CHAPTER 1 - Kro’chark, Neighbor

Sexy Suburban Monster Men: Kro’chark, Neighbor

The following story takes place on an Earth that is recognizably like our own, but is not just ours alone.

The last of Stanislaw Pulaski's friends and most of his family members had left the house. The trash cans overflowed with mangled tissues, used and abused by blowing noses and wiping away tears. Nearly everyone had come back to the house after the repast. And they had gone to the repast after the internment. And the internment had come after the funeral service.

Trevor Pulaski, Stanislaw’s grandson, sat on the sofa, staring down at the coffee table. The papers on the table laid out the truth of the matter. His grandfather had left the house to him, free and clear. The executor had read that part of the will early so Trevor could be prepared to accept ownership.

Along with the deed were stacks of other papers, documents Trevor’s grandfather had typed up and written down, running the numbers to show his grandson that he really could handle the responsibilities of a homeowner.

Trevor barely registered the spreadsheets and bills before him. His eyes were red and raw, most of the tissues had come from him. He still felt numb all over. It still didn’t seem real but there he was, sitting in his grandfather’s house that his grandfather would never return to.

Dully, he stood up and walked around the house like he had done countless times since he first learned to walk. Trevor looked around the living room as if he only just now saw it for the first time. Against the wall opposite the front door sat the old lumpy couch in its brown, white, and tan checkerboard pattern. Across from that squatted his grandfather’s television set, a behemoth of an old CRT model that doubled as a sideboard. The lamp by the sofa flickered and the bulb buzzed ominously. It would need to be replaced soon.

He wandered up the stairs to the upper floor. It was smaller than the first floor and the ceiling sloped down with the roof to Trevor’s left and right. Two closets on either side after the stairs leaned in to separate the front room from the back. The rear room contained a futon and a low cabinet full of records. The record player sat on top of it. Light from the back porch lit up the small backyard and the detached garage on the other side. Orange light from the streetlights came in through the font windows.

Trevor backed down the stairs and turned left, walking past the dining table which still bore the leftovers from the repast. He picked up the plastic dish of hors d'oeuvres, carried it to the kitchen, and put it into the fridge. Archaic as some parts of the house were, the kitchen sported modern appliances. The stove was even an induction model and an air fryer sat on the counter. His grandfather had been passionate about cooking. He couldn’t help bringing dishes over to his neighbors.

Trevor lovingly ran a hand across the top of the air fryer, remembering the first time he had his grandfather’s almost famous buffalo wings, long before he pivoted to making them with the fryer. He had been so young and the sauce so spicy he had to run to the bathroom to run his tongue under the bathtub spigot. His parents and siblings laughed at him, but his grandfather apologized for making them too hot and took Trevor out for a milkshake to make it up to him.

Then Trevor turned around and walked over to where the house’s bedrooms were. There were two of them, one to each side of the linen closet. The room on the right his grandfather had repurposed as a study. The clunky computer tower sat alongside the wooden desk. An equally ungainly CRT monitor sat atop it. Trevor’s grandfather loved some new tech, but stayed wary of others. “It still does what I need it to do,” he had grumbled. “When it breaks, then I’ll replace it.”

The home’s new owner let his gaze sweep over the bookshelves that filled two of the walls. The shelves bowed under the weight of countless books, all history and folklore, all about and from the monster perspective. “Orchish Tales and Myths,” “Hobgoblin Histories,” “Gnoll Scrolls,” “Minotaur Tails,” and many others lined the shelves.

Of course, Trevor’s grandfather insisted they be called by the kinder term of “Non-Human Peoples.” But that term frequently got shortened into “NHP” and then further cut down to a “Naitchpee.” A lot of people tried to use naitchpee as a slur, but the targets of the insult ended up adopting it as a term of pride.

Stanislaw Pulaski had been the last human living on the street for the previous two years, even since the 50^th to 54^th blocks of Underhill Avenue became designated as an NHP Integration area. All it took was one gnoll family to move in and “For Sale” signs sprang up on almost every other lawn. Except for Stanislaw’s.

“What do I care what they are?” Trevor’s grandfather would always grumpily reply to every question from the family about moving. “I just care who they are, and I welcome any person of good character as my neighbor, regardless of how many horns or tusks or hooves they have.”

