Posted by NL on March 10, 2005 at 14:53:00:
Revelations-- Part 1
Please, disregard me if you must, vilify me if you will, cast me out in the snow and eternal gloom and away from the comfy hearthstone, as it may please you, but you cannot stifle my sentiment, even if you slash my throat to silence my tongue, for I do have a tale to tell, a true one, and as the cliche would have it: the truth will have its day.
My name? You ask me for my name, then? Why, my name is WOE! Chuck Woe, to be precise, of the Middletown Woes that were executed some years ago, one by one, for pernicious crimes against humanity. Aye! That family! And me, too, they would have burned, first holding my feet to the fire, then, popping a mushmellow into my mouth and feeding me headfirst, into the funeral fire. But I ran away, I did, and hid among the chickweeds behind the barn, where, as I happen to know, a few bodies are buried, and then, by degrees, I made my way to Brambleville and found employment among the steam-hammers. If my story is none too coherent (though the sex and death will be rampant as I judge such things), the grammer loose, the syntax tortured, the diction slack, the logic entirely absent, even so, it is a true story and correct in every particular.
Ahem. Where shall I begin? Perhaps in soldier's fustian, in days of old, when great many times removed grandpap Joe Woe, rampaging through the Southland, had the spanking fresh idea of rounding up a bunch of black slave women, not with the noble intention of liberating them, but in order to bind their hands behind their backs, strip them naked, and shoot them, one by one, in the backs of their heads as they knelt before him, in a line, in or on or about a chickweed patch, facing away from him and toward the patch of chickweed, while they begged pitiously for their poor lives. He used a Navy Colt for this work, cap & ball, of about .45 caliber. In his journal he described the experience as "interesting and original" and as "edifying in the most deuced way" and he particularly noted such things as the "jigglies" of their breasts and the "wigglies" of fleshy buttocks, and he seems to have taken much aesthetic delight at the sight of their bodies folding and falling, into repose under the Ala-BLAM!-uh sun, so near a verdant growth of chickweed. And so on. Later, he would attempt to cure a fellow soldier of head lice by blowing his head off with that same .45. We do not yet know whether it was his head or that nameless soldier's head he blew off but we believe that Joe Woe was not the one with the head lice in any case, for that would have agrieved him so, being a dandy of the time-- no, no. I don't think so. And further along in that journal (which he illustrated, like a comic book) he related how he managed to corner a petite but buxom southern belle in the ruins of an old plantation house, bayonet her in her small guts, strip her naked, and fuck her in her mutilated bowels. He described THAT experience as "bracing" and as a "sure cure for the corn-byte". What "the corn-byte" is or was we can never be sure. Perhaps it was some now obsolete affliction, banished in our enlightened age by modern sanitation and hi-tech personal grooming appliances. I would give a quarter to know. (Editor's note: I have before me on my writing desk-- as opposed to the killing desk, the flensing desk, the ex-sanguinating desk, etc.-- a perfect example of the looniescent Brumblethicket, fresh from a stand of chickweed, and it has just now fastened its jaws upon the hand that wields the writing pen, as opposed to the pen with which I poke the pigs anon, or the pen with which that semi-literate but noble chickweed cultivar roots in the depths of his ears for the wax, the sweet red wax, so satisfying upon the tongue.) Yes, I would give a quarter to know. Joe Woe, that ancestor, is frequently confused in my mind with the story of O. Woe, that other (?) ancestor who is said to have lived in the ancient Egyptian Tyme and is said to have abducted King Tut's favorite nubile scantily clad temple dancer. Yes, it is said that he took her to a secret place of his (Woe's and not King Tut's) and, confronting her with a drawn bow and "knocked" arrow, forced her to strip off what little she habitually wore and dance naked--dance, dance, wildly and well, among the flambeau there, in the heat and the haze of that enchanted evening, moving sweet limbs, quickly, quickly, to no music but her fear of death, and as she paused at last, with her legs parted, head thrown back, arms outflung, with her gentle breasts still bob bob bobbling along, on their own little dance of erotic joy (the only dance they knew), O. Woe loosed his arrow and drilled that beautiful young woman precisely through her bellybutton, as she had known he would. Later, he described the experience (of killing her) in his journal (illustrated by him in his own hand, like a comic book) as "deeply gratifying", as "numinous", and as he goes on to say, he watched her die and when she was quite still and had been for a long time he made sure she was dead by yanking out the arrow, which, upon exiting her belly pulled out a loop of small intestine, and noting that she did not react in any way-- no groan, no gasp, no final spasm. He claims to have fucked her then. He claims to have kept her body with him all that night, and to have fucked her several times, in fact. It was only at dawn that he stealthily carried her cold and stiffening but still very fuckable body to a place on the banks of the Nile, known but to him, where chickweeds did grow tall, and tumble her in without a splash. He claims she drifted slowly away with nothing visible but her butt, bob bob bobbling gently up and down in its own little dance of erotic joy (the only dance it would ever know) and that her butt carried away with it not only a descending host of ravenous flies but a set of his toothmarks and a generous portion of O. Woe's very own wanton gism. Of course, I don't know, but I'd give a quarter to. (Editor's note: The flames that now creep in a metaphorical fashion across the late evening sky seem all too real, and yet, I know they are generated by a really big Tesla coil hidden up in the hills in that secret laboratory they won't tell me about, even though I know it is there, and like an X-Ray device on steroids it limns a skeletal form this very night, striding not through a sea of fire, an ocean of flame leaping higher and higher like an old time funeral pyre, but merely some kind of cheap electrical sparking shit of no greater moment than a neon sign proclaiming that herein lyeth not hell but Joe's Bar-N-Grill...). Yes, I'd truly give a quarter to know...