Don’t Fuck Around With the Devil’s Dick
It’s been pissing dirty rain for nine fucking days, the dump’s become a shit swamp and Jack’s rabbit suit (his only psychologically grounding safe space) has gone wretched with mold and bed bugs. Jack saw what he thought was a shark circling the shack earlier. I’d be a lot more concerned if the dump’s location wasn’t land locked and Jack wasn’t tripping balls on his homemade L.S.D. that never quite seems to wear off.
I was down at ground level, doing some recon where the water was as high as my neck. I don’t know if it was my general state of paranoia or a factual observance of the paranormal, but the precarious architecture of the dump seemed to come to life and was viciously moving under its own destructive motivations, cutting off exits and threatening the integrity of the load bearing hodgepodge of engine parts, refrigerators and other metal things keeping the shack from coming down on our fucking heads.
Jack was standing in the doorway of the shack completely losing his shit, shrieking, and screaming about the army of rats ascending out of the dangerous toxic shit water. The little bastards were ripping each other apart, clawing their way towards strategic positions in an obvious attempt to launch a full-blown blitzkrieg siege to sack the shack. Jack and his flight don’t fight lack of testicular survival instincts could go fuck themselves, the seemingly tailor-made rat problem that I was facing was a hell of a lot more disconcerting, as a platoon of notably clever and industrious vermin chose not to experience the suicidal plight of the violent mass exodus. They simply found little floaty things that they didn’t have to kill for. Unfortunately, this sudden conscientious capacity for abstract thought did not flow over into having the foresight to haul any food rations onboard the little floaty things.
Before long I could feel their beady little eye’s staring right at my bodyless head sticking out of the cess-pool landscape. I would never have believed it, but I swear, as the dump as my witness, those rats could paddle. I screamed like a burning banshee up to Jack who was without any notable success applying the great art of whimpering to the ever-increasing clusterfucked rat insurrection.
“Stop fucking around Jack, I’m going to need a surgically precise artillery barrage down here immediately, and if the word “precise” gets itself fucked in translation, just don’t blow my fucking head off”.
“Artillery? Are you fucking kidding? I’m up to my knees in rat apocalypse”.
“Jesus fuck Jack, I’ve got a navel fleet that would dwarf D-Day heading straight for my head. For Christ’s sake find the fucking hand-grenades”.
“You mean those metal pineapples?”
“How in fuck do you manage to go stupid in the middle of every crisis? Yes, the fucking metal pineapples”.
Luckily, stupid didn’t affect his aim or response time. It took just one metal pineapple and a soaring shit load of rat guts to persuade the rest of the fleet to paddle their way the fuck out of Dodge.
With my head still attached and safely removed from the menu I now had to risk it all by diving into the allegedly shark infested cosmic slop to retrieve our propane tanks.
Due to the unpredictable nature of our environment and lack of funds, Jack and I had to figure out how to build makeshift weapons from whatever we could find in the dump. The propane tanks fueled a completely unmanageable and ill-advised flamethrower which was basically a leaf blower wrapped in duct tape attached to a hose that attached to the propane tank. If you don’t have duct tape in the dump; You Die.
Just before my descent into the abyss I observed Jack changing his tactics from wishing the rats away into negotiating with hand signals.
It took a while to learn how to vomit and hold my breath at the same time but luckily my search was a short one. Three full tanks of propane sunken into the shit mud of their watery tomb. It was time to grab the proverbial Bat-Belt and get these fucking things up to the shack. Jack, in all his drug fueled buffoonery, was going to have say fuck off to the non existing I in team and summon up his shit so we could save our asses from the impending doom that was growing larger every minute.
“Jack, I need you to focus.”
Jack’s response came in the form of an unintelligible layering of torturous agonizing screams, answering not to me, but reacting to the unsettling discovery that the rats had broken through Jack’s only line of defence, his pants. Out of all the weird fuckery I’ve seen, nothing prepared me for the monstrous cast iron pan that was about to wack our morning into another dimension of shit. However, the brunt of this reckoning would fall upon Jack alone, “Thank Fuck”.
(“The experience of being violently ass-fucked by crazed desperate rats fighting for their lives caused a fundamental change of Jack’s inner being and twisted his mortal coil into a fucking pretzel. It was something that he would never get over and would never speak of again.”)
“Jack, you fuck, get the ropes and the climbing shit, we’ve got to haul these tanks up soon or we’ll lose the shack and dominance over the dump.”