Trevor turned away from the study. He didn’t think he could face looking into the bedroom seeing as it was left untouched since the day his grandfather died. So he instead went down the basement steps.

The front half of the basement sat unfinished, all bare concrete floors and cinder block walls. There sat the washer and dryer, the furnace and water heater. But a wall sliced across the width of the basement. A door stood in that wall the right of the stairs.

Trevor opened it and stepped through into a finished bed room. His grandfather did most of the work himself, only relenting to call in a plumber to give the floor its own full bathroom. A short stairway in the back right corner led up to its own entrance from the outside.

The other bathroom took up only part of the back wall beside the stairs, leaving a nook in the back left corner. A fully equipped queen sized bed occupied that nook. Trevor looked around the cozy room. His grandfather said he wanted a real guest room since he turned the other bedroom into a study, but he really hoped Trevor would move out his apartment and live there. The house was much closer to his job, after all.

And Trevor had wanted to, but then the street was integrated and he didn’t know if he could live among such… The room became blurry and tears ran down his cheeks.

“Maybe if I’d just moved in before I could have stopped him from...” Trevor ran out of the room and back up the stairs, in search of yet another tissue. The kitchen had been raided and the first floor bathroom was likewise tapped out. He finally managed to find an only mostly empty box in the front room.

Through the tears and the sound of a blowing nose, Trevor missed the sight of a large figure coming up the front walk and the heavy tread of the stranger’s boots as they climbed the front steps and crossed the porch.

The doorbell rang.

“Come in!” said Trevor, thinking maybe one of the mourners from earlier had forgotten something.

The door opened and a six-and-a-half foot tall orc walked in.

The failing light bulb chose that moment then and there to blow.

Trevor actually screamed and threw himself down, scrambling to crawl under the dining table, bumping chairs and sending them falling to the side. Near to the table was the side door. He thought he could find it and unlock it with what light the streetlights provided.

Then the chandelier over the table turned on. “Are you okay?” asked a gravelly but not unkind voice.

Trevor looked out from under his bunker and saw a pair of studded leather boots standing by the wall. The orc found the light switch.

“Uh, hi? I’m, uh, I’m Gromgar Stonejaw. I live next door. I’m- I was Stanislaw's neighbor.”

Trevor dared peeking out from under the table.

Gromgar cut an intimidating figure. Fully six point five feet tall and muscled to match. He wore studded leather armor looking for all the world like a brigand straight out of a video game’s opening levels. His face sported whorls of blue paint and his beard fell in a tightly bound braid. A brass ring glittered in each of Gromgar’s tusks and also in his nose.

The image of a fierce orc warrior was undercut, only slightly, by his oven mitts and large stewpot he was carrying.

“I’m sorry I gave you a fright,” said Gromgar as he walked to the other end of the table from Trevor and set his pot down. “I made gro’naksh, braised pork stew. Had it simmering all day and I had hoped I could make it back before everyone left.”

“Huh?” was all Trevor could manage.

The orc got to one knee and stuck out his massive hand. “I wanted to make it to the funeral, I really did. I even put in to have today off but somebody else called out and they really needed me. I work at Mythical Times. The dinner and tourney show? And I had to play the warchief today. It’s school trip day we just can’t let the kids down. I left before changing out of costume, hoping I could at least show up for your family but there was traffic and… Sorry. I'm sorry for your loss, Trevor.”

At that Trevor finally reached out and accepted the hand up. “You know who I am?” he asked.

“Sure,” replied Gromgar. “Your grandfather showed off pictures of his grandkids to everyone on the street. He was so proud of you and loved you so much. I was… it was an honor to have known him.”

“I, uh,” a lump formed in Trevor’s throat. “Thank you,” was all he could wheeze out. And, despite himself, he hugged the orc. The front of Gromgar’s leather cuirass was still warm from he had held the pot against his torso.

“I miss him too,” said Gromgar and Trevor felt the words rumble in the orc’s chest. “Everyone here does. He really was a pillar of the community.”

“Even though he’s human?”

Gromgar stiffened. “What difference does that make? A good man is a good man.”

Trevor stepped back. “I’m sorry. I just haven’t spent much time around mon-” he caught himself. “Non-human peoples” he tried to correct course. “I mean, the family wanted him to move out too and… I went to school with a few of them but…. I’m really bad at this.”

