Holding cotton candy in one hand and a raggedy stuffed donkey with crudely-stitched on plastic wings in the other, a young girl walked alone among the crowd on the concourse level of South Pacific Field, home of the California Crusaders. Another sold out crowd, awaiting the game’s first pitch, buzzed on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Sacramento. Lines upon lines weaved from merchandise and food vendors selling everything from hot dogs and Rueben sandwiches to leftover 2024 Landis Championship hats and pennants.
A man bumped into the girl as she walked. He apologized and rushed in the direction of the bathrooms. A group of teenage boys, swearing and shoving at each other, weaved around her with no more than a passing glance. A middle-aged woman, wearing a Ricardo Diaz jersey, asked the girl if she was lost, if she needed help. The girl shook her head, said she was fine.
The girl knew where she was going.
Walking away from the woman, the girl tucked the stuffed animal under one arm and pulled a fluffy mass from the cotton candy. She shoved it into her mouth and let the sugary fibers dissolve on her tongue. Smiling, she licked the candy’s residue off her fingers. Her training had never allowed such treats. Or any treats.
As long as I complete the job, she thought. The divan should turn a blind eye.
The girl continued on. Past sections eight and nine – the seats behind the visitor’s dugout. Past sections 14, 15, and 16 – the pricey seats behind home plate. And past section 23 – the section adjacent to where it sat. The monster.
She had spotted it from across the baseball field even before buying her cotton candy. She had smelled its foul scent in the stadium even as the ticket agent ripped her ticket at the gate. She could sense its sinister presence in the air even as she stepped from the bus three blocks from the stadium.
The girl stopped at the section 24 sign, yanked a massive hunk from her cotton candy, and stuffed it in her mouth. Licked her fingers again. Tossed the cone and the remaining cotton candy into a garbage can. But she could taste none of its sweetness. The monster’s scent, so close to her now, overpowered her senses.
They had warned her of it. Said its kind gave off that scent to ward off its only predators. Told her only its predators could smell it.
Her eyes watered. The girl’s stomach roiled. Turned. Tightened. Her nostrils felt like they were on fire.
The girl straightened, fell into the routine of her training. Slow breaths. Slower breaths. Then no breaths at all.
She walked down the steps towards it. To what looked like a man of around 50 years of age – a beard of black turning to all shades of gray, sunglasses, a Crusaders hat pulled low. It wore a white t-shirt with a beer logo printed on the back. An easy disguise to blend in.
The monster bit off a piece of the red licorice it held in one hand. It didn’t notice the girl as she walked down the aisle towards it. People stood or moved their legs to one side to let her pass. It didn’t notice her, because she still had yet to take a breath. Had she, so close, it would have sensed her. And it would have fled. Or fought her. Afterall, she was just a little girl.
A little predator.
She reached him, and the monster began to stand to let her pass, like all the others. As it did, she held the stuffed animal to her face.
A donkey with wings. And the monster knew. Knew it was too late.
The stuffed toy melted over her, and she became the donkey. Became more than the donkey.
Wings sprouted from her back. Her toes morphed into massive talons.
A Donkeagle.
So quick, the monster could not react, the young girl plunged her talons into the monster’s torso, felt the muck and the decay in its chest. The monster writhed to escape, screeched in pain, but she flapped her wings hard and carried him away. Over the scoreboard in left field. Out over the city. To the sloughs and wastelands outside the city.
So fast did it happen, the crowd around them, the crowd throughout the entire stadium saw only a flash of green.
The same green as the little girl’s eyes.
