Bond No. 9 Coney Island Review

Wit­ness­ing a human being, a friend, a young gen­tle­man with a wife and chil­dren being over­tak­en by the hor­ror the wendi­go spir­it embod­ies is a ter­ri­fy­ing thing. My hunt­ing par­ty had found itself strand­ed in the north­ern Rock­ies as win­ter fell back in 83, and we knew things would be grim, but watch­ing Stevensen go mad like he did, run­ning off into the tall pines, dri­ven by hunger, the end­less cold and snow, the iso­la­tion, to what we believed was his death near­ly drove us to despair. How­ev­er, when he start­ed hunt­ing us, when we saw O’Grady’s bones stripped of flesh in that clear­ing, with the gnaw marks of human teeth on them, when we saw him fall upon Clemens and begin rip­ping and tear­ing like a sav­age ani­mal, it was beyond despair, beyond terror.

In the end there were only two of the ten of us left, just Gio­van­ni and I, and putting the mon­ster that was wear­ing Stevensen’s flesh down, like a rabid dog, remem­ber­ing who he had been… I’m sor­ry, I can­not speak of this anymore.

Coney Island is a fra­grance that tastes noth­ing like it smells. It is bit­ter, foul to the mouth. It also burns when applied to the eyes. I strong­ly advise against doing so, and instead rec­om­mend that it be sprayed upon skin or cloth­ing, for its scent, or the mar­velous sound the sprayer makes when it sprays.

Bond No. 9 Coney Island