I received a VHS tape in my mailbox this morning.
I sat down in front of my television and played the tape. A hazy black and white image appeared on the TV screen. The recording seemed to be filmed with an old 8 millimeter camera. It was a shot of a beach, at night. The ground was silt and sand, and the trees looked like tropical forest. It was a tripod shot, and nothing happened for the first few minutes of the video.
The recording was really grainy and shot without the benefit of the modern camcorder's night vision technology. I couldn't see that much, but I could clearly hear the waves crashing, and some garbled off-camera voices.
After a few minutes of the unintelligible voices I left the tape playing and made breakfast. I poured a large bowl of granola with dried strawberries and poured milk and peach schnapps into it. Mostly peach schnapps.
I came back to the television. The shot was the same, but the camera had been knocked over. I rewound the tape. Hastily, I shoveled some granola with schnapps into my mouth. The camera was upright again. I pressed play.
A figure came out of the tree line. The figure was shirtless, with pale white skin and wearing jeans. He was bald and looked at the camera with wild eyes. He was probably about 25 feet from the camera. His jeans looked frayed. His head moved from left to right and right to left like a bird's might. He took a few steps closer to the camera. I could see that he was extremely well-muscled.
Still about 15 feet away, he began to reach out with his arms. Long, long arms. His arms telescoped further and further towards the camera, intertwining and wrapping around each other. They twisted and untwisted.
I paused the tape to see a hazy freezeframe of the man's long, long arms.
I sat down at the table. I rolled a loose joint with some old marijuana and clutched it in my mouth. I walked to the bathroom to urinate. Just as I had finished urinating, a powerful piss shiver overtook me. I shook violently, and the joint fell out of my mouth into the urine-filled toiletbowl.
I heard screaming and moaning from the other room. I rushed in to see what it was. The tape had become unpaused and the volume was blasting. Apparently, whomever had made this tape had taped it over an 80s porno. The moaning and grunting of the blaring pornography eased my sense of alarm. Then I saw it: the man in the porno had long, long arms. They warped and undulated around the woman, and his misshapen penis entered her again and again.
I walked back into the bathroom and fished the urine-soaked joint out of the toilet. I broke up the joint and mixed it into my cereal. The man with the long, long arms was still fucking on my television. I left my house and went for a walk.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Hobbyist
Part 1 Here
He spoke with the gargling, mucosal sounds typical of Egypt.
"Watch where you point that thing," Ayaz said.
I put the rifle back in the duffle and thanked Ayaz. I would have asked him to have whiskey with me, but I knew he was a Musulman and would refuse as a matter of principle. Instead, I shook his hand firmly. His hand was massive and hairy. He squeezed tightly. I could feel the tiny bones in my hand giving way under the incredible strength of his grip. Ayaz was the kind of guy that got off on that, I could tell.
"Until we meet again, Jackal."
I walked out to my car and drove home. I drove carefully because it was snowing heavily. I parked in my driveway and went inside. There was a bottle of Jack Daniel's still sitting on my oaken dining table. I poured what was left into a lowball glass that had been left out. The pour was just over a shot, maybe closer to two. The exact amount didn't matter anyway.
I unpacked the Jackal's bag and set the rifle on the tabletop. The rifle was clearly battleworn, but was in excellent condition and freshly oiled. At least I thought it was oil. Knowing Ayaz it might have been Astroglide. I shook out the bag to make sure there was nothing else inside.
An extra magazine rattled out and fell on the floor. I picked it up, and realizing it was unloaded, set it on the table. Something caught my eye -- there was a note taped to one side.
The note was written on white notebook paper, ruled with blue lines. It read:
The time is right. Something is going on.
de Jackal
It must have been about the meteor, or the lizardmen. Worse, it could have been about both. I took the note downstairs and stuck it on the meteor. The meteor was black, and grew slimier by the day. The slime was thick, and the meteor vibrated when I got near it.
I took out a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's and sat with the meteor, sipping from the bottle. The meteor rattled and shook.
I thought about Jackie and his girlfriend. The sips were coming faster and faster now. The meteor's shaking became more violent and the lights flickered in the already dim basement. The empty liquor bottles on the floor clanked together.
