The Heartland of America

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.