Sloughing Off the Rot

by Lance Carbuncle

  John did not pursue his enemies as they cut out of the temple. He stood and threw Android Lovethorn’s ashes into the air. He splashed the blood of the fallen on the red bricks of the altar under his feet. And the bricks soaked up the blood like sponges. And though John did not pursue his foes when they fled the temple, none of Lovethorn’s men found refuge in Abaddon that day.

  Alerted by the fire and lightning that John dropped from the sky, Joad led an army out of the valley of poppies and up La Montaña Sagrada. The army consisted of the blumpkin lovechildren of Joad and Santiago and John, as well as the entire, heavily armed, population of the Chelloveck mesa. Alf the Sacred Burro and a pack of his offspring hefted much of the army’s weaponry and supplies up the narrow mountain road. Staying behind at the field of poppies, Two-Dogs-Fucking complained of ennui and listlessness and bunions. He said that when he mustered the motivation, he would join the army at the top of the mountain. Waiting halfway up La Montaña Sagrada, armed with quivers full of arrows, Three Tooth and his crew joined the army.

  And at the front door of Abaddon, the doorkeeper shouted out at Joad, “Not nobody gets in. Not nobody. Not no how.”

  Possessed with the strength of an army all by himself, Joad gripped the unwieldy front door of Abaddon and tore it from the stone wall. He heaved the door, and it flew far down the side of the mountain before reacquainting itself with the ground. And when the front door flew back, there followed a day of tumult and trampling and terror. The multitudes of John’s army stormed the grounds of Abaddon and put the city to the sword. And the army gave no quarter to any living thing in Abaddon stained by the touch of Lovethorn. Even Lovethorn’s beasts and bulls, and his moo-cows and niksiks were put to the sword. All the men of Abaddon – the soldiers, the guards, the cripples and crazies, the townspeople and seers and priests – fell under the crush of the attackers. And the army smote Lovethorn’s men with the side of the sword and trampled them underfoot. Some stood gape-jawed, hands hanging limp at their sides and urine wetting their knees as the attackers struck them down with swords and stones. Others bemoaned the siege bitterly, screaming anguished cries at their own destruction. And there was much weeping and gnashing of the teeth.

  And La Montaña Sagrada seized and trembled. The smoke from the forest fires choked the air. Lightning fell from the sky. And still John’s men smote the city of Abaddon, seeking out every one of Lovethorn’s men and putting them down like diseased livestock. The sons of Santiago attacked, barehanded, and bit and tore down their foes one at a time. Joad and his sons dispatched many enemies with each swipe of their mighty swords. And the sons of John engaged in combat, swinging slings and bags filled with stones, and crushing skulls. Swinging his ear trumpet in wild looping arcs, Old Man Chelloveck cleared a path through the melee and knocked his enemies to the ground. Alf and the donkeys kicked out at men as they tried to flee. Even One-Eye joined the fray, leaping on the men afflicted with Lovethorn’s taint and gouging out their eyes.

  Some of the Abaddonites fled the city. They scaled the walls and crawled away through tunnels. At the tops of the fortress walls, Three Tooth and his men rained down arrows on the absconders, stopping most of them. But some of the escaped Abaddonites scrambled for the caves in the rock faces. And some hid under moldy, mossy crags. Still, John’s men hunted each and every one of the Abaddonites down and put them to the sword. And the blood of Lovethorn’s men flowed, knee-deep, like a river through the grounds of Abbadon and down the mountain. Blood on the streets. Blood on the rocks. Blood in the gutters. And the bloody red sun shone down on the dead.

  When the screams stopped and the swords swung no more, when no more arrows fell from the sky and the red brick road drank the river of blood dry, only then did the lightning cease. Only then did La Montaña Sagrada settle. So it came to be that John’s men wiped the memory of the Reverend Android Lovethorn from the pages of the annals of the history of Abaddon. And, though all Abaddonites fell, others also gave up the ghost in the battle of Abaddon. John’s blumpkin-sons fought fiercely to eradicate the Abaddonites, yet all perished in the battle. And so it was, too, with the son’s of Joad. One-Eye drew his final breath while skewered at the end of a spear, his guts pouring out, and yet still managing to pluck the eye from his killer. The carnage halved the ranks of Chellovecks, and Old Man Chelloveck wept and spat on the walls of Abaddon. And though they all sported injuries of varying degrees, the sons of Santiago suffered no casualties in the course of the carnage.

