I woke up early this morning, like I always do. The sun shone brightly through the windows of my bedroom. I walked downstairs and began to read the newspaper. I was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up my driveway.
I looked out the window and saw that it was Jackie, driving a late model Honda. I rushed out to greet him. By the time I had walked over to the car, Jackie was already out of the driver's seat and leaning against the automobile's champagne-colored exterior. He clutched his huffing rag in one hand with the desperate grip of a drug addict. He extended to me his other hand in friendship. We shook hands. He looked terrible, even for him. He was shaking and his hair was falling out in clumps.
Jackie began to explain what he was doing here. He voice quivered. He told me that he had been driving cross country with his girlfriend when he was run off the road by bandits in Oklahoma. There was red dust all over his car. I listened intently as he told me the story of how a gang of men dragged him and his girlfriend out of their car and took them to an encampment near Canton Lake. It was a nearly moonless night. The gang brandished shotguns and shackled them in manacles and leg irons.
Immediately I knew who Jackie was talking about. I had run into the same group of men in my travels west. I sneaked into their camp many years ago to investigate their connection to a series of disappearances of priests from the eastern seaboard. I wore black clothes and after observing them from great distance, found the right moment to walk through their camp. I never found the priests although I am sure they were behind the plot. What I did find was much worse.
Through the night optics I had brought I could see the burly, hoggish men cavort naked around a bonfire. They stomped their feet and shouted gutturally as their ritual went on. I could see through the binoculars the unmistakable logo on the tub of Crisco-brand vegetable shortening from which they each took handfuls before going on to grip and stroke each other. The sheen of their disgusting corpulent bodies reflected the light of the bonfire. Their genitals were gnarled and misshapen. They chased each other around the fire for hours.
The ritual ended when a meteorite crashed down nearby. The most clumsy and lubricious amongst them, Crisco still dripping from his loins, staggered over and picked it up. He held the rock above his head with both hands. Although I could see that the meteorite was very hot, he did not grimace from the pain. As the others of the gang caught sight of the rock, they were entranced. The man holding the rock began to grow even more fat. He chanted in tongues. His voice sounded like the sloshing of urine in a half-full milk jug. I had seen enough. I fled as quickly as I could from the sight of the ritual.
And now I knew that it was not a one time thing. Jackie had seen it too. As I recounted the story to Jackie, he nodded solemnly. A tear dropped from his eye. I handed him my hankerchief to wipe the tears and he coughed blood into it. As he was wiping his mouth, some of his teeth fell out.
I looked into the back seat of his car and I suddenly realized what had happened. There was a pile of filthy blankets, covered in ruddish soil. I opened the car door and raced to unwrap the blankets. Inside was the meteorite!
"Jackie, how did you get this," I inquired incredulously.
"They took her," He was sobbing. "They hung her from a meathook and cut off her feet and hands!"
Jackie was inconsolable. I did the only thing I knew how. I held the meteorite over my head with both hands. Out of my mouth poured the sounds of a washing machine on full spin cycle. The noise got louder and louder. Jackie opened his mouth and the roar of the sloshing water got even stronger.
Large, black wasps began to pour out of my mouth. I gripped the meteorite harder and we collapsed in laughter, the sloshing sound drowning out the world around us.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Healthcare
A week ago, I went to see my doctor because of an intense pain in my testicles. I thought it might be testicular torsion, or worse, syphilis.
I receive my medical care from a man named Dr. McBride. He practices medicine in a building on the outskirts of town. McBride is known to be the best medical doctor in the area, and more importantly, I trust him.
I drove out to McBride's office in my old Mercedes. The car has held up well over the years. The butter-colored interior still had the faint smell of leather. I parked the car and walked purposefully into McBride's office. I often wondered to myself if I was his only patient, because I had never seen anyone else coming or going during my trips to McBride's office. McBride worked alone. He answered his own phone calls on a heavy, black rotary telephone that still had his number listed partially in letters and the rest in numbers.
When I walked into the office, McBride was standing in the middle of the austere waiting room. The sickly, yellow glow of the florescent lighting made his skin look pale. McBride was a gaunt figure. His clothes hung from his bones. We went into his consulting room and I sat on the deli paper wrapped examination table. McBride went through a full run of standard check-up tests, checking my pupils for dilation and measuring my weight. Everything was normal. That was when I told him about the sharp pain in my testicles.
McBride's black, beady eyes shifted around in their sockets. He handed me a tongue depressor, a copy of the New York Times and a plastic specimen cup, and asked me to excuse myself to the restroom for a stool sample. I carefully laid the New York Times under the toilet seat, and after some straining, defecated on it. Steam wafted off of the bowel movement in the frigid air of McBride's unheated bathroom. I broke off and pushed a piece of the bowel movement into the specimen cup. I crumpled up the feculent New York Times and put it into McBride's red biohazardous medical waste jug.