“I’ve got rats in my ass.”
“Yeah, well, everybody’s got to deal with rats in their ass at some point in their lives.”
“It’s not a fucking metaphor, you asshole.”
“Look Jack, if you don’t pull your shit together their going start running a train in your ass and any other accommodating orifices they can get to. “So, for fuck’s sake and yours, will you just throw down the goddamn ropes before I really get pissed.”
Despite his macabre disability Jack managed to get to the ropes and tossed them down. I tied the ropes to one of the propane tanks and started to look for a way back up to the shack.
My first attempt to raise myself out of the demonic pool was laughably unsuccessful as I underestimated the viscous sucking power of the vortex impeding my release. Nevertheless, as an established veteran dump climber I was able to break free of my liquid captor and began ascending. I’m not sure if I fell victim to some hypnotic suggestion brought upon by a strange voodoo parasite that piggy-backed on Jack’s earlier report of the shark sighting, or just the blender full of brains occupying my skull, but just as my feet left the water, I spotted a large dark shape moving away from where I emerged.
“There’s no sharks in the dump.” “There’s no sharks in the dump.” “There’s no sharks in the dump.” I repeated this desperate mantra as I fought, chucked, smashed, bit and shrieked my way through the onslaught of vermin competing for position and rule over Jack’s ass.
The inside of the shack looked like it’d been bear fucked by an ape, caused not by our intruders but by Jack’s panic attack in response to our intruders. Pissed off and spitting out gobs of dump shit, I rushed in like an angry god, punching and kicking my way through the whole fucking misadventure. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be of any help to Jack’s unthinkable plight until I dragged up the tank and assembled our wrath of god answer to the unrelenting Putsch. Hauling that piece of shit tank was a true test of both my impatience and lack of upper body strength but somehow the desperation in the air was so prevalent that it initiated an overwhelming release of super strength and fear of death that made the tank seem as light as a dead rat.
Once I had the tank in the shack, I went about assembling our contraption. I hooked up the tank to the leaf blower which took a bit of time due to the distracting gyrations and death throes that were now in command of Jack’s ass. I was powerless to stop looking at what I still believe to be the most wretchedly disturbing coming together of two species that I could ever imagine and never be able to unsee.
“KAMOTHERFUCKINGBOOM!” Spoke the leaf blower after ignition. I was holding the goddamn “Death Star” in my hands, and it was fucking hungry. One thing about rats when you get to know them is that as much as they fear drowning, burning alive tops all survival instincts to flee. It was quite a macabre sight to see rats perform a fiery lemming impersonation and jump to their deaths. They looked like little computer-generated asteroids breaching the earths atmosphere and descending into an ocean of fuck.
The shack was cleared of most of the vermin but that was just the advertising and coming attractions, the main feature was still to come, and I couldn’t very well shove the mouth of the dragon up Jack’s ass. I hadn’t a clue how many had packed themselves into his rabbit hole and even the most minor of surgeries we’d performed here resulted in having to perform major ones, and as many times I’ve tried to kill Jack he was still my closest friend.
“For Christ’s sake you fuck, don’t just stand there like an asshole, figure something out before they run the gauntlet and devour me from the inside out.”
I was frozen, empty of all mental resources. “Who the hell has ever had to deal with this kind of fuckery?” To be honest, I weighed in Jack’s chances of survival, and it didn’t look good. I knew Jack wasn’t coming back from this without an extremely wide collection of mental and physical disabilities. However, he’d already acquired a lot of those disabilities through previous misadventures, and he’d been doing just fine. So, in acknowledgement of Jack’s history of defeating the wretched vengeance of chance, a light bulb fell on my head, and I started to feel something that had been lost on me until that moment, the detestable feeling of sympathy for another human being, which I didn’t like one bit.
All of a sudden, I was possessed by the soul of an avenging saint and made a B-line towards the medicine cabinet, or rather, the triple locked, booby trapped, titanium, recreational drug storage container that also served as Jack’s bed which was fucking wide open. “FUCK YEAH!”
I began violently rummaging through what represented the most wretched collection of recreational and experimental drugs ever to come together without exploding.
“One vac-packed bag of weed, two vac-packed bags of weed, one bucket P.C.P., one copy of Moby Dick still soaking in L.S.D., one unidentified corpse?…….Shit Jack, keep your fucking moldy bug-ridden bunny suit away from the drugs. Here we go, Laxatives.”