In a way, I liked the meteor. There was something calming about being in its presence, like sitting around a roaring campfire with friends. I took a long look at the meteor, and its viscous slime coating reflected my face and the room around me.
I carried the meteor out to the backyard. It was heavy and hard to hold because of the slime. I beamed a wide smile at the meteor. I dropped it into the metal trashcan I keep in the yard. The can was filled with dry copies of the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, and all the mail I receive from the government.
The meteor landed in the pile of rubbish with a satisfying thunk. I doused the meteor with lighter fluid and struck a match. My eyes glassed over as the match hit the pile of periodicals.
The fire blasted out of the trash can. An incredible amount of smoke came billowing out of the trash can with the meteor in it. The smoke was acrid and choked my lungs. It burned in my mouth and nose.
The can rocked and shook. The sound of a cascading waterfall filled the cold night air. It was deafening, and the smoke became thicker and more horrible. I saw dancing vision. I took a deep breath, inhaling through my mouth.
The smoke tasted like pussy.
He spoke with the gargling, mucosal sounds typical of Egypt.
"Watch where you point that thing," Ayaz said.
I put the rifle back in the duffle and thanked Ayaz. I would have asked him to have whiskey with me, but I knew he was a Musulman and would refuse as a matter of principle. Instead, I shook his hand firmly. His hand was massive and hairy. He squeezed tightly. I could feel the tiny bones in my hand giving way under the incredible strength of his grip. Ayaz was the kind of guy that got off on that, I could tell.
"Until we meet again, Jackal."
I walked out to my car and drove home. I drove carefully because it was snowing heavily. I parked in my driveway and went inside. There was a bottle of Jack Daniel's still sitting on my oaken dining table. I poured what was left into a lowball glass that had been left out. The pour was just over a shot, maybe closer to two. The exact amount didn't matter anyway.
I unpacked the Jackal's bag and set the rifle on the tabletop. The rifle was clearly battleworn, but was in excellent condition and freshly oiled. At least I thought it was oil. Knowing Ayaz it might have been Astroglide. I shook out the bag to make sure there was nothing else inside.
An extra magazine rattled out and fell on the floor. I picked it up, and realizing it was unloaded, set it on the table. Something caught my eye -- there was a note taped to one side.
The note was written on white notebook paper, ruled with blue lines. It read:
The time is right. Something is going on.
de Jackal
It must have been about the meteor, or the lizardmen. Worse, it could have been about both. I took the note downstairs and stuck it on the meteor. The meteor was black, and grew slimier by the day. The slime was thick, and the meteor vibrated when I got near it.
I took out a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's and sat with the meteor, sipping from the bottle. The meteor rattled and shook.
I thought about Jackie and his girlfriend. The sips were coming faster and faster now. The meteor's shaking became more violent and the lights flickered in the already dim basement. The empty liquor bottles on the floor clanked together.
In a way, I liked the meteor. There was something calming about being in its presence, like sitting around a roaring campfire with friends. I took a long look at the meteor, and its viscous slime coating reflected my face and the room around me.
I carried the meteor out to the backyard. It was heavy and hard to hold because of the slime. I beamed a wide smile at the meteor. I dropped it into the metal trashcan I keep in the yard. The can was filled with dry copies of the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, and all the mail I receive from the government.
The meteor landed in the pile of rubbish with a satisfying thunk. I doused the meteor with lighter fluid and struck a match. My eyes glassed over as the match hit the pile of periodicals.
The fire blasted out of the trash can. An incredible amount of smoke came billowing out of the trash can with the meteor in it. The smoke was acrid and choked my lungs. It burned in my mouth and nose.
The can rocked and shook. The sound of a cascading waterfall filled the cold night air. It was deafening, and the smoke became thicker and more horrible. I saw dancing vision. I took a deep breath, inhaling through my mouth.
The smoke tasted like pussy.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Fertile Crescent
The sauna was very hot. I splashed water on the rocks. The water sizzled loudly and the steam rose into the air, twisting into thin wisps. Sweat dripped from my skin. My scrotum hung low and stuck to the side of my leg. According to the thermometer it was over 174 degrees.
The ambient air temperature was hot enough, and the loud arabic chanting piped in made it seem much hotter. I had known him for many years and despite my vehement protests he insisted on these sauna meetings. It was something about the cold of the Northeast maybe. Or maybe he just liked to be uncomfortably hot.
