Sloughing Off the Rot

by Lance Carbuncle

  Ignorant to John’s musings about their future, Barbara rolled toward Aguacaliente, leaving John to his dreams and schemes. John lay on his back, eyes closed and unaware of Barbara’s departure, concocting a plan to bring the blumpkin along with him on his journey. Barbara throbbed and pulsed at the edge of the hot springs, signing her blumpkin song, her periodic labor contractions growing nearer to each other, and each becoming more intense than then last. And as John drifted off into a deep nap, Barbara tensed up one last time before blasting a slick of blumpkin spew and pods into Aguacaliente. With a trumpet of sweetly sad pahhhhhhs, Barbara rolled into the steaming water and floated toward the center. Blumpkin spew and pods gathered around her and followed as she sank back down to the depths of Aguacaliente, leaving her quickly fading blumpkin scent as the only evidence of her existence.

  A melancholy haze settled on John when he awoke to find Barbara gone. And even though the sadness pained him, John was glad that he had at some point developed the emotional capacity to feel it. His plans for Barbara were sincere. Although John still had no memory of his other life, he somehow knew that he never experienced such emotions for any of the women he had known. That was a part of his spirit that was missing from him in the other place. Something about the sadness, though, increased John’s feeling of strength and confidence.

  So John stood and looked around. A row of gravid blumpkins lined the shore of Aguacaliente, throbbing and spitting pods into the waters. Blumpkins floated into the steaming pool and slowly sunk beneath the surface, dragging the pale, pulsing pods down with them. Under one palm tree, Santiago lay recumbent on the mossy ground, his legs and arms splayed out and mouth agape. Several blumpkins waited for him to regain consciousness and give them a turn. Joad sat beneath another tree, embracing the enormous blumpkin that he pulled from the waters while John was entangled with Barbara. John could hear Joad whispering sweet nothings to the blumpkin but could not make out the words. Alf the Sacred Burro lay on the ground by Joad, twitching and moving to some donkey dream.

  Two-Dogs-Fucking walked around the edges of Aguacaliente, carrying in his arms what John assumed to be a blumpkin that had been out of the water too long. And when the towel-wrapped Melungeon approached, John saw that what he first thought to be a blumpkin was something entirely different. Instead of perfectly formed breasts and inviting labia gracing the form of the fleshy ball, John saw puckered assholes ringed with course hair and oozing gelatinous goo. A crusty scab covered the one orifice that slightly resembled female genitalia. Open sores bespotted the mouths on the fleshy ball, and thick black mustaches highlighted the lips. Instead of healthy, smooth gums, broken brown teeth sprouted inside of the mouths and dangled by their roots. Sweet blumpkin harmonies did not emanate from the mouths, but instead a constant, high-pitched squeal dragged long fingernails across the chalkboard of John’s soul. The puckered assholes blew raspberries of foul fumes that were not the sweet perfumes of the blumpkins, and instead stunk like a week-old shallow grave.

  “What is it?” asked John, almost knocked breathless with revulsion at the appearance of the creature.

  “Yeah,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking, mistaking John’s shock for envious wonder. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Several of the mouths on the ill-favored creature creached the high-pitched screech. Two-Dogs-Fucking looked down at the screaming mouths and gently shook the thing in his arms. He smiled down at it and said, “Oh, come on now, sweetheart.”

  “What the hell is that thing?” asked John again.

  “Why, it’s a niksik,” answered Two-Dogs-Fucking. “It’s basically the same thing as the blumpkins that you fellows have been enjoying. They just look a little different. It’s really just a matter of personal preference. I find the blumpkins to be rough on my eyes, but I could stare at my little niksik all day. Some people don’t like the smell of the niksik, and I can understand that. It is a foul bit of feculence. But rubbing a sourmint leaf on your upper lip masks the odor. And I don’t care about the smell, anyway. This niksik’s special. She’s my little Missy. Yes, I think that’s what I will call her, Missy.”

  “That’s fine and all,” said John, turning his head to keep Missy the niksik out of his line of view and the odor from his nose. The sight of the writhing ball of assholes made him sweat a stinking, nervous perspiration, and tickled at his skin like the itch of grickle grass exposure. “But just take her back over by her pond. Her screeching is setting me on edge and the stench makes me want to puke.”

