure shit, but it’ll tide me over until we can find something better.”
    “So, aren’t you a little far from home?”
    “Yes. That’s so observant. What an observant monkey you are.”
    “What did you say your name was again?”
    The wombat sighed. “Just call me P.S., like I said.”
    “P.S.? Wouldn’t it be P.Z.?”
    “No. Moron.”
    “Right. And, uh, are you a boy or girl wombat?”
    “That’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. You’re stupid.”
    P.S. then lengthened out along the cushions and yawned widely, showing me a better view of its rodent-like front teeth. It spread its fingers and stretched, revealing nasty-looking dark-colored claws caked with mud. “Get me a pillow,” it said.
    “There’s a pillow right there,” I said.
    “No, you idiot, that’s a couch pillow in the shape of a hamburger. I want a real pillow. Bring me it.”
    I kept an extra pillow in the linen closet in case of guests, and carried this over to the wombat, who stuffed it underneath its head.
    “Fine, now fuck off, I’m sleeping.”
    “But I wanted to watch TV. One of my favorite shows is on now.”
    The wombat growled and bared its teeth. “Fuck off, I said.”
    I hurried back to the bedroom, banished. I read several chapters of a novel before my eyes began crossing. I dozed for a bit, and when I woke it was dark outside. My stomach gurgled. Tiptoed into the living room, frosty since the wombat had turned the thermostat way down, and picked up the phone quietly to order a pizza, but the wombat opened its eyes and looked up.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Ordering a pizza.”
    “No,” it said. “Pizza is shit. You’re shit. Take me to the mall. We’ll get Greek food. I also need a phone card.”
    “But I didn’t want to go out tonight.”
    “Fuck that, we’re going. Greek food. Phone card.”
    “But—”
    “Grrrrrrreeeeek foooooood,” it growled. “Now.”
    “What does a wombat need a phone card for anyway?”
    “Shut up. Let’s go.”
    The ride to the nearest shopping mall took only fifteen minutes in my Mini, but the wombat fiddled with every single button and lever and switch, adjusting the air conditioning, changing the radio station presets, flicking the lock back and forth, activating the hazard lights, switching on the windshield wipers, honking the horn. It couldn’t keep still, and refused to wear a seatbelt.
    “This car is stupid,” it said. “You’re stupid.”
    At the Mediterranean food stall in the mall food court, the wombat stretched up on its back legs to be seen over the counter and