This is not the first time I’ve fought a giant frog monster. You may find this surprising. It strikes me as sort of depressing. But, then again, if you were fighting a giant frog monster, you’d probably be more depressed than surprised too.

‘Where did this giant frog monster come from?’ you might ask.

So let’s start with the basics. The supernatural? It’s real, and I’ve got the bruises to prove it. Magic? Also real, only this time there’s a ‘kind of’ attached to it. It doesn’t exist in the fairy tale, it-makes-everything-better-everyone-lives-happily-ever-after sense. There’s always a price tag attached to it. Always. But if you’re willing to pay that price, there’s not much you can’t accomplish.

Hence giant frog monsters. Not as expensive as you might think.

You might also wonder any number of these questions:

A) ‘Who’s this shmuck and why should I listen to him?’

B) ‘Why is he fighting a giant frog monster?’

C) ‘Waffles. Where could I score some waffles?’

Hey, screw you. Waffles are delicious. And I might be slightly concussed.

My name is Beauregard Shade. Don’t laugh at it. You might regret it. Because if you strike a bargain with a demon, if you use extraordinary means to hurt someone, if you play Jenga with the natural order of things, it’s my job to make sure you never do it again. Oh, sure, now you may be thinking, ‘Demons and magic and Jenga? Why, a giant frog monster should be old hat for this dashing, heroic fellow!’ Well, you’d be right. I am pretty damn dashing, and I have killed a few frog monsters in my day, and it’s true, it’s not terribly complicated. I know that its eyes are vulnerable, its tongue is like flypaper, and its bloated stomach is full of digestive acid that can eat through a Buick. I even know what was used to create it, more or less. Yet for all that knowledge, there’s only one thing I can focus on right now.

My foot is in its mouth, and oh god, it’s starting to swallow.

I scrabble for a handhold, a weapon, or pretty much anything useful and find only smooth pavement under my fingertips. It’s just my luck that I’d end up getting devoured on the only properly paved street in the entire freaking city. I’m about ready to just give up and let it eat me when I realize a few things in rapid succession.

One: This thing’s mouth is full of frogslime.

Two: I’m wearing my red high-top Chuck Taylor Converses (debatably the sexiest shoe in existence. There’ve been studies.)

Three: Frogslime plus Chucks equal ruined.

So I’m going to kick this giant frog monster’s ass to save my shoes. Not to protect the people it could possibly harm. Not because it’s my job. Not even for the greater good. For my shoes. Hey, before you go judging me, have YOU ever had a giant frog monster eat your shoes? No? Didn’t think so.

I stop struggling and flip over, glaring at it. “No one,” I begin, in what I hope is an intimidating, dangerously low voice. “No giant frog monster. Touches. My. Chucks.”

Then I punch it in the eye. It is hands down, without a doubt the most disgusting thing I’ve ever punched, and I once had to punch a golem made entirely of human fat. Don’t ask.

The frog monster recoils, and ribbits in pain which, granted, would be damn funny under different circumstances, but for now I just grit my teeth and focus on trying to extract my foot from its mouth, with limited success. I’m still stuck fast to its tongue, and once it recovers, it’s going to start trying to digest me in earnest. Before it was just trying to eat me in self-defense, but soon it’s going to be personal. I sigh. Time for the ace-in-the-hole. Watch closely, ladies and gentlemen, nothing up my sleeve, and—

I lay a hand on the pavement under me, close my eyes, and send it a big, noisy wake-up call. I sift through the various elements and components that went into its production until I find what I’m looking for: minerals, primarily limestone, clay, and sand. I remind the groggy aggregates what it was like to be rock, to be giant, towering, solid masses of stone, and I say “hey, wouldn’t it be great to be like that again?”

They agree, and suddenly the street underneath me heaves, and the gray pavement breaks apart as the rebellious stones force their up to freedom. They don’t get very big, but it’s enough to put the still-half-blinded frog off his balance. One of the rocks comes up right under its swollen underside, and I direct my attention towards it.

“Hey there, didn’t you ever want to be a mountain?” I ask in Rockish.

“Well, sure, of course, what mineral doesn’t? But I don’t think I’ve got what it takes,” it says humbly. “I’m just a limestone deposit, you know.”

“Nonsense! Listen kid, I’ve seen potential, and you? You could be big! You’ve just got to want it!” I say enthusiastically. “So tell me, do you want it?”

“Uh…yes?” it says feebly.

“Come on! Do you want it?!” I yell at it. I need it to want it.

“Well…yeah! Yeah, I do!” it says decisively. “I want it! I’m ready to be someone! I’m ready to be a contender!”

And suddenly the frog monster’s impaled on a fifteen-foot tall mountain that hadn’t been there a second ago. It twitches for a few moments, and then suddenly, it’s gone. I breathe a deep sigh of relief and rise unsteadily to my feet. I take a moment to survey the damage. The good news is, there weren’t enough actual minerals in the cheap pavement to really tear the street up, the bad news is that I still have to fix what damage it did.

See, waking the spirit of an object up is more or less easy. Everything has a spirit, and while it’s not exactly unhappy to be asleep, it’s still ready to wake up at the drop of a hat. But putting it back to sleep? That’s another matter entirely. I touch the street again, and I tell the rocks that it’s bedtime. They resist for a while, but eventually succumb. The stones and my mini-mountain sink back into the street, leaving it looking like it was just laid yesterday. I can’t do much about the damage inflicted to cars on either side of the street, but it doesn’t look like it was too severe. A woman across the street sticks her head out her front door and blinks at me. I wave and smile, and she ducks back into her house looking like she’s about to be sick. I take a moment to examine myself.

Well, the white button-down dress shirt’s ruined. The frogslime and cement-grit really did a number on it. My black slacks seem okay, but they’re going to need some serious washing. The left shoe’s a little slimy, but it’s been through worse, and my trusty piano key skinny tie has survived yet another brush with death relatively unscathed. I use a car window as a makeshift mirror and wince at my reflection. My dark brown hair’s pretty messy, but that’s nothing new, and one of my eyes is beginning to swell nicely, though it’s hard to tell because my eyes are already sunken from lack of sleep. I’ll admit, I’ve looked better, but really, she was overreacting just a little.

I turn away from the car and pull a pencil and a plastic bag out of my pocket and crouch down. I poke the normal-sized frog carcass with the eraser end, just to make sure it’s really dead, and then I nudge it into the bag. I stand up, tuck the pencil behind my ear, hold the bag up and peer inside.

“I told you,” I informed the dead frog matter-of-factly. “No one. No giant frog monster. Touches. My. Chucks.”

Then I walk over to the mailbox that I draped my thick beige trench coat over before the tussle started and put it on. I slip the bag into one of its deep pockets and start walking towards the train station. If I hurry, and I can make it home in time for X-Files.