  Santiago woke and shouted in support of John, “Yeah, get that filthy ball of assholes far away from us. I was just kidding before when I said the last one here had to fuck a niksik, you dang numbskull!”

  “Please,” said John. “Take it away now.”

  “As you wish, m’lord,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking, bending his knees, bowing his head, and dipping low in an exaggerated curtsey. He promptly and enthusiastically carried Missy the niksik to a spot by the stagnant pond from whence she came, leaving behind the heavy stench of Missy’s acrid flatulence that burned John’s nose and throat. Under the shade of a tattered, sickly palm tree, Two-Dogs-Fucking wooed the niksik and consummated their relationship with a coupling that consisted mainly of him fondling, fingering, fisting and fucking the multiple anuses located about Missy’s body. Unlike the blumpkins, when the deed was done, Missy remained by Two-Dogs-Fucking’s side as he lay back on the ground, succumbing to a lack of motivation and napping.

  The day gave way to the light from the river of fire and the star Wormwood. In the glow of the green and orange light, blumpkins surfaced. And John, Joad, and Santiago, drunk on the wine of fornication, took turns with the various visitors on the soft mossy ground beneath the palms. Alf the Sacred Burro relaxed in the shallow waters at the edge of Aguacaliente, occasionally partaking in the blumpkin orgy, too. But mostly the donkey relaxed and enjoyed the warm comfort of the steaming waters. Two-Dogs-Fucking intermittently woke from naps and rolled about on the ground, fucking and fisting his niksik.

  And as dawn greeted the land, the last blumpkin floated toward the middle of Aguacaliente and sunk to the bottom, taking with it a slick of blumpkin spew and pale pods. With the submersion of that last blumpkin, the harmonies drifting from the steaming water faded to silence, and the constant flow of bubbles from below ceased. The sweet aroma of blumpkin kisses dissipated and gave way to the smells of the desert. John and Joad and Santiago waited at the edge of Aguacaliente for more blumpkins to appear, but none did. Santiago dove in the water and remained under for what seemed longer than possible. When he returned from the depths of Aguacaliente, he dragged himself onto land and gasped for air. “They’re gone,” Santiago said between deep breaths. “Vanished. No more.”

  The absence of the Blumpkins was reason enough for John to move on. So, that morning, John, Joad, and Santiago decided to set their feet to the red brick road again. But, Two-Dogs-Fucking stayed behind with Missy. “Go without me,” he told them, expecting someone to protest and looking disappointed when nobody argued the point. “I am staying with my Missy. She cannot survive away from her waters and I cannot bear to be without her. You move on, gentlemen. I wish you the wind at your back and good luck in your endeavors.”

  The sun assaulted the desert and scorched every living thing exposed to it. As John walked away from Aguacaliente, the steam from the springs hissed into the air, but no more blumpkins surfaced. The only action in any of the waters occurred between Two-Dogs-Fucking and Missy the niksik as they frolicked in the stagnant pond. Two-Dogs-Fucking and Missy emerged from the puddle and sat beneath their palm, watching John, Joad, Santiago, and Alf the Sacred Burro disappear out of sight on El Camino de la Muerte. And though he felt a slight twinge of sadness at the departure of the men, Two-Dogs-Fucking had never been happier than he was at that moment, holding Missy in his arms and gently jamming a thumb into one of her windy assholes. Missy, likewise, found that there was no place that she would rather be. And she creached in her two-toned screech and pooted fetid,
joyous vapors.

  El Camino de la Muerte led John on a twisted path through the desert. Red stone and sand gradually gave way to more verdant lands. The Badlands faded into the past. Natural arches disappeared and lush foothills, covered in ancient trees and vegetation, replaced them. Beyond the foothills, hiding behind fog and clouds, steep mountains jutted from the ground and poked at the sky’s belly. And the path meandered in the direction of the vague mountain forms. The trail of clouds above grew fuller, heavier, and ready to burst. A watery murmur drew attention to the stream that paralleled the red brick road. Symmetric rows of date palms lined the stream.