I returned to the consultation room and handed McBride the specimen cup. He set the cup down on the counter-top and clutched his lapels with his spindly fingers. His brow furrowed. I had come to McBride because he was a well-known injectionist. I knew he would give me a series of shots of procaine for the pain in my testicles.
McBride released his grip with his right hand and reached into one of the drawers under the counter.
"Great. Relief at last," I thought.
McBride produced a heavily tarnished pewter spoon. With the speed of a man half his age, he tore open the specimen cup. The doctor eagerly spooned a walnut-sized piece of the tarry stool into his mouth. He chewed rapidly. I could hear the preternatural grating of his teeth against one other. The bowel movement was as black as obsidian, and had an oily sheen to it in the flickering light of the room. It looked like a shiny, meatball-sized lump of opium. McBride spooned another heaping nugget into his emaciated maw, and somehow, I felt greatly at ease.
I can still feel the overwhelming feeling of tranquility that I felt on that day.
I receive my medical care from a man named Dr. McBride. He practices medicine in a building on the outskirts of town. McBride is known to be the best medical doctor in the area, and more importantly, I trust him.
I drove out to McBride's office in my old Mercedes. The car has held up well over the years. The butter-colored interior still had the faint smell of leather. I parked the car and walked purposefully into McBride's office. I often wondered to myself if I was his only patient, because I had never seen anyone else coming or going during my trips to McBride's office. McBride worked alone. He answered his own phone calls on a heavy, black rotary telephone that still had his number listed partially in letters and the rest in numbers.
When I walked into the office, McBride was standing in the middle of the austere waiting room. The sickly, yellow glow of the florescent lighting made his skin look pale. McBride was a gaunt figure. His clothes hung from his bones. We went into his consulting room and I sat on the deli paper wrapped examination table. McBride went through a full run of standard check-up tests, checking my pupils for dilation and measuring my weight. Everything was normal. That was when I told him about the sharp pain in my testicles.
McBride's black, beady eyes shifted around in their sockets. He handed me a tongue depressor, a copy of the New York Times and a plastic specimen cup, and asked me to excuse myself to the restroom for a stool sample. I carefully laid the New York Times under the toilet seat, and after some straining, defecated on it. Steam wafted off of the bowel movement in the frigid air of McBride's unheated bathroom. I broke off and pushed a piece of the bowel movement into the specimen cup. I crumpled up the feculent New York Times and put it into McBride's red biohazardous medical waste jug.
I returned to the consultation room and handed McBride the specimen cup. He set the cup down on the counter-top and clutched his lapels with his spindly fingers. His brow furrowed. I had come to McBride because he was a well-known injectionist. I knew he would give me a series of shots of procaine for the pain in my testicles.
McBride released his grip with his right hand and reached into one of the drawers under the counter.
"Great. Relief at last," I thought.
McBride produced a heavily tarnished pewter spoon. With the speed of a man half his age, he tore open the specimen cup. The doctor eagerly spooned a walnut-sized piece of the tarry stool into his mouth. He chewed rapidly. I could hear the preternatural grating of his teeth against one other. The bowel movement was as black as obsidian, and had an oily sheen to it in the flickering light of the room. It looked like a shiny, meatball-sized lump of opium. McBride spooned another heaping nugget into his emaciated maw, and somehow, I felt greatly at ease.
I can still feel the overwhelming feeling of tranquility that I felt on that day.
Friday, January 8, 2010
A Man A Plan A Canal Panama
It was raining again and I was having a bad day in a filthy bar downtown. The bartender was a girl in her 20s. I didn't know her name and I didn't ask. Maybe in my younger days I would have fucked her on the bar top with a mouth full of whiskey and a vas deferens full of lust. These days, though, I just wanted another drink.
I was rattling the ice in my empty glass when he stopped me. It was Juan Carlos. He was a slight man with dark hair and an ugly face. I had first met him in Panama on business. Being that we were thousands of miles from Panama, this seemed like too much to be a coincidence.
I told Juan Carlos that I was leaving and that I would see him around. He didn't say anything and his eyes returned to the cup of blended fruit swill that he was drinking. He had a sweet tooth. I hurriedly walked home while the raindrops soaked the city. The newly re-hydrated city streets reeked of shit and garbage and the scum you'd scrape out from under your fingernails after a long night at a whorehouse.
As I got home I unlocked my door, sat in my velvet-upholstered recliner and smoked a blend of treebark and pulverized wood beetles. After a few puffs, I dozed off.
A loud and distinctive pounding on the door roused me from my slumber. The oaken door shook from the force. I had heard that knock before. It was the knock of the Panamanian. I opened the door to see Juan Carlos standing there, soaking wet. There were red lipstick prints on his clothes and he had bite marks all over his face. His skin was hanging off in some spots and I could see the scaly coating underneath.