Gromgar stared at him for a moment. He drew a breath in through his nostrils, his septum ring catching the light as it moved. “You hungry? Because I am and I do not want to be the kind of person who starts on food meant for another.”

Trevor’s stomach let out a growl. He had only picked at the his plate at the repast.

Gromgar gave a wide, tusky smile. “I’ll take that as a yes. No, you sit. I know where the bowls and spoons are.”

To Trevor's surprise, the orc did know where his grandfather kept his dishes and flatware. He surmised that the old man must have hosted Gromgar as a guest a few times over the years.

Gromgar came back with two big bowls, two spoons, and a ladle. “Here,” he said as he scooped out a chunk of pork, veggies, and broth. “I didn’t make it orc spicy. Stanislaw told me what happened when you tried his buffalo wings.”

Trevor almost coughed up the stew trying to suppress the laugh. “He told you about that?”

“It may have come up when we had Spice Night. I brought full strength gro’naksh, he made ghost pepper chili. Ashnarl, he’s the gnoll who lives down the street. He’s part of the first naitchpee family who moved here. He made some kind of ribs that, damn, we were all running for the bathtub that night,” he said with a chuckle..

Trevor laughed too, imagining the orc fighting his grandfather for the faucet. He started to cry again and couldn’t hold back the sob.

“Not the worst reaction I’ve had to my cooking,” said Gromgar, looking concerned.

“No, it’s not that,” Trevor tried to compose himself. “The stew is great,” and it was. Just the right level of heat. “He invited me to move in… when he renovated the basement room. And I never agreed to it because….”

“Because people like me lived here now,” the orc finished.

Trevor neither confirmed not denied anything. “I missed out on the last years of his life because I’m an idiot. If you were his friend then… he left me this house, you know?”

The orc squashed a potato down with his spoon. “He did? Are you going to sell it?”

Trevor had thought about it, since he learned it was his. He had grown angry at the thought of the house his grandfather had worked on going to one of those… No, the memories of those thoughts caused him shame now.

“I’m going to keep it,” said Trevor after a minute.

“Really?”

“It’s much closer to work,” replied Trevor. And… the neighbors seem really nice. They’re people of good character, as he would say.”

Gromgar smiled. “Then I would like to be the first person to say

‘Kro’chark, neighbor.’ That means ‘howdy.’”

“’Kro’chark’ is Orchish for ‘howdy’?”

The orc sighed. “Is ‘howdy’ human for ‘kro’chark’?”

Trevor’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “No… It’s English I suppose.”

“And that was Kaeokrolic,” explained Gromgar. “One of the more widespread orc languages but not the only one.”

“I have a lot to learn,” said Trevor, trying to sink down into his chair.

“But the important thing is wanting to learn,” said the orc.

“I really like this stew,” said Trevor. “This...”

“Gro’naksh.”

“Gro’naksh,” Trevor repeated. “Thank you for bringing it. I’m sorry no one else stayed so they could try it. Looks like you made a lot.”

Gromgar waved his hand. “It keeps a while, that way you’ll have leftovers for days. Or one day’s worth if everyone in the neighborhood turns out to help with the furniture.”

Trevor thought about it. “I am going to need some serious help getting rid of that mountain of a TV. And his computer is almost as big.”

“Yeah, Stanislaw liked his antiques. Pretty sure that desktop still has a floppy disk drive.”

“I think I saw slots for punch-cards,” added Trevor and they shared a laugh.

“’I’m not replacing it until it breaks’ was his motto,” Gromgar added.

“He was good man, wasn’t he?” asked Trevor.

“The best,” agreed the orc. “He was… like a grandfather to all of us. Certainly took the time to teach us human customs.”

“Like what?”

“Like how a handshake is not an invitation to a test of strength. Eye contact isn’t a challenge. Ashnarl had to learn you don’t sniff someone you just met. He still hasn’t internalized that so forgive him if he comes off as a little… intense.”

“Noted,” said Trevor. Both finished their stew and Trevor went to clean up. Gromgar offered to help and to point out where Stanislaw had kept each kind of kitchen utensil and cooking implement.

“You going back to your place tonight or are you going to stay here?” Gromgar asked once the dishes were loaded in the dishwasher and the stewpot fitted into the fridge.