  “Dates are nice,” said Joad. “I like dates.” He stepped off of the red brick road. Alf followed. Joad stood on the tips of his toes and plucked ripe dates from a tree, occasionally pricking his hand on the tree’s thorns but not caring about the pain or the blood that trickled down his wrist. In the shade of the tree, the giant and the donkey sat and gorged themselves on a load of the sweet fruit.

  John and Santiago kept walking the trail as Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro feasted on the fruit of the palms. Far off of the trail they saw small huts with sod roofs grouped together. But the inhabitants of the small villages either did not see the men passing or intentionally avoided them. Dirt-rat colonies no longer proliferated at the edges of the red brick road. New animals, stripe-dogs and beggar-monkeys, sat placidly off of the road, their eyes following John and looking as if they were judging him as he passed. Giant fluff-hens scampered across El Camino de la Muerte and pecked at the ground. The green and red birds with their oversized, pointy beaks, settled in open nests and did not flee from the men.

  And Santiago screamed, “Yahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” He darted from the path and charged a fluff-hen’s nest, waving his arms and flapping his tongue, leaping spastically, as if possessed by idiot demons. The fowl fluffed to twice its size and charged Santiago, pecking and clawing at him, trying to keep him from her nest. Feathers and curses and blood flew from a raging dust cloud as Santiago clutched at the bristled bird. The razor-talons of the fluff-hen sliced through the air and found the skin easy to gash. Santiago’s hands found a firm grip on her neck and squeezed until the fluff-hen’s claws ceased trying to rip his flesh. And the bird grew limp in his hands. Santiago tossed the fluffed up ball of feathers to the side and looked down at the oozing gashes on his arms and abdomen. He drew his fingers across a flow of his blood and then brought the stained fingers to his cheeks, painting red swipes, like war paint, across his face.

  “What the hell was that about?” called John from the road. “Was that really necessary?”

  Hands on knees and drawing in deep breaths, Santiago laughed his manic laugh. “I thought she’d skedaddle and leave her eggs for us for dinner. Didn’t think she’d want to feel the sting of the scorpion or the bite of the wolf. I didn’t know those things would put up a fight. Can you dig it?”

  Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro, done with their date feast, appeared at John’s side. “Those are fluff-hens,” said Joad in his low-key, muffled tone. “They will fight to the death to keep predators away from their eggs. Mostly they are left alone because of their ferocity. But their eggs are nice. I like their eggs.”

  Three green eggs, speckled with red dots, sat motherless in their nest. Santiago plucked the large eggs from the nest and carried them to the road. “Dinner,” he said to his friends, placing the eggs in Alf the Sacred Burro’s saddlebags.

  Sitting on the other side of the road, a stink-pig watched on with interest. Neither John nor Joad nor Santiago noticed the tusked boar with the coarse, bristling Mohawk stripe of hair running the length of his spine. But the boar noticed them. From a distance he followed the men as they walked on down the road. The stink-pig did not set foot on the red brick road, nor did he want to. But as he dogged John, other stink-pigs joined in – boars, sows, gilts, shoats and piglets – and trailed the group of men. Still, John, Joad, and Santiago failed to notice the sounder of stink-pigs following down wind from them. The number of the beasts gave the group a collective bravery and the stink-pigs approached closer, their grunts finally attracting the attention of the men.

  When the swine sensed that the men were not interested in them, they approached the humans and walked ahead of, alongside, and behind them, just off of the red brick road. In the midst of the stink-pigs, their presence was undeniable. The animals fumed with a rancid, musky mixture of piss, ammonia, and sulfur. Despite their fearsome appearance – the muscular upper bodies, stubble-covered lips sneering over dagger-like tusks, the always-bristling strip of hair down their backs – the stink-pigs made no aggressive behaviors toward the men. Instead, the hogs moved along at the same rate as John, their long, tufted tails flicking in the same manner as a happy dog’s.

  “Do you think we need to worry about these pigs?” said John to both Joad and Santiago.

