Daemonia Of Swan-Man

Daemonia of Swan – Man

By N Brown

I got in the van after Dad. The van stank and was filthy with mud, the usual way Dad left it. He’s not the tidiest bloke in the world, but the van was more for work rather than “entertaining” so it didn’t really matter. I was quiet and pensive, my regular demeanour. I found these little jaunts with Dad quite strange, but interesting in their own way. He always was a driven man.
“Right son. We’re going to smash fuck out of a swan. I fucking hate swans, the evil cunts. Protected by the bloody Queen… I’ll show you how to deal with them my lad. Put your seatbelt on”. We rolled away from the farm and Dad’s face twitched violently as he shifted gears, grunting erratically as if he was a pained animal. He put a tape of Saxon into the cassette deck and as the tinny rattle started through the speakers Dad looked almost appeased for a second, as if the rock had sated his hatred for swans. It did not last long, as the twitches and grunts started up again almost immediately. My four-year old self peeked into the back of the van and spied baseball bats, hammers, knives and swords. I remember not thinking much of it.

I wish this fucking twitch would stop. The more I think about it the worse it gets, like it’s trying to plague me, to drive me fucking mad. My nervous system is against me. That little cunt of a son’s going to see some serious fucking business today, none of that fucking artistic-creative nonsense that bloody woman tries to drum into his head all day fucking long. I was his bloody age almost exactly and I still can’t really comprehend that it happened to me. It’s a fucking amazement that I’ve got this bloody far, earned money, got a bloody house I nearly own, married and spread my gene – with this burning my bloody soul and sanity every fucking day. It wasn’t a man in a mask, it wasn’t, it’s feathered face was warm…it was some kind of hybrid…I don’t know…fuck fuck fuck fuck…YES I WAS RAPED BY THE BLOODY SWAN-MAN, HALF SWAN HALF FUCKING MAN…ALRIGHT??? I want to scream it out loud. I’ve got to do this, for the good of my family. I can remember his fucking bird breath, his feathered skin, his cackling laugh…biting my face with his bastard swan beak…

The swan almost broke my dad’s arm as he maniacally tried to leather the bird. It was going crazy, and I remember being scared. The noise was horrible, like a siren running out of batteries. Finally Dad managed to grab good hold of its neck and cut it open with a fishing knife. The swan choked and rasped and blood sprayed everywhere. Dad threw it on the floor and stamped on its head repeatedly, making a strange sort of high pitched anguished squeal. I was very worried for Dad, he shouldn’t make a noise like that. He was like a monster. He reached on the floor and handed me a big wooden mallet. It was half the size of my four year old self. I remember being swamped by the hammer, yet could handle the weight fairly well. “Come on. Smash the fuck out of the fucking thing boy”. He started smashing the swan into a pulp with a baseball bat, gibbering excitedly. I did the best to help with my massive wooden mallet, and remember enjoying beating hell out of the prone, lifeless, freakish bird. After about five minutes it was unrecognisable. Dad got some petrol out of the back of the van, doused the bloody heap and set it alight. As it went up, my father began to shudder violently, his body jerking and almost bending double. He was squawking in an ungodly way, at an incredible volume, spasming twitching flailing like some kind of spastic monster. All of a sudden Dad started glowing red. I remember starting to cry. The glow got stronger and stronger until there was a blinding spark and the glow shot out into the sky like a lazer and diffused into the shape of a swan. As it flapped its gaseous wings and evaporated into the ether, both my father and I were curled up in the foetal position wailing and sobbing.

This was a formative experience that shaped my psyche for the remainder of my days. I can’t fucking go anywhere near swans now. I’ve shot a few in my time, I have to admit. As a successful businessman with a ruthless reputation, I’ve found my early memories of the swan possession and the horrors of that day (and others with my very unstable father) to be highly character building. At least I didn’t get abused by that thing my father describes, that thing whose very spiritual essence I must have seen that day. Regardless, no fucking big-shot can try and pressure me into a signing a deal that’s in their interest, or knocking me on money. I’m known to play hardball. Anyway, that day on the way home, my Dad sat completely still, tapped his foot, smiled and started to sob uncontrollably. He had to pull over and compose himself. I never did see him twitch, or grunt, or make violent jerking movements after that day. He was never particularly pleasant though, so nothing had changed there. When he died five years ago we buried him with two swans in his coffin.

Copyright N Brown 2004