“Okay Jack, we’re going to head these fuckers off at the pass.” Jack’s diet was a heretical atrocity but, in this context, it could prove to be an internal biohazard hellscape, a massive attack delivery of the wretched movements of his organic tectonic plates that could put out enough pressure on the abominable contents in his stomach to blow out an explosive literal shit show tsunami.
“Jack, you’re going to have to summon up all the rabbit balls you can and suck these down if you want to go on living with a functional rectum”.
“What the fuck are those things?”
“They’re your deliverance, your antidote, your last stand, and your last fucking chance to clear the highway that used to be your ass. So, take the fucking pills or I’ll burn you alive.”
Jack new deep down that his days, hours, and minutes no longer belonged to him, so, after his whimpers and squirrely bitch tirade had come to an end, he began chewing up the handfuls of laxatives that I was shoveling into his mouth. After ingestion, all we could do was wait for what ever dastardly response our haphazardly orchestrated plan would reveal. However, I still had the “Death Star” in the ready in case I needed to euthanize the poor son of a bitch.
There was a rumble, then a rumbling, then a few squeals and shrieks and what I thought was a prayer. The shack shook and Jack’s demonically possessed eyes evidenced the inevitable coming of forces beyond our understanding. The sky’s blackened and the wind ceased to blow. There was every indication that we’d seriously fucked up and had mistakenly summoned an extremely pissed off titanic dump demon. In the doorway I noticed a peculiar gathering of rats, but they didn’t reveal any hostile intensions, in fact, what I thought I saw were sentiments of concern and eager expectation. “JESUS FUCK”. These rats must have come to pray and mourn for their anally incarcerated comrades that were lodged up Jack’s ass. Possibly, for the first time in recorded history, I was bearing witness to the dawn of an unprecedented, good faith parley between rats and men. Nevertheless, I was pissed off, tired and most importantly, I’m a bad man. I couldn’t give one fuck about anything aside from defending myself against whatever colossal damnation that was moments away from delivering anal Armageddon. So, despite their peaceful intentions, the rats left on fire, leaving their brethren to their own cruel and unimaginable fate.
Jack had begun to look a lot less human and a lot more like he was wearing his rabbit suit inside out. An ominous feeling began running up my spine as if to warn me that this ordeal had transcended far beyond the confines of our universally insignificant lives. With an enormous thundering from above, flocks of ravens and crows were soaring into the dump, perched high, waiting, watching in silence as if to respect the last moments before collecting Jack’s soul, but, as it turns out, the fist belonging to whatever powers that govern this shit-scape, was wrapped tight around all the exits that could leak even a small portion of Jack’s inner self.
Jack’s ass was devastatingly dilated, and the sounds of ghostly howling echoes morphed into a rancid mass of misty stink. With a screaming shriek that reminisced the horrid tales of the gods and monsters that lay in wait under the beds of sinners, Jack’s ass exploded.
It was like some alien woodchipper turned up to eleven, there was shit coming out that never should have been in there; nuts and bolt projectiles, a lot of fake fur from his bunny suit, a pen, a few questionably posed naked anime figures, and most wretchedly unbelievable, an unopen can of tuna. “Fuck Me”. I cleared out of the line of fire just before a massive burst of rats, rat parts, parts of Jack undistinguishable from the rat parts, spewed out, followed by the largest flying river of shit ever to wallpaper a shack.
Within moments of Jack’s deliverance, the wind picked up and banished the dark ominous skies, brushing away the clouds. The rain abruptly stopped, and the sun was finally shining on the rancid bird shit that blanketed the dump. The ravens and crows went on to claim their next corpse, and the shit-water levels began to drop, and Jack? Jack was just hungry, seemingly unaware of the horrifying P.T.S.D. that would soon settle deep into the recesses of denial, eventually resurfacing in the form of I.B.S.
Surviving in this awesome never-ending vastness of horrors which is my life, isn’t unlike the trials and cruelty of the Serengeti. The bloody battles and precarious balance favour those with the biggest teeth and nothing to lose. As the rains come to an end, and the shit-water level dissipates, new life is sprung, surfacing along with corpses in various degrees of decomposition, previously wedged inside the incarcerating bosom of dump wrath that lies deep beneath the expansive shit show terra firma that keeps us on top of the food chain.