  “I think we need to huff and puff and blow their house in,” said Santiago. “We need to nibble the meat off their big bones. We need to dine on green eggs and swine.” He gazed at a large stink-boar as if he had not eaten in twenty days and twenty nights. The boar edged to the outside of the drove of stink-pigs, putting other potential victims between himself and Santiago.

  “I think there is not so much difference between these stink-pigs and us,” said Joad. “There is no difference between a pig and a man. They are both intelligent living beings. We are following the path. The stink-pigs follow the path. For us to make a distinction between ourselves and those pigs is merely a human conception for our own advantage.”

  Santiago twisted his face through the range of expressions and ended up with an arched unibrow and an incredulous smirk. “Now who you jiving with that cosmic debris? You saying we ain’t no better than those stinking beasts? You saying we ain’t in danger of the pigs? You saying we shouldn’t eat them? You saying you don’t like stink-pig ribs?”

  “No,” said Joad, flashing a smile like a mouth full of river stones. “I like ribs. Ribs are good.”

  “Then what are you saying?” asked John. “Because I’m not so sure I get it either.”

  “I’m not really saying anything,” said Joad. “Just talking to hear myself, I guess. Sometimes the rumble of my voice calms my head. Do I think that we are in danger from these animals? No. Alf doesn’t seem spooked by them. And look, they wag their tails like they’re happy. I sense no danger.”

  “Well, they reek like festering meat shits,” griped Santiago. “We need to ditch them or get upwind of their stank.” He ran toward the side of the road, waving his arms, jumping from foot to foot and howling like a coyote. But the stink-pigs paid him no mind. They neither shrank from his madness nor returned the strange display of aggression. They merely moved along with the flow of the path, keeping in stride with John.

  “Can’t we do anything to scare these things off?” asked Santiago, recognizing the futility of his tactic. He looked to John. “Can’t you bring down fire and thunder to scatter them to the corners of this land?”

  “I don’t think I can,” said John. “It doesn’t really work like that.”

  “Well, how does it work, brother?” said Santiago. “Because this stench is getting the best of me and I don’t think I can endure it much longer.”

  And it was true. The stink-pig fumes burned the men’s eyes, raped their noses, and scorched their throats. A hot, itchy burn dragged itself across their skin. No matter whether they tried to cover their faces or fan the fumes away, the stink-pig atmosphere assaulted them.

  “I don’t know how it works. I only know when it will and won’t work,” said John. “And, I just know that there isn’t anything I can do to get rid of them. For some reason, it seems like they should be here.”

  “I think I know what to do,” said Joad. He stepped to the side of the road and knelt down. The soft whistle from his lips beckoned a young stink-bitch to his outstretched hand. The pig approached without hesitation and took a ripe date out of his palm. “Hey there, girl,” Joad said,
patting at the stink-pig, ruffling the strip of coarse hair on its head. Alf the Sacred Burro stepped several feet back and dropped a pile of donkey mud to try to cover the stink-pig stench.

  The stink-bitch looked into the eyes of the stooping giant. Its sneering lips turned to a sweet smile and its thin tail wagged enthusiastically from side to side. The stink-bitch rested back on her haunches and let Joad scratch between her ears. Soft grunts of pleasure escaped the pig’s snout in response to Joad’s gentle touch. His other enormous hand reached out and scratched the stink-pig behind the ear. And the pig looked into his eyes and realized only too late that Joad was not in love with her. And Joad locked his massive hands around the pig’s neck, cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen to her brain. She managed a sharp squeal before losing consciousness, alerting the rest of the stink-pigs to the peril of coming too close to the men. And the sounder of swine backed away, their wary eyes locked on the giant.

  And Joad felt remorse. He did not want to hurt the stink-pig. He lifted the pig and estimated its weight at somewhere around three talents. He noted that the stink-bitch was clearly an adult and probably a recent mother judging by her swollen nipples. But he knew it was the only way to scare the other stinking pigs far enough away that their stench would not sicken the men. It would have been a shame to pass up perfectly good pork, so Joad hefted the weighty stink-pig, wrapped it around his neck and over his shoulders, and carried it to a kapok tree beside the road.