A week later, I can still see the eyes of the beast, glowing hot like wild fires in hell. I feel the fetid breath of the monster on the back of my neck. I feel the sting of claws clamping down into my unwilling flesh.

The horror. The horror.

I’m not talking about the mystery animal found beneath the power lines in Turner, people. DNA testing conducted by Mulder and Scully will likely prove that the creature is actually a government robot dog sent out to distract the populace from the real work at hand. Or an escaped pet gerbil grown huge after feeding on berries next to the Androscoggin River.

Whatever.

The glowing eyes, the hot breath and the clamping claws belong to the descending press and the swarm of greed that blew in from the periphery when the creature story got hot.

In a corner store, one of them approached me from behind. I felt strong fingers digging into my shoulder. I turned to defend myself, but I was only armed with a bag of peanuts and a pack of smokes. That was before I started carrying a hatchet whenever I’m out in public.

“That creature,” the wild-eyed man said. “It’s a fisher.”

A fisher, yes. Every time something from the woods can’t be identified, call it a fisher. It will help you sleep at night, when the stuffed Winnie the Pooh just isn’t enough.

But the stray comment from the corner store vulture drew the attention of other patrons. They followed me outside and ignored my attempts to swat them away with the peanuts.

“You ought to get the head,” a tough looking lady said. I suspected it was not the first time or even the second that she had uttered that sentence. “Sell it on eBay.”

Ah, eBay. Almost immediately after I first wrote about the mystery animal, there was talk of online auctioning. Sell the creature’s rotting head and make millions! Put it out to bid and let the paleontologists and souvenir seekers batter themselves into poverty! If there is a patch of decay that resembles the Virgin Mary, you might get enough money to buy a yacht!

Capitalists are everywhere. Present them with a natural wonder, you will see dollar signs appear where their pupils used to be. While others ponder the mystery and muse over the splendor of nature, these people will be doing silent math.

“Send me a tooth,” said one caller, who had learned I was heading out to inspect the remains. “For analysis. Yeah, that’s it. Analysis.”

I imagined the caller rubbing his hands together, a wide Grinchly grin spreading across his face. He was mentally writing his sales pitch for the eBay page. “Claw from Maine Creature May Cure Cancer! Fang Guarantees Love and Prosperity!”

Wretches, the lot of them.

There were only a handful of photos of the beast before decomposition set in. They belonged to Michelle O’Donnell, who sent them to me for study and publication. The newspaper ran the photos. The very next day, those same photos were everywhere, from the Drudge Report to AOL’s startup page.

Those who haven’t mastered the art of the right click called me and asked for copies of the photos. A few of them stopped just short of offering up their sisters or cars as trade. You could hear them slobbering over the phone as they sought any wedge of the creature pie they could get their hands on.

There was a period when I was in possession of one of the sad, exploited creature’s hind paws. Droves of people wanted to see it. A few wanted to touch it. Almost everybody smelled it. To some, even decomposition can smell like loot.

An anthropologist I spoke with was absolutely right: When something strange and unfamiliar emerges, it is regarded with reverence. Something that appears alien to us is the source of both worship and fear. For most of us, it is an inherent reaction that touches on spiritualism and natural curiosity. For others, it comes with the sharp, metallic clang of a cash register.

“You ought to write a book about it,” several people said to me, all low and conspiratorial. “Capitalize while it’s hot.”

But by this point, I was already looking ahead. To the next creature sighting. To a report of a UFO over Greene. To the return of crime and mayhem in downtown Lewiston, which could be renamed Romper Room for all the action I’ve gotten out of there lately.

What the capitalists and eBay millionaire wannabes don’t understand is that hysteria over a news story is as fleeting and erratic as the weather. One good story about an elderly woman beating a burglar into submission with her wooden leg and the Turner creature will be forgotten. One hint of a celebrity or politician caught messing around with a cross-dressing hooker and it’s all over for the Maine Mutant. Mystery what? Where is Turner?

I appreciate that the animal – dog, extraterrestrial demon, whatever – sacrificed its life in the name of news. For a week, I didn’t have to write about weather or fender benders. For a week, I got to explore a mystery and spend some time with the flies. That’s priceless. That’s why being a reporter occasionally does not suck.

Or maybe I’m completely wrong. Maybe I should be more of a capitalist, looking out for No. 1 when the opportunity arises. Has anyone noticed that I’m still driving a 1990 Stanza? Have you seen that thing? Talk about a mystery beast. It’s like a heap of rust running on a form of energy unknown to man.

Now available on eBay! Own a piece of Mark’s Mystery Mobile! May cure poverty and depression! And if you look really close at the rust on the front left corner panel – if the sun is just right and if you squint – you can see the image of the Virgin Mary!

Mark Laflamme is a Sun Journal crime reporter. The Sun Journal has sent his DNA out for analysis.

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