Cryptids I Have Bested.
I am a man of action, adventure, and prowess. As the only Cryptid hunter who has ever caught one of their quarries, I am constantly besieged by nay-sayers who seem to argue that I am lying. They are wrong. To prove this, I will now disclose several of my greatest accomplishments. This “resumé” alone will prove my skills, veracity, and above all, status as the greatest Cryptid hunter of all time. It is as follows:
The Schenectady Dracula
A vile and loathsome beast. It had been haunting the food-court of an abandoned mall. The town’s mayor paid me $17,000 to either eradicate the beast or convince it to leave. I decided to do both. It was not a challenge to do so, either. Afterall, this was a standard Mid-Atlantic Pygmy Dracula (Jerseyium Teenyus Draculai, in Linnean terms), which meant the beast was easily bested in combat, unlike it’s larger Texan or Québécois cousins.(As an aside, the only Cryptid which has ever bested me was a Québécois Dracula — but that is another story. I will share it with you and the general public when the time is right).
To lure the beast out of the mall, I simply approached it while it was in man-form and challenged it to a duel. This was a genius maneuver on my part. Under the Dracula's complex societal rules, a male Dracula may not turn down a challenge to engage in mutual combat. (Draculas live by an adapted version of the Code of Bushidō. But I am of course providing unnecessary information at this point — everyone knows this). We agreed to duel outside the finest dining establishment in Schenectady: The local TGI Friday’s. This meant even if I fell, the beast would no longer be in the mall. My (many) heirs would receive money from the mayor accordingly.
Now, once he left the mall, I again used the Dracula’s strict adherence to Bushidō against him. I ran him over with my pickup truck while he waited for me to meet him face-to-face for the traditional pre-duel exchange of pleasantries. This vanquished the beast quickly.
Had the blunt force trauma of a Ford F250 hitting him at 45 miles per hour not converted the cryptid into hamburger meat, I am confident that he would have taken my life in the duel. But again: I am the greatest cryptid hunter of all time. Outsmarting beasts is what I do. This is why I survived this encounter.
The Murfreesboro Minotaurs
I decided to find the minotaurs after a heated dispute with a fellow user of a somewhat-prominent Cryptid hunting forum. The fool believed that minotaurs were “fake”. I need to prove the dunce wrong once and for all, so I set out to find the bull-men myself.
I trekked into the mountains outside Murfreesboro with nothing but lunch, the pack on my back, and a Colt .45 revolver. The hike was brutal. But, despite that, after 27 hours on-the-trail, I found the clearing where the minotaurs were residing. I holstered my weapon and approached them.
The first minotaur came up to me, and then began to speak to me warmly: he offered me greetings, shelter, and then was rambling on about kindness when I cut him off. I told him that I had no time for pleasantries. I was dealing with an urgent matter and needed to meet with the leader of the herd post-haste. The minotaur blinked at me, then stated that they had no leader. I asked how this was possible. The minotaur, again, began to drone on. He said something about how the herd is divided into guilds based off the occupation of individual families and they designate someone to do something or the other — I don’t know the details really. It was boring, so I zoned out. Eventually I cut off the minotaur and told him that I have no time for communism. He said that, technically, this wasn’t communism but something called syndicalism, which was very similar. I did not care, told him to shut up again, then drew my gun. I informed the beast he would be taking a “selfie” with me. He balked, then I fired a warning shot into the ground.
Now, I assume you have seen the selfie this resulted in. It’s fame precedes me. I will speak nothing of the “controversy” surrounding it, aside from noting that anyone who thinks I am simply standing next to a garden-variety cow is a fool who has never seen a minotaur in the flesh. People like that are not worth arguing with.
The Cleveland Cat-Man
In 2008 a private buyer hired me to deliver them the taxidermy’d corpse of the Cleveland Cat-Man. This was a challenge — but only because all of the contact information I had for the Cat-Man was out of date. Like many cryptids, he was laid off during the Great Recession. It’s harsh, but that’s life. A lot of municipalities just couldn’t afford to keep a possibly-mythical beast on payroll.
Anyway, by the time I tracked down the Cat-Man, I learned that he had moved back in with his parents (themselves both Cat-People) and was trying to transition to a career in Information Technology. I knew nothing else about him.
But rest assured, this information was all I needed to know to close on my prey. I posted a job opening for a IT director at a small law firm on Craigslist, rented out an office in a strip mall, and began running fake interviews with unknowing applicants. Though it took me two weeks (I admittedly misunderestimated the severity of the Great Recession), I eventually interviewed the Cat-Man. He walked in, sat down at my desk, and then I shot him dead. Simple as that.
Anyway, I never got paid for that job, despite having the beast taxidermized. The private buyer I mentioned? Bernie Madoff.
I delivered the corpse of the beast to Madoff the day before the Feds raided him, so I never got payment. He was already in jail when I sent him the bill. And the FBI took the Cat-Man’s remains too, so it isn’t like I can show them to you. But trust me: The Cat-Man was real. And I killed him.