“I understand ma’am, but…if I’m honest, I don’t care. It seems like it’s survival of the fittest anyways. Weak little thing deserves to go.”
Nona reached into her fanny pack. “Fine, fine. If you don’t want to protect the forests for the squonk, why not Bigfoot? There’s been more sightings in upper Appalachia than the Pacific Northwest this year.” She pulled out a tiny button featuring the squonk’s face.
The old man sighed, said, “Thank you, but no thanks,” and went back around the convention floor.
Nona bit her cheek, growing raw throughout the day. She looked at the five signatures on her clipboard petition and felt the urge to scratch them all out. Five people mean nothing. She meant nothing. Then she shouted, “Save the squonk! Save the beast!”
Nona was one of the many attendees of “Cryptid Con.” This annual convention brought together hundreds, if not thousands, of individuals interested in the mythic and manic of animal Americana: Bigfoot hunters, accredited biologists giving panels on the habits of the Jersey Devil, snake oil salesmen selling hunting gear and various tchotchkes meant to call the Chupacabra, fathers and sons looking to bond over the fantastical.
The unknown beast inspired fear, and that fear inspired profit, especially for the city of Omaha (with advertisements spread by the convention in the city trying to draw comparisons to the Ogallala Aquifer, in which “even if you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s nonexistent”).
Nona and her compadre Patrick were one of the few booths in the space for altruistic reasons. This point of pride was one of the few things to push her forward. She yelled louder, using the glares of the other convention goers as fuel.
“Protect the squonk! No konk for the squonk!”
A finger tapped on her shoulder. Nona turned around to see a security guard pushing sixty, his belt containing a baton and pepper spray, a radio strapped to his chest and his nametag reading “Luther Earl Jones.”
Luther spoke into his radio. “Yeah, I found her. Give me one second.” He looked up at Nona. “Are you the young woman yelling on the convention floor.”
Nona clutched her clipboard. “One of them, yes.”
“You’re disturbing the peace, here. If —”
“Me and my partner actually have the papers in order to show we have a booth.” Nona reached into her fanny pack. “And in the convention print, it states that you are aloud to advertise your booth as long as a person is in attendance, the other individual in the party is no less than 40 feet from the booth, if the individual —”
“You’re fine, kid. Just don’t scream so much.”
Nona zipped up her fanny pack.
“I am a bit curious…what is the squonk? Is it like a Bigfoot or…”
Nona smiled. It was the first time someone had asked her to explain her deal that day. She zipped open her fanny pack and pulled out a button. She recited her pitch with perfect, unemotional clarity. “The squonk is a creature native to Western Pennsylvania. Originally recorded in 1910 by the logging and oiling companies of yore, the creature is reported to be one foot long and known for the trail of tears it secretes because of its horrible appearance. Hunters are in fact advised to follow the tears it makes to lead it to its den. The squonk is weak and defenseless, only coming out of hiding on moonless nights so as to not see itself in the reflections of water. But his habitat is being threatened by the loggers and oil rigs of today. Me and my partner are looking to get out-of-state signatures for a petition to make a larger portion of the forests of Western Pennsylvania protected by enacting a new state park memorializing some old water mills south of Pittsburgh. We are trying to show the state government the national interest in the protection of the mills — and the wildlife — of the region.”
Nona pointed to the map of Western Pennsylvania on the clipboard and the red circle around the proposed development. She pulled a button out of her fanny pack of the creature: a hairless, sopping wet, disgusting and weak little thing.
The security guard took the button and held it in his hand like an orange. Then he looked to Nona. “Please,” she said. “It costs nothing to help but your time.”
He looked at the button for a moment. Then Nona. Then the more unsensible of the convention goers swirling around him, those interested in conquering the endangered.
Luther unclamped the pin to stick it to his chest opposite the radio. Then he asked Nona, “Where do I sign?”