The full weight of the day settled onto Trevor’s shoulders. He could have driven to his apartment if he had to but the basement room did have a bed all ready to go. He had packed an overnight bag just in case. And tomorrow was Saturday so…

“I will,” replied Trevor. “Be the first time I’ve stayed here since… damn, middle school I guess.”

“Great,” said Gromgar. He shifted his weight from one foot to another and scratched the back of his neck, bushing his thick braid out of the way to do so. “You want to, uh, hang out? Watch a movie or something? Just so you don’t have to face tonight alone?”

Trevor nodded. “I would appreciate that. But I think the cable’s already been cut off. I’ll need to sign up for it myself.”

“Oh there’s a ton of tapes in the TV. It has a built-in VCR,” Gromgar reminded him. Stanislaw’s insistence on outdated technology came to the rescue. “Just let me shower and change first, came right here from work and I don’t know if you noticed but-”

“I didn’t want to say anything. I got to get my bag out my car as well. I put enough wrinkles in this suit already.”

“Showtime in an hour?” asked the orc.

“Curtain rises in 60 minutes,” the human agreed.

Gromgar left through the front door, going right to his house. Trevor stepped out a minute later. His breath steamed in the cold night air. He went down to his car, parked on the street in front of the house. The garage was still locked and he hadn’t sorted keys yet. Trevor took his bag out of the back seat, closed the door, and turned to find a gnoll staring him down.

The gnoll’s breath came out in clouds. His eyes gleamed in the glow of the orange streetlamp, the light making it hard to tell the color of his fur.

“H….Hi?” Trevor started. “Ashnarl, I presume?” he offered a hand.

The gnoll said nothing, only watching the human while he stood there, motionless. Then, quick as lightning, he shot forward, muzzle right next to Trevor’s ear. He heard Ashnarl? sniffing. He growled something that may have been language. And then, as quick as he had advanced, he withdrew and slunk away into the shadows, moving with the terrifying ease of a hunter.

Trevor stood there, frozen as his heart pounded in his ears. He took several seconds to register when Gromgar was speaking to him.

“I… I…,” Trevor stammered.

“You ran into Ashnarl,” said the orc.

“Intense, indeed.”

“Let’s get you inside,” Gromgar put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“I thought you had gone inside to shower?”

“Came back out to check the mail,” said the orc. “Glad I did. Ashnarl really gave you the business.”

The big orc saw him back inside before returning to his own house.

Back inside, Trevor went down to the basement room to change. He’d work up the courage to go into his grandfather’s room, but not tonight. Clad in sweats and a t-shirt, he went back to the living room and cracked open the cabinet inside the TV. He had cried enough today so he passed up on anything that even had the whiff of a tearjerker. There was the movie about the terrorists on the president’s plane, but remember the hijackers were orcs so he passed it by. He instead chose the movie about the bus that had to keep its speed above 50 mph or else it would explode.

He showed it to Gromgar when the orc returned. “’The Bus that Couldn’t Slow Down’? That’s a good one!”

Gromgar went to make some microwave popcorn while Trevor fiddled with the VCR and the input channel and then had to remember to twist the tracking knob so the VHS would play without fuzz and suddenly he was eight years old again getting ready to watch ‘The Lion Prince’ with his grandfather and Stanislaw let his grandson take the lead on getting it to play so he could feel like a grown-up.

“Is it showtime?” asked Gromgar as he returned with the big bowl full of movie theater style butter popcorn.

“Light’s are dimming,” said Trevor as he switched off the table lamp he had brought over to see what he was doing.

Gromgar had changed into jeans and a baggy hoodie. He looked a lot softer without the armor that showed off his buff physique. The orc settled down on the couch and gestured for Trevor to join him. Trevor sat down next to him but the orc put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close enough for the human to rest his head on the orc’s pec. The hoodie was old and worn and soft and Gromgar smelled like sandalwood. The orc himself was big and firm and warm.

The movie played on, with its explosions and profanities and parts that defied all understanding of physics. Trevor had trouble keeping his eyes open. Gromgar turned slightly leaned against the armrest so Trevor’s lean on could turn into a lay on.

“I’m happy you decided to keep the house,” said Gromgar, brushing Trevor’s hair aside.

“Kro’chark, neighbor,” mumbled Trevor as sleep finally overtook him.