I was pretty sure that most toddlers would envy my cushion fort. Well, that’s what anyone walking into the room would think it was. The reality was that I had constructed a crude, but hopefully effective, sniper’s nest. From it, I had a clear view of the kitchen island.

This brought me to step two—the bait. I busted open the tree ornaments and dropped the new almonds into the bowl. Now, when the thing came back to fix the note—blam! I snatched some snacks and a beer and hurried back to my fortress.

The first thing I learned is that I would have been a terrible sniper. Patience was not my virtue. The nervous energy burned off after about twenty minutes, boredom sent in and I began to play with my phone. Twice I had to shift positions due to limbs falling asleep and both times resulted in my bumping a cushion which led to a chain-reaction-total-collapse of my bunker. The crunching of the pretzels was too loud, and I forgot the bottle opener. Finally, convinced that this was never going to work and battling fatigue from lack of sleep, I dozed off.

I awoke later with the sudden jolt of someone who instinctively knew they had overslept. The room was shadowy with the reddish dusk visible through the windows. Only the glowing Christmas tree and the overhead light in the kitchen kept the room from darkness. I yawned and then began to feel very stupid that I just took a nap, armed with a very real rifle, in a very fake fort, while waiting for my possibly imaginary monster. Not expecting to see anything I peeked out of my cushion-gap rifle port.

There it was.

The creature stood on the edge of the counter next to the bowl of almonds. It did not attempt to hide nor run. It wasn’t being sly or cautious. It was parked there as if it lived there. And it stared right at me.

I drank in the details. It looked as if God had taken a monkey, an armadillo, a teddy bear, and a really big almond, put them in a magical sack, shaken the crap out of it, and dumped out this monstrosity.

It was maybe two feet tall and light tan in color. In various parts of its body, like a haphazard suit of armor, were smooth, hard plates that resembled the skin of an almond. In between these plates fluffy fur poked out. Its body was stout and round, like a bowling bowl, and its arms and legs, while short, were solid and powerful looking. Both its feet and hands had three thick digits that were mostly talons, like knives with tiny handles. Its face was ape-like with an armadillo-ish snout lined with small, but fearsome teeth. The black beady eyes never blinked. It wore Santa Bear’s clothes.

Completely stunned, the first thing I absurdly thought was how does it handle the almonds with those knife-hands? The fine motor skills must be for shit. Then I noticed the tinier hands wiggling and I nearly puked.

On its palms, just underneath the talons, grew a cluster of more normal-looking, albeit diminutive, fingers. These looked designed for nut handling. I would have chuckled at my puerile joke if I hadn’t been so nauseous.

My phone. I fumbled around for it without looking, unwilling to take my eye off the beast. It must have shifted around somewhere during my nap, so I gave up the search and instead aimed the rifle. I could take as many evidence pictures as I wanted when it was a buckshot-riddled corpse. With trembling hands, I lined up the shootey-end and thumbed off the safety.

Before I could squeeze the trigger, the thing hopped off the counter, hit the floor with a rolling somersault, and sprang back to its feet. It moved with an awkward, but efficient gait, like a toddler who never learned to fully walk and instead had mastered that goofy waddle. As I had only a tiny cushion porthole for me to sniper through, it quickly scampered out of my view, but it was now in the room with me. The bells jingled in circles around my fort.

I started to panic so I took a deep breath and appraised my situation. I was being stalked by some kind of wild, mutant carnivore while currently sheltering in a house made of pillows. This appraisal didn’t help my panic and, while I didn’t see the creature when it stuck a hand through the cushions, I certainly felt it when it lightly poked a talon into my calf.

With a cry I was on my feet, bursting Hulk-like out of my Fortress of Ineptitude and running for the kitchen. I got to the doorway, spun, and aimed the gun, as I expected the beast to be hot on my tail.

Instead, it perched on top of the cushiony ruins of my castle. Again, it simply stared at me.

I fired the rifle. The bang proved deafening in the enclosed space and despite the range, I missed. The buckshot shredded into the cushions with puffed clouds of fabric. The beast had leaped sideways just in time to dodge the blast and now stood on the back of the couch.

Reloading was not efficient. I popped the breach-loader, pulled out the spent shell, dug a new one from my pocket, inserted it, and snapped the rifle back into form. With inexperienced, trembling hands, it took over thirty seconds, but the beast patiently waited.

I aimed and fired. Once again it bounded away, and the buckshot tore up the back of the couch. Now it stood in the corner of the room. It had its deformed hands resting on its hips (or where its hips would have been if it had any).

The next reload went slightly faster but the results were no different. By the time I fired it was gone and the buckshot peppered the drywall where it had been standing.

Now it dangled off the side of the bookshelf and it just hung around until I laboriously reloaded, took aim, and fired. Needless to say, it dropped to the floor in the nick of time and I blasted more pebble-sized holes in the wall.

I was losing hope in my strategy.

And apparently, the beast had finished placating me.

It came at me. The disturbing yet swift wobble-scurry allowed it to close the distance in a blink. It ran between my legs and before I could turn, it snatched both pant cuffs. This is when I discovered how strong it was. As if I weighed nothing it yanked both feet out from under me, putting me facedown with a thump, the rifle skidding from my hands.

I rolled to my back and immediately kicked at where I thought it would be but hit only empty air. It was nowhere to be seen. I clambered to my feet and retrieved and reloaded the weapon, although I felt very concerned about its usefulness at this point).

Looking exactly like a guy in the suburbs pretending to be a big game hunter, I preceded to search the house. From room to room I went, shotgun at the ready. There was no sign of the beast.

