| A bit of clarification—this TOTALLY TRUE tale originally appeared in a print magazine called Wonka Vision, but I thought that many of you regular readers of the footnote probably didn’t get to check it out (though it’s a pretty magazine)… soooo… here it is. Honestly, I have PLENTY of original, brand-new LARDS in the can, but I like this one, and I just don’t know if many of you read it. If you did, this version’s a little longer, so you can consider it a “Special Edition” style bonus. If you didn’t read the print version, then groovy, ‘cause this is one of my faves…
--d.j.
My lady friend and I first encountered the being “Gwildor” (as I fearfully named him -- perhaps sub-consciously thinking of the live action Masters of the Universe movie's poor-man's Orko), while driving around our old Hollywood apartment for forty-five minutes trying to find a damn parking space on the side of the road (a daily occurrence). On maybe the twenty-second jaunt 'round the block we saw HE WHO SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN NAMED BY AN AGING DORK WHO'D SEEN THAT AWFUL DOLPH LUNGREN AS HE-MAN MOVIE SO MANY TIMES... aka, Gwildor. We saw him and were frozen by fear. (And maybe an odd bit of attraction… from one of us. … Let’s just leave it at that.)
There... on the sidewalk in front of our apartment... stalking around on a sunny Saturday morning... was a 6'6" muscle bound man carrying a red, homemade looking scythe, wearing big-ass KISS-like platform boots, matching red and gold dreads, elaborate facial paint, and nothing but a teensy, sparkly gold loin cloth over skimpy panties to cover his privates. Oh, and he had big-ass, paper machete, blood red demon wings... FOR HE WAS GWILDOR THE VILE, DEMON CONQUEROR OF OUR MANNISH REALM!
We couldn't believe our eyes. He was such a thing of confusing, repugnant beauty. Yet we feared being caught gawking-- as is always the case when looking at someone clearly outlandishly dressed for the attention. Perhaps sensing our presence, perhaps confused by this realm of light and life, missing the dark and fiery pits from whence he came, the hastily named Gwildor paused in his stomping. We thought we were busted, our souls no doubt about to be eaten by this unholy demon-man, but he could not be bothered with the puny, mere mortal likes of me and m'lady. No, apparently his paper machete wings itched as he -- I kid you not -- scratched them on a nearby palm tree! We laughed at this nervously, as we finally drove on. But what if, I postulated, that was Gwildor's way of procreating? Perhaps he came from the burnt, hellfire charred trees of his nether realm, and now he was here in ours to pollinate/impregnate the trees of California with his demon spawn!
As we drove around the corner, Gwildor still walked our powerless plane of existence, little old ladies and dumbass kids stopping -- gawking at him as he stalked past the local Ralph’s grocery store, down Hollywood Blvd, to reek what havoc I did not know.
 This was not to be the last I saw of Gwildor. No, no. While moving from that very Hollywood apartment, perhaps subconsciously traumatized by that initial Gwildor sighting, my now-former roommate “Sexy Crosland” and I spotted him again, prowling the sunny, day lit streets -- only this time his magnificent demon wings were black as night. Not the blood red of before, but black as his no-doubt evil soul. He ignored our stares, countering on, whatever his nefarious mission was, marching the same path as last I'd seen him.
After we moved from Hollywood, I'd assumed Gwildor and I wouldn't cross paths anymore (save for the occasional nightmare on my part). This was not to be the case, however. Several months ago, showing an old chum by the name of Judas T. Burkittoni, who was visiting from Ohio, around this coast, we went to Hollywood Blvd-- past the Mann's Chinese Theater, which is one of those touristy-type locations... and there, amongst the fat Gandalf, blond Elvis, and fanny-packed Spider-Man, posing for pictures with vacationing tourists... was the damned creature himself... GWILDOR!!!
So this had been his destination whilst walking past my old apartment. A most likely hour hike from there to the famed old movie house, posing with confused out-of-towners for a buck or so a pop, amidst the homemade Spongebob Squarepants costumed guy and the occasional Stormtrooper. Surely these innocent yet dim bystanders allowing the devil incarnate to put his arm around them must have thought, "Uh... this dude isn't from any movie I've ever seen." And, fear-stricken, observing a small, middle-aged woman posing with him, I heard Gwildor's demonically high-pitched cackle. As she handed him a Washington, I worried for her soul.
Perhaps Gwildor was banished from his night terror of a demon realm to ours. At first being dismayed by the sunlight and confusion of LA, he eventually tried to make the best of it. Being a scantily clad devil from hell, he had difficultly finding gainful employment until running across the likes of Chucky and Marilyn Monroe and Batman making money posing with hayseeds and foreigners in tourist trap Hollywood. This is where Gwildor could fit in whilst damned to our bright and, compared to hell, chilly world. Maybe frightened himself, demon-friendless, lonely, and broke in Hollywood, the mad creature of the dark lands, Gwildor, had found a place where he could be appreciated for his homemade demon wings and exotic fashion sense, earning a living of sorts. Here, in the City of Angels, the hellfire-spawned demon I call Gwildor had found a home.
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