Once we were convinced that this grandiose escapade of wretched fuckery had come to an end, and the size of Jack’s ass began to return to its natural state, we took drugs. A great sense of relief followed Jack and I up to the flybridge on top of the shack that afternoon. The sun was shining through the ever-present gases and shit particles that made up the dumps custom made atmosphere, as Jack and I sipped on some very deserved cold beers that helped wash down the copious amounts of painkillers and muscle relaxants required to carry our beaten bodies away from the onset of total atrophy.
“Hey Jack?”
Jack expelled an impatient sigh of contempt, which took a lot less of an effort than the appropriate response, “Fuck off”.
“Do you remember what you said earlier this morning before the shit show really got going? You said that you saw a shark circling the shack.”
“Look, I fucking get it, there’re no sharks in the dump. Throw me a fucking bone man, I’ve had a pretty fucked up day and I’m in no mood to sit here and be assaulted by your incompetent back-alley psychoanalysis.”
“Actually Jack, I saw something too.”
“You fuck.”
“Look, don’t start getting all pleased with yourself, all I saw was an ambiguous dark shape, it’s just another mental misunderstanding in a long list of inaccurate sightings. The opaque viscosity in the air along with our questionably insatiable hunger for pharmaceuticals fucks with our perceptions. You need to ask yourself, how in living fuck could a shark get its ass in here? Parachute? Beamed down from the Enterprise? What Jack? What makes you think it wasn’t just a log or a tire? I’d even accept a Godzilla tadpole over a fucking shark.”
“You, you fucking fuck. You’re always so quick on the draw with your embarrassingly retarded attempts to send off the beauty of the boldly bizarre to be castrated after a quick spin through the deflavorizer.”
“That’s not a word or a thing Jack.”
“It will be after you wake up tomorrow to find your spleen on the floor and some foreign device inserted into the vacancy, all stapled up, and oozing with infection. So, this is when you put a cock in it, and listen.”
“I bloody well quote; Choreographer Eliot Feld said that artists who are very lucky and talented are capable, like fabled alchemists, of changing “base metals into gold.” In this metaphoric sense, common experience is the base metal, while art is the gold. For this reason, Feld explains, to talk about what you have created is to turn gold back into base metal. “You don’t really explain your art by talking about it. What you do, unfortunately, is explain it away.
(Quote from Eliot Feld, found in “The Language of Vision”, book by Jamake Highwater.)
“You’re so fucking blinded and brainwashed by your accumulated static interpretations of reality and its so-called paradigms, and rules of nature that you believe everything in this shithole can be explained away. The governing forces that rule the ruthless ebbs and flows that make up our catastrophically fucked eco-system cannot be described by atrophied imagination or deductive reasoning, the dumps existence, like art itself, is solely based in the experiential. This place can’t be measured or mapped, and despite your calculable observations our world here is flat with a perimeter looking over a precipice that most likely opens to countless stranger and ineffable worlds. You need to wake up and realize that this place is driven by the barks and bites of a massive conjuring gone horribly wrong, it’s a discarded last place loser in the long line of submissions, competing to build a brand-new purgatory that was so offensive that it even made the devil wretch.”
Jack and I continued to force our blasphemous inaccurate interpretations of how to use a dictionary, down each others’ throats for most of the afternoon. As maliciously vicious these back-and-forth auditory beat downs between Jack and I were, they provided a cerebral sanctuary, the only constant amongst the random, unpredictable thrashings of the reckonings that befall upon our tenuous mortal coils and building our resolve to stand steadfastly under ill advised conditions, and rage against the relentless fury of the sieging forces that bring with them a new wretched, top of the line terror, and an unimaginably unimaginable and completely unmanageable ill-conceived lobotomizing fuck-show.
The dump is host to many beasts, some that rush in with fire and knives, some, existing only in our minds, perhaps created by the fear and desperation that is so prevalent inside the mortal shells of all life that walks or scurries around this shithole.
We have a beast that snakes through the gutters and trenches of our kingdom, moving silently unnoticed, until its eventual fruition reveals its true intensions, to deliver an ungodly kind of spiritual brain-fucking so devastating that it crashes through anything cerebrally beneficial. This beast comes when its prey is at their weakest, sauntering safely without fear. Guised in the forged fashion of all hell’s creations, this one, we refer to as; “The Devil’s Dick.”
Horror Sleaze Trash 