He was Letiche, known as Loup Carou to the Cajuns, or simply “The Honey Island Swamp Monster” in the English-speaking world.
The carnivorous aquatic humanoid stood more than 7 feet tall and weighed nearly 500 pounds. He ripped apart and devoured every animal he laid his sickly yellow eyes upon. The stench of death followed him wherever he went.
Today had not been a lucky hunting day, and Letiche was in a foul mood. He lifted a cypress out of the boggy land by its roots, and hurled it out of frustration into the murky waters somewhere out in the distance.
His spirits seemed to lift, however, as he spotted a crude dwelling just ahead of him, and the sweet smell of cooking reached his snout. The glowing fire inside the hut led him through the mists and fogs of the swamp to the doorway. As he heard the banging of pots and the clink of utensils, he crept stealthily toward the hunched figure inside.
Carefully, he skulked behind the creature, who was too busy stirring and measuring to notice the hot breath of the crazed monster. He reached out his shaggy, muscled arms, which had effortlessly rent so many alligators and wild boars and stags in two, his blood-encrusted claws nearly upon his victim, who suddenly turned to face her attacker with a ear-splitting shriek of sheer terror...
“Don’t DO that!” She scolded the beast. “You know I hate it when you sneak up on me like that.”
Letiche gave his mate a sheepish grin, then lifted the lid of the pot which stood bubbling merrily away over the fire pit.
He inhaled deeply, then wrinkled his nostrils. “What’s that?” He asked, suspiciously.
“Walrus,” she answered him, pertly.
“Awwwww, you KNOW I hate ethnic food,” he whined. “I’m starving. I only had a couple of squirrels and a half-dead snake all day, and now this?”
She folded her arms imperiously, furrowed her brow, and glared at him. “The Yetis are coming for dinner.”
“Not the… I hate the… How could you DO this to me?” he pouted. “All he ever talks about is that damned mountain he lives on, and how many stupid human climbers he’s eaten, and how crampons get stuck in his teeth. And HER with her crazy religious talk and how she almost ate the Dalai Lama once…”
“Listen,” she said sharply, “I’m stuck in this miserable hut all day while you pal around that big oaf Sasquatch and leave me to do all the work. Just once, just ONCE I would like to have a nice dinner with someone who has more to add to a conversation than, ‘Smell this – what do you think I sat in?’”
Letiche, sensing defeat, cast his eyes downward and sighed. “When are they going to be here?” he asked, dejectedly.
“In about half an hour,” she answered as she turned back to her cooking pot and stirred. “Just long enough for you to wash that horrible odor off of yourself.”
As he rubbed himself with sandalwood and cinnamon bark, he vowed to release pictures of the Yetis to USA Today and get them out of his life for good.
