Goathead Buckley’s Dune

“Fuk’hulud! That everywhere sand is shaking and shimmying on down the dunes, kicking up dirty smoke into the air. Pray for the gods in the sand, pray for their gigantic souls that eat the very angels of heaven when death rides, pray that they take us all into their sphincter-toothed mouth and crush our bones in with the juice of our blue-blue eyes and pray that their 93 stomachs confirm in us our conviction to become the Godshit.”

I stayed silent, thinking on the desert rats I call my own, piss-drinkers everyone, who will take their Godshit and roll it into Hark-Onanist government standard credit unit receipts and let the blue smoke fill their eyes which become a womb of eternity, of continuance, of mad illusion. Thus the great blue snake-turd of Godshit is wasted on human minds.

It should be fertilizing this world. Instead we huff it into our heat-scorched lungs and stare into space, dreaming of power, pissing into our drinking-pants as we lay prone upon the dunes, listening for the kick-kick-thump of the great worm, praying for death that we might be processed and carried into the minds of our spawn and suffer no more.

“Hear tell there’s a new Big Man on Ark-Ass-Kiss. Some sort of duck, whatever the crystal hell that is,” says a toothless companion, squeaking in his black bug suit as he shifts carefully in the sand.

A joke, surely. All planets are owned by the Hark-Onanists in the end. They had a maniac conviction to smell slave sweat and float around in temperate weather, relaxing. Such a life comes of great power and even greater corruption. My idiot friend must be dreaming aloud again. A duck could never exploit Ark-Ass-Kiss and her people the way an entrenched human parasite could. I would have to research this duck idea. These things had a way of coming true just by being mentioned.


I wake up to a child screaming in the cooling sands and decide, in my anger, to destroy him. He will bring the worms and worms are only gods in the daylight. In the darkness, they are enormous garbage disposals on the end of flaccid, undulating dick flesh, louder than a star falling to the ground.

He was not one of ours and I could smell the Witch-Blood in him. All the more reason to drain him and mix his ichors into the piss-vats at the next feast day. I approached him with hands out and empty. I would not need a knife to pull the skin off of this one. He had pale skin, unleathered, like he was full of real water and was able to avoid the sun. The thought made my hands into claws and he must have noticed the change because he ran like a baby fucker.

And, as I knew it would, the world began to shake and here came death riding the jumbo king worm daddy. I pissed my drinking-pants and felt my brain cool and knew this was it. I saw death, but then I saw the kid and he was flying into the air with a knife of his own, cutting death’s throat on the back of the bucking worm. Death bled gray.

The kid took the reins and they both came crashing down onto the cave where my rats lived, right down where I had been sleeping just minutes ago and the last thing I saw was that kid, mainlining Godshit into his ocular cavity, his eyes popped out of his head, his jaw locked in laughter.

So, this was a duck, I thought as my brain shredded through sand polished teeth.



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