Monday, June 8, 2015
The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
In the rural wastes of Kentucky
We sit around the fire, the embers smoldering, the talk simmering and dying like the coals at our feet. There are five of us including myself: an ascetic, a leprechaun, a deviant, and a bear-like creature born of booze and hate. The bear-thing speaks of apes and sexual-misdeeds while the deviant laps up his stories like a hound drinking blood. We pass around the liquor and smoke cigars made from castrati. The moon is no friend; she shines like a demon's eye, the stars her rotating companions. Everyone spits and pisses into the fire. I think that we may die.
The next afternoon, at the summit of a mountain
We climb and climb, our sweat falling from our brows as an offering to gods unknown. We shed our clothes and tear at the rock, throwing curses at each other, the weight of the alcohol taking its toll. The leprechaun is agile; he floats and weaves among the rocks, his grin taunting, his limericks pagan nonsense lined with truth. When we reach the top, we are severed, for each man must make his own descent. I empty the contents of my stomach on the way down. There are fingers swimming in the bile.
At a cabin ringed with bones
Beside the cabin is a pit filled with slime, and it is here that we bathe ourselves, pouring the ooze on our sun-burned flesh. The smell is horrific, a pungent odor that stings the nostrils and burns the eyes. I watch the bear-thing as he makes himself a hat from the filth. He knows naught what he does; his innocence is as evil as a child's. While he bathes, he speaks again of apes. His contempt for their race is beyond measure. Eventually, he farts and passes out, his head sinking below the slime. I do nothing to help him. God will take his pound of flesh.
Later that night
We burn it down, all of it, dousing its bones with oil. Even the ascetic joins in, his howls coming from dark depths, his curses unintelligible, names of nameless things. The deviant mashes his genitals and dances with the leprechaun about the bones of the bear-thing, the flames of the cabin illuminating their steps. I step back and observe, my face haggard, the skin sloughing from my bones. Man can make nothing; he is but a destroyer. I turn and head for the hills, leaving them to their revelry.