World of Myth Magazine will feature one story per month in anticipation of the 2026 Zombie Works Publication release of Once Upon a Time in Knob River Valley: A Collection of Grins & Grimaces—forged in the fires of Lisa H. Owens' unhinged imagination.

An excerpt from Chapter-Two: Grins & Guffaws

It was still dark when Father Delaney walked into Lien's Donut Shop, located in the Tenderloin district, an area encompassing roughly fifty blocks on the southern slope of San Francisco's Nob Hill. The priest radiated quiet confidence as he sat in a booth with Gentle Benjamin, a homeless queer, working through a tall-stack of pancakes. Ben, a former tech wizard, had been asking around in regards to finding a certain "special somebody," and it had taken eighteen months for his feelers to finally land on his target. Calls were made, plans put into play, and the great news was that today was the day Father Delaney would make an important trip to the airport.

He paid the tab, then zipped his rain jacket, pulling the hood over his fiery red hair, in preparation for the dampness that was part of life in the bay area. He knew things would work out according to God's plan. He felt it in his chilly bones. He shivered, picked up a stack of warm boxes and stepped out into foggy twilight.

Father Delaney walked with purpose, a priest on a mission—well-versed in self-defense—as he was a master of taekwondo. He hugged the boxes. Ah, nice and warm, like the donuts and pastries inside, some to be distributed on his walk to the Saint Boniface Center.

The pastries smelled like heaven, but nothing could erase the typical Tuesday morning stench wafting off the gutters. Father Delaney transitioned into warrior-mode as he entered the roughest area of the district, mindful of his surroundings while taking shallow breaths. It was trash day and the stinking barrels and trash bags, ripped open by vermin in the night, lined the curbs on both sides of the street. He greeted the Tuesday morning poachers, who carried their makeshift homes along with everything they owned, while sifting through the garbage.

"How ya doin' Lefty? The one on top, my man."

The priest leaned into the weathered old man, bobbing his ginger goatee at the stack of boxes. Lefty, called Lefty on account of him losing most of his right leg in 'Nam, looked up from his rusty wheelchair, his matted salt and pepper afro giving him the appearance of an aged lion, and slid the damp box of glazed donuts into his lap.

"'Preciate it," he said, not making eye-contact, as was his way, and Father Delaney checked the perimeter before walking on. He looked back, like Lot's wife, but instead of turning into a pillar of salt, he watched as the Tuesday crew encircled the wheelchair, then joined hands and bowed their heads so Lefty could pray a blessing over the donuts. It made his heart soar, and the priest wore a cheesy grin while navigating the slick sidewalk down to the center.

He spied the red glow of a dozen or so cigarette tips at the bottom of the hill, the crutch of those in distress, and redoubled his pace.

#

Douglas was late again, but as usual, the priest gently chastised him before offering him a strawberry jelly donut. Father Delaney seemed extra exuberant this morning, and when he went back to the stockroom to consult with the in-house physician and set up the trays of Dixie Cups containing single doses of a clear blue liquid, Douglas ate his donut and kept an eye on the hoard of twitchy smokers. The longer they waited to be let inside, the more their numbers increased. Douglas swallowed the last bite, washing it down with bitter coffee, then looked up at Jesus hanging on the cross. Both hands of the clock, contained within his torso, pointed to his bloody feet. One atop the other, they'd been pierced by a weathered spike and nailed to the cross. It was 6:30. Showtime.

"Open the floodgates," Father Delaney ordered, crossing himself, and Douglas unlocked the door. The creatures stamped out their cigarettes, clamoring to be the first to enter, thereby scoring a coveted low-number ticket and a chair. The priest had miraculously created a safe methadone clinic, one that was both warm and inviting, in this dilapidated space zoned for non-profit, community-forward organizations.

#

Father Delaney was hyped up about what was to come later in the day, so had trouble maintaining a stern demeanor while scolding Douglas for his late arrival. Though he was one of many in Saint Boniface's variety of programs for wayward teens, Douglas was special. Like the others, he was rough around the edges, but beneath that rough exterior, was a smart lad with a good heart.

His parents had been low-level smack dealers who'd overdosed and died, tripping on a bad batch of their own product. The kids, though young, were old enough to know something sinister was happening when they were abruptly separated to be sent in different directions, where they were swallowed up by the overstretched California foster care system.

Douglas, who remained in the Tenderloin district, briefly lost his way and did a few stints in juvey before transitioning into the program offered by the Catholic Church, where he could remain, as long as he stayed out of trouble. From day-one, Father Delaney had a soft-spot for the kid, and gave him preferential treatment, though he'd never admit it, so it was hard for the priest to hide his excitement on what promised to be a monumental day for Douglas, one that could change his destiny.

#

The thing Douglas hated most was the way the druggies lumbered around the waiting room, gripping the numbers ripped from the ticket dispenser like their lives depended on it. They weren't wrong. The morning dragged by and Douglas crept out for a smoke while Father Delaney covered, serving the blue Kool-Aid. A few drags in, Douglas felt guilt about leaving the priest to do his duties, and drowned his cigarette in the ashtray, an old water bottle containing murky liquid and floating butts, then, once he made sure there weren't any lurkers around, he entered the door-code and went inside, picking up where he'd left off.