I invited him in and I reached for the satchel I kept hanging on the back of the door. In the satchel was a bull whip that I had bought from slavers in Bangalore. As Juan Carlos came in, I shut the door and lashed him with the whip, again and again. The heavy, braided leather tore his clothes. Juan Carlos hit me with a powerful hay-maker. The force of the blow made me vomit beer and liquor onto my carpet. I ran after Juan Carlos, lashing him with the whip.
Juan Carlos fled to the bathroom and locked himself in. My blood boiled with rage. I thought of Panama and how we got to these circumstances in the first place. I kicked the door down and grappled with the Panamanian. The smell of him was worse than I remembered. He was slicked with sweat and blood, but my grip was strong. I plunged his head into the commode, banging his skull against the porcelain. After the repeated blows against the hard, ceramic toilet his reptilian brain gave out on him. He slipped into unconsciousness. Juan Carlos began to look more like a lizard by the moment, and he made terrible gurgling sounds while I held his head under the water for what seemed like hours.
The Panama Canal had been completed only 66 years earlier. Most of it was built by reptiles.
I was rattling the ice in my empty glass when he stopped me. It was Juan Carlos. He was a slight man with dark hair and an ugly face. I had first met him in Panama on business. Being that we were thousands of miles from Panama, this seemed like too much to be a coincidence.
I told Juan Carlos that I was leaving and that I would see him around. He didn't say anything and his eyes returned to the cup of blended fruit swill that he was drinking. He had a sweet tooth. I hurriedly walked home while the raindrops soaked the city. The newly re-hydrated city streets reeked of shit and garbage and the scum you'd scrape out from under your fingernails after a long night at a whorehouse.
As I got home I unlocked my door, sat in my velvet-upholstered recliner and smoked a blend of treebark and pulverized wood beetles. After a few puffs, I dozed off.
A loud and distinctive pounding on the door roused me from my slumber. The oaken door shook from the force. I had heard that knock before. It was the knock of the Panamanian. I opened the door to see Juan Carlos standing there, soaking wet. There were red lipstick prints on his clothes and he had bite marks all over his face. His skin was hanging off in some spots and I could see the scaly coating underneath.
I invited him in and I reached for the satchel I kept hanging on the back of the door. In the satchel was a bull whip that I had bought from slavers in Bangalore. As Juan Carlos came in, I shut the door and lashed him with the whip, again and again. The heavy, braided leather tore his clothes. Juan Carlos hit me with a powerful hay-maker. The force of the blow made me vomit beer and liquor onto my carpet. I ran after Juan Carlos, lashing him with the whip.
Juan Carlos fled to the bathroom and locked himself in. My blood boiled with rage. I thought of Panama and how we got to these circumstances in the first place. I kicked the door down and grappled with the Panamanian. The smell of him was worse than I remembered. He was slicked with sweat and blood, but my grip was strong. I plunged his head into the commode, banging his skull against the porcelain. After the repeated blows against the hard, ceramic toilet his reptilian brain gave out on him. He slipped into unconsciousness. Juan Carlos began to look more like a lizard by the moment, and he made terrible gurgling sounds while I held his head under the water for what seemed like hours.
The Panama Canal had been completed only 66 years earlier. Most of it was built by reptiles.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The normal are not detectably sane
I spent my new year's eve with Sheila and Abner, a young couple that i have befriended over the years. They live in a modest log cabin in the icy wastes of Nunavut, Canada. Sheila and Abner are a great couple and about as normal as they come. Although it was new year's eve the real reason I went to visit Sheila and Abner was because they were expecting a baby, their 6th.
On new year's day they had an unremarkable home birth. Sheila's vagina looked like a well-worn catcher's mitt as its leathery folds undulated and pulsed, expelling the baby. The baby was followed by a blast of cottage cheese and a placenta that writhed as would a struggling one-legged octopus, shimmering in the reflection of the cabin's gas lamps.
We cut the umbilical cord and had a champagne toast while Sheila held the baby. "I am the first and the last," Abner exclaimed as Sheila walked outside into the frozen winter, grabbed the baby by his tiny ankle and dashed out his brains against the frozen scree.
I drank a quart of Jack Daniel's and thought of bygone presidents and what it would be like if my car had sexual intercourse with as many women as I had.
On new year's day they had an unremarkable home birth. Sheila's vagina looked like a well-worn catcher's mitt as its leathery folds undulated and pulsed, expelling the baby. The baby was followed by a blast of cottage cheese and a placenta that writhed as would a struggling one-legged octopus, shimmering in the reflection of the cabin's gas lamps.
We cut the umbilical cord and had a champagne toast while Sheila held the baby. "I am the first and the last," Abner exclaimed as Sheila walked outside into the frozen winter, grabbed the baby by his tiny ankle and dashed out his brains against the frozen scree.
I drank a quart of Jack Daniel's and thought of bygone presidents and what it would be like if my car had sexual intercourse with as many women as I had.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