Ayaz was usually late. Today I hoped against hope that he would show up soon, because the heat was unbearable.
I had been in the sauna for over an hour waiting for Ayaz. By this point I was sweating profusely. Ayaz finally arrived and sat across from me in the sauna. He had a large duffle with him.
I greeted him with his nickname, the Jackal.
He nodded his head in acknowledgment.
Though the Jackal is a fierce and clever omnivorous predator in the Middle East, I knew him as the Jackal for other reasons. When we first met in Cairo, Ayaz approached me in a public market. He carried a grey duffle. We spoke briefly in english. Then, in perfect arabic, I said the code phrase.
"I need to take a leak."
Ayaz showed me to a desolate washroom. I was suspicious of him. Then again, I had said I needed to take a leak. He shut the door behind us and locked it. The washroom was spacious and dusty. The walls were covered with very old tiles, many of which had fallen off. The lighting was dim and every so often the lights flickered on and off.
Ayaz put the duffle bag atop the sinks and before he could show me what was inside, the powerful smell of polyurethane plastics and elastic rubber filled the washroom. I peered into the bag. Even in the poor lighting I could make out the contents: hundreds of different colored pocket vaginas. There were realistic molded ones, large ones, small ones, and a few garishly colored tubes of all shapes and sizes. Then, Ayaz spoke.
"Jackalate?"
He handed me a seemingly average looking pocket vagina. It was large, made of blue rubber, and reversible. The rubber was dimpled on one side. It felt strange, but good.
I handed it back to the Jackal. We left the musty bathroom and went our separate ways. I had established my contact in the fertile crescent.
Today, after a brief conversation, Ayaz handed me the duffle bag. It was heavy. I looked inside and saw a rifle. Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was an Armalite AR-15, well worn, with telescoping buttstock. Both grip and stock were covered in blue dimpled rubber. I held the foregrip and pressed the buttstock to my shoulder, aligning the sights. It felt strange, but good.
The ambient air temperature was hot enough, and the loud arabic chanting piped in made it seem much hotter. I had known him for many years and despite my vehement protests he insisted on these sauna meetings. It was something about the cold of the Northeast maybe. Or maybe he just liked to be uncomfortably hot.
Ayaz was usually late. Today I hoped against hope that he would show up soon, because the heat was unbearable.
I had been in the sauna for over an hour waiting for Ayaz. By this point I was sweating profusely. Ayaz finally arrived and sat across from me in the sauna. He had a large duffle with him.
I greeted him with his nickname, the Jackal.
He nodded his head in acknowledgment.
Though the Jackal is a fierce and clever omnivorous predator in the Middle East, I knew him as the Jackal for other reasons. When we first met in Cairo, Ayaz approached me in a public market. He carried a grey duffle. We spoke briefly in english. Then, in perfect arabic, I said the code phrase.
"I need to take a leak."
Ayaz showed me to a desolate washroom. I was suspicious of him. Then again, I had said I needed to take a leak. He shut the door behind us and locked it. The washroom was spacious and dusty. The walls were covered with very old tiles, many of which had fallen off. The lighting was dim and every so often the lights flickered on and off.
Ayaz put the duffle bag atop the sinks and before he could show me what was inside, the powerful smell of polyurethane plastics and elastic rubber filled the washroom. I peered into the bag. Even in the poor lighting I could make out the contents: hundreds of different colored pocket vaginas. There were realistic molded ones, large ones, small ones, and a few garishly colored tubes of all shapes and sizes. Then, Ayaz spoke.
"Jackalate?"
He handed me a seemingly average looking pocket vagina. It was large, made of blue rubber, and reversible. The rubber was dimpled on one side. It felt strange, but good.
I handed it back to the Jackal. We left the musty bathroom and went our separate ways. I had established my contact in the fertile crescent.
Today, after a brief conversation, Ayaz handed me the duffle bag. It was heavy. I looked inside and saw a rifle. Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was an Armalite AR-15, well worn, with telescoping buttstock. Both grip and stock were covered in blue dimpled rubber. I held the foregrip and pressed the buttstock to my shoulder, aligning the sights. It felt strange, but good.
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