"Number 17," he said, looking down at the sign-in sheet to avoid making eye-contact with the gangly creature, obviously a newbie by the way he stared in disbelief at the rumpled number seventeen in his shaking hand. His lips curled in a ghastly grin, his blackened teeth a testament to his condition, as he lurched towards the counter.

One foot in front of the other, pal. Douglas willed number seventeen to speed up, while keeping an eye on the metal-folding chairs occupied by agonized humans who had curled in on themselves. The newbie looked down to watch his feet, in ratty flip-flops, as they shuffled at a snail's pace to the counter, and though Douglas had just returned from break, he snuck a peek at crucified Jesus. Ugh. Only 11:05. Nearly an hour until they closed for lunch. Time moved slowly here. Slower than this guy's ongoing journey to the counter.

"Easy does it," he cautioned as the lurcher's flip-flops became entangled, and Douglas forced himself to look away. If the addict fell, so be it. His fragile condition was of his own making, and he blanched at the thought of taking hold of one of those spindly scabby arms to steady the teenager—for that's what he was. An emaciated teen who'd taken the wrong path, and Douglas would bet good money he'd started shooting up before reaching puberty. It boiled down to cold hard facts; the twitchy zombies in the Tenderloin were victims of their environments. Overcomers did exist, however. He was proof of that. Those stubborn few, able to hold onto their hopes and dreams and ignore the urge to use, but that was a rarity in this hellhole.

Seventeen leaned to sign in, and Douglas held his breath against the stench. A chapped skeletal hand dug around in the front pocket of his jeans, caked in filth the color of rust, finally pulling out a worn ID. Douglas glanced at the card. This photo of a smiling young man with all his teeth intact, bore no resemblance to the creature before him, in need of methadone. The dosage, scientifically calculated to lessen the urges while tapering down over time, was meant to fix those who needed fixing, but Douglas was skeptical. In all the time he'd worked here, he'd never fixed anyone.

The boy pocketed his ID then looked at Douglas, who handed him his first dose. The spent boy ran a dry tongue across festered lips before tossing it back like a shot of tequila.

"Thanks, Dougie," he said as he launched the empty into the waste bin. Douglas was confused. He never revealed his name and hadn't been called Dougie in years, so perhaps this was a foster bro he didn't remember, but he didn't want to think about that. It would bring back memories that shouldn't be remembered, before his parents had… he squeezed his eyes shut, then looked at the clock. 11:32. Enough time to dose two more twitchers before lunch.

"Number 18," he called, and the horde of zombies bent to check their numbers.

#

Jesus's belly said it was 4:00. Time to lock up for the day, so Father Delaney speed-dialed his associate, Sister Mary, a young scatterbrain struggling with her faith, to assist with closing duties. Then he called an Uber. Ten minutes later, a shiny black SUV arrived, carrying the distinct aroma of weed. The good smelling kind, unlike the skunky stench permeating this city.

"Nice ganja," he said, but the driver ignored him and cranked the tunes. An odd combination of musical genres the kids called Acid Jazz blasted from the speakers. If he was being honest, the only way he knew to be, this shit was the bomb. His toes tapped all the way to San Francisco International Airport.

#

Sister Mary thought Douglas was a hottie. If she wasn't already married to Jesus, she would give him… she violently slapped her cheeks, giving her bathroom mirror reflection a stern talking-to, before walking back to assist the hottie in cleaning up the waiting area. Overflows of paper cups, and a puddle of puke left in a corner by a newbie, awaited her return. She knew this was God's work but sometimes she felt like she needed a good screw. She pinched the tender part on the underside of her bicep and flinched before rounding the corner. She could use a stiff… drink. She looked up at the clock on Jesus's rock-hard abs. 4:24. A smidge too early for a cocktail.

"You okay, Sister? You look a little flushed," Douglas said with a concerned look on his face.

"I'm fine. Just thirsty," she replied as she dumped a pile of Voban Aromatic Absorbent on the grotesque puddle. It would kill the odor. About that drink, it was five o'clock somewhere.

#

Father Delaney walked into baggage claim and gravitated towards a cluster of passengers jockeying for position around the luggage carousel. He stood outside the frantic zone, waiting to find the answer to his prayers and to months of research, all but this one leading to dead ends.

Please, Lord, let this be the one, he crossed himself and the crowd parted like the Red Sea. There he was. He would be Douglas if you traded the expensive designer clothes for a pair of Crocs, a grubby t-shirt and faded jeans. Sharply dressed Douglas made a beeline for the priest, smiling like he'd won the California lottery and Father Delaney fought back tears of joy.

"Father Delaney, I presume…"

"David Sherwood, I presume…"

They spoke the words at the same time, then both grew quiet, each waiting for the other to speak.

"I can't wait to meet…"

"I can't wait for you to meet…"

They laughed, each finishing the sentence in their own way.

"my twin brother Dougie."

"your twin brother Douglas."

Father Delaney clapped David on the back and called an Uber.

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