Just as my hunt brought me back around to the kitchen the doorbell rang and was quickly followed by an authoritative knock. I froze—most likely neighbors that heard the shots and were coming to check on the ruckus. I set the shotgun on the table and tiptoed towards the door. Not answering was probably not the best idea—better to reassure whoever had knocked that all was well.

I made the mistake of cracking the door just enough for a one-eye peek out. This is a spy tactic utilized by only the stupidest and creepiest of drug dealers and serial killers and I mastered it on the first try. Standing on the porch and staring warily at my left eyeball were Officers Winegar and Lee.

“Mr. O’Brien,” Officer Winegar said. “We’re going to need you to step outside.”

“Why?” I replied, which is exactly what a person committing a crime would ask.

“We’ve had a report of a possible domestic situation,” Officer Lee informed me.

"What? No. No domestical situations here. No situations at all really. I am without situations.” I felt like I was sinking in verbal quicksand. I had to play it cool, which was something I had zero experience with. So, to show I was no threat, I opened the door wide and stepped out. “Everything’s fine.”

“Anyone else here?” Winegar asked, craning his neck to see past me into the house.

“Nope. My wife is still traveling for work.”

“Sir, you had some neighbors concerned about hearing possible gunshots from your residence,” Lee said.

“Gunshots?” I tried to make a scoffing sound, but it caught in my throat like a wheezy hiccup. “No gunshots here. I don’t even own a gunshot. I mean a shot. I mean a gun. No shotguns in my house.” The quicksand swirled back.

Winegar eyed me warily. “Sir, we have probable cause to enter your residence, but we’d rather have your cooperation.

It was pretty smooth how he presented my non-choice as my option. One way or another the officers were entering my house. I may as well agree and save myself the hassle. Maybe they’d see the beast and I’d at least know I wasn’t crazy. “Sure. C’mon in.”

Winegar moved past me into the house. Lee motioned for me to go next and then followed so that I was bookended by the officers. I knew my arrest was imminent. There was a freshly fired shotgun sitting in plain sight on the kitchen table with an open box of shells next to it. No way they weren’t going to see it and I could make up no story they would buy. On top of that, there were multiple obvious buckshot sprays on the walls in the living room.

We walked into the kitchen and the pair calmly surveyed the area. I wondered why I hadn’t been cuffed yet. Then I saw the reason.

The shotgun and the shells were gone. The table was clean.

I had a moment of complete relief, quickly replaced by horrifying visions of this weird brown monster now lurking like a sniper with my gun. My eyes darted around the kitchen and living room, fully expecting to see the shotgun barrel aimed from the branches of the Christmas tree. I didn’t even realize Officer Winegar was talking to me until he reached out and poked my shoulder.

“Sir,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I was just lost in my head for a minute.”

Officer Lee nodded as if I’d just made an astute medical diagnosis for myself. “That happen a lot?”

“Yeah, actually.” I had to snap out of it. The creature had taken the weapon—saving my ass momentarily—but there were still giant holes in the walls and I’m sure a pair of police officers wouldn’t miss those as they strolled into the living room.

Except the blast marks were all concealed now as well. The bookshelf had been tugged over to hide one. The corner chair shifted just enough to block another. Finally, the cushions had been replaced and the tattered couch had been expertly disguised with a taut Christmas blanket.

“Everything looks in order,” Winegar said with a hint of surprise. I’m sure he had been expecting something bizarre, considering his last visit.

“Can you think of anything you were doing that would make the neighbors think you were discharging a weapon? Loud music? Loud movie?”

These helpful suggestions led me to a more plausible lie. “Ah, yes! I was watching Predator earlier. Probably had the volume up to far.”

Both officers immediately nodded and openly relaxed at this information.

“Great movie,” Winegar said. “One could say that it’s a perfect film. Awesome action. Great horror and mystery. Top-notch special effects. No plot holes. It’s a travesty that it didn’t receive any Academy Awards.”

Lee agreed. “I once read an article that said seven out of ten men prefer Predator to sex.”

“That could be true. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my wife, but...man, Predator.” Winegar looked at me. “Was it the scene where the whole squad is firing blindly into the rain forest?”

“That’s the one,” I lied happily. I started to think that I could have been carrying the shotgun while dressed in my Squirrel armor and these guys would have been okay with it because of an Arnold Schwarzenegger film. “I probably did have the volume up a bit high. My wife’s still out of town so I’m feeling rebellious. I’ll keep it down.”

“No problem, sir,” Winegar said. “If anything, now I wonder what kind of neighbors you have if they don’t recognize the Predator soundtrack.”

“Not good,” Lee shook his head in disappointment, “I’ll have dispatch contact them and reassure them you weren’t firing off a mini-gun over here.”

So, once again I found myself escorting police officers to my front door. As he was stepping out Lee asked, “Just curious, ever find out anything with the teddy bear?”

“I think it was just a prank,” I lied. “Some friends trying to make me look stupid.”

“Well,” Winegar said. “They did a good job.”

I weathered that last dig, shut the door behind them, and wandered wearily back to the kitchen.

The shotgun had been replaced on the table, except now the barrel was bent. Not just slightly either. It had a U-curve to it, perfectly twisted so that, if I had put it to my shoulder, the muzzle would have aimed directly back at my face. It made me think of the old Bugs Bunny cartoons, in which the rascally rabbit bent Elmer Fudd’s hunting rifle so that he blasted himself in the noggin when he pulled the trigger.

The creature was too fast to shoot and strong enough to bend a gun barrel.

Maybe I should have let the officers arrest me.