After drinking the calibrated liquor and puffing the correct amount of hash required for contemplation of the Under-Thoughts, Rat Shit McLean retired from the squat’s audience chamber (a large wooden room with no furniture intact, posters like ancient, peeling hieroglyphs, and enough sweat and piss to salt five alpine goats) down into the cellar, placing his hand on a larger clay hand held out to him. The warmth of his flesh left an impression in the soft coldness. The hand retracted into a fist, which shot out and hit Rat Shit in the solar plexus. His vomit registered Authorized and a panel slid open in the concrete wall.
Inside a small alcove, the Twice Divided Divine Divination Devil, a grotesque (horned, stone and screaming) dripping small drops of ichor into a bowl set into the wall. Rat Shit knew that if he placed a thumb dip of the liquid under his tongue he would travel into the True Now Now Realm, a dimension beyond the false reality of material existence, free from the prison that was his meat and opinions, into the abyss of eternal Alright.
But he had just come to dump the garbage from last night’s shit show and you had to go through the basement to get to the alley.
So here we are: midnight, boozed up, letting the brain go like an old Viking who threw the oars to the deep with a curse to the creature who impedes its progress into the heart of King Sea and drifts, waiting for the sun to make of him a mummy to deliver to distant shores.
But do we kid ourselves with this? Words are power, are spells, are vibrations in the air, are throat ejaculations given meaning by a thousand years of cowardice in the face of mammalian burp magic. What word ever changed the world? What sound can distract the looming Juggernaut (all trees dying at one time and falling in an Earth-ending answer to an ancient question)?
Do these uniform tick marks convey anything to the realm of stimulus a buzz with bees unworldly (drones and queens both dancing to the tune you’ve heard all the every time before)? Or should we rip and fling bullets from our eyes and kill our readers before they crack open the first page to save them the boredom of looking, staring, processing, pretending, remarking, etc.?
Too many questions this night. Better to free my fingers than to add to the confusion. Watch the skin part. Watch them fall, crooked sausages full of bone.
New on the Word Virus page: On Gorgonaeon by Jordan Krall
All of the walls to your back, forever.
And so we see, wrapped in ink and paper thin, the eternal flower of the mountain unwithered and still grasping to the knuckles the spring from which burst the writhing stew that spread from sea to sea to summit to moon and, with meat visions sizzling under elegant skull, the old mother (but how young her voice!), still dreaming in sheets made wet with human dew, cries once more Yes.
I came to the edge of the woods in search of the fractal-nothing-mind and found instead a small kiosk and inside a shrunken old man. A sign on the front claimed:
“Welcome to the Woods:
Entrance Fee $10
Mandatory Lost Hiker Insurance $25”
I stared at the wrinkled man (his eyes piss yellow and tongue a bloated grey, balding head the ruins of what must have once been proud horns) and realized that this was no man, but a god. Were I too drag him from his kiosk and set science upon him, I would no doubt find an engorged member the size of my arm hanging about goat fur and cloven hooves.
I don’t have the stomach for it. Instead, I tell him I have no money and that I came to the woods simply to wander and would not pay his fee, or buy his t-shirt, or worry about getting lost.
“The woods ain’t free no more, boy,” he says with phlegm in his throat, “everything costs. Hell, I gotta pay for the dryads’ union dues or they’d have to start hooking. How do you think I feel, taking money for nothing? If you can kill me, please, I beg of you, lay me down in that ditch and pop my head right off, boy, but if you ain’t Him That Will Come, then give me the cash or get the fuck out, alright?”
I thought for a moment. “Well…what’s that t-shirt look like?”
There was a great flopping noise. Neon blue light came on like someone had shot lasers into a jar of berries, shook, and smeared it across my window.
“Holy goddamn Motherfucker, what is it? How is it? Are they here? Did they come. Shit damn, I’m not ready!”
The window stretched around their bulbous heads. Eyes swung back and forth, black and big like bowling balls, and found me holding the bit of root and a dull knife. The sphincter in the bottom of the head of the left one puckered and pushed out a glowing sentence that fell to the ground in Earth’s heavy gravity.
What I read before it fell: “Human Communicator, you have found us. We have a wonderful offer. Show him.”
The right one held up a perfectly cubed hand, flexed a muscle here and there, and on popped an image on the hand cube. It was a saucer. A space saucer. A flying, green, space saucer with lights and tractor beams and doo-dads galore. Phallic protrusions hinted at ray guns or probes.
“For me?” I asked, awed at the prospect of intergalactic schmoozing.
“Yes. For a one time payment of *calculating* 75 thousand NeuVoid Credits.”
“I…I don’t have any of those.”
Their pulsating laughter still haunts the walls of that room. Now I stay outside and never sleep.
The day that put the fountain in the Community Gardens became the day that the old ones up and skinned themselves out of life.
It had been dirt. Just dirt. A few weeds in the Spring, but not many. Just a pile of dirt that the old ones claimed was reserved for the final duel between a horny, old goat-devil with big yellow eyes peeking behind a sword made of scabs and the disembodied left arm of some preacher with golden teeth. No one even knew their names anymore. The old ones, it was decided by the rest of the community, didn’t know shit anymore.
They hired a stoner to stone into being a fountain that would become a tourist attraction so that snow cone money would flow like tears from the old ones as their precious dirt was dug up and discarded to make room for pipes and concrete. They never thought to ask what the statue would depict. They simply told the stoner to make it noteworthy. Something people would come from all around to see.
So now we sit, wrapped in the skins of our elders, contemplating the sculpted battle before us, depicted in cold rock, and wonder what that preacher’s arm is doing so far up that goat-devil’s asshole and how many pumps it takes to spray the blood thereof so far into the sky.