  So Joad, the Chellovecks, the sons of Santiago, and Three Tooth’s band of scurves cleared the grounds of Abaddon of Lovethorn’s men and all vestiges of the Man in Black. They cast the corpses of their enemies out of Abaddon and down the precipitous sides of La Montaña Sagrada. A massive cloud of turkey buzzards fell on the bodies and undressed them. And they piled the fallen friends of John high in the central square of Abaddon and set them to burning, their funeral pyre blazing high into the crepuscular night sky.

  While his friends cleared the grounds of Abaddon, John remained in the temple, sitting with his eyes closed, contemplating his deeds. He hoped for his fiery doppelganger to appear and say that what he did was right and that everything would turn out well. But no wise apparitions appeared before John. No visions played out on the inside of his eyelids. Even the ten thousand things refused to reveal their shimmering presence. John thought that, in a way, his killing of Android Lovethorn was a copout. Perhaps he took the easy way. But mostly John just recognized himself as a flawed soul, and he accepted that some things about him might not change. And when he pondered his situation, it all made sense to stay where he was. The thought of his other body dying in a bed far away was sad and it was fucked. And he realized that maybe what he did was wrong. He could have gone back. He could have learned who and what he was and made things right in that other place. But, mostly, when he really thought about it, it seemed right. He killed Lovethorn, yet he did not die. The land John had traveled still existed and many of the people he met and cared about still lived. And he cleansed the land of the scourge of Reverend Android Lovethorn. And something about where he found himself felt like progress instead of a step backward.

  So John decided that what he did was good and right. And he accepted it as the proper course of events. He even decided that it was good that the other part of him might die. Once he sat long enough to come to grips with his situation, John rose and left the temple. Outside of the door of Lovethorn’s church, a flight of stairs descended to the central square of Abaddon. John stood at the top of the stairs and waited for his friends to gather at the bottom.

  Chellovecks, scurves, Santiagos, and Joad looked up the steps at John and saw him standing before them, beaten, bruised, and battered in his bloody linens. Two-Dogs-Fucking rode into the courtyard on an exhausted clone of Alf the Sacred Burro. The donkey fell to its side and spilled the Melungeon onto the ground. Two-Dogs-Fucking stood and adjusted his bath towel, ignoring the distressed burro gasping for air on the ground, and joined the rest of the crowd gathered before the steps.

  John spoke to the crowd, telling them, “It’s a day of independence, for us and our descendants. Android Lovethorn’s shadow will no more darken the land. His curse is broken. He is dead, morally, ethically, spiritually, physically, positively, absolutely, undeniably, and reliably, dead.”

  “He’s not only merely dead, he’s really most sincerely dead,” shouted Joad in his deep and muffled voice. And the crowd broke out in a raucous cheer.

  John shushed the men and continued, “This land is free of the curse, and so is this fortress. These grounds shall no longer be known as Abaddon, but shall henceforth be called Beyza M’Geyza. And all will be free to stay and live here if they choose.”

  And the men cheered John on. They stomped and shouted curses on Lovethorn’s name and spat on the ground.

  “Tonight,” John continued, “we will celebrate. But first, bring me our injured. Bring them to the foot of these steps.”

  The men carried
those who were alive but could not walk and set them on the ground at John’s feet. And John fell to the ground and laid his hands on the bloodied men. Others dragged themselves and limped to the steps. John laid hands on each and every wounded man and healed their injuries. Even those who felt their lives leaking from them, those whiffing the stink of death’s breath, recovered and walked away from the stairs whole and healthy. John stood on the steps and gave his healing touch to every last injured man until every broken bone restitched itself and every cut stopped bleeding.

  As John tended to his flock, the healthy and hardy men drained the blood from the slaughtered livestock and set the meat to cooking over fires. Others raided Lovethorn’s cellars and carried out barrels of wine and spirits. Three Tooth walked among the crowd handing out wineskins filled with chicha. Crazy Talk dragged a giant brass hookah to the middle of the courtyard and packed it full with steaming bezoars and called out to the men “you gotta beep a gunk a chucha, honk konk konk, yeah right!” And the men converged on the hookah, sucked at the hoses, and chased the smoke with chicha and wine. And when John was done giving his healing touch, his body buzzed with energy. He loosed a hoard of jizz-critters on the grounds for the men to slaughter for the feast.

  The sons of Santiago seized all manner of instruments from the cathedral and commenced a flurry of nonstop musical entertainment. They plinked bouzoukis and baglamas. Some scraped sticks on rhythm fish. Others slapped out solid beats on hand drums. Chellovecks picked up their jazz pipes and piped screeching funk into the air. And the sons of Santiago cycled their animated features through all ranges of expression and crooned off-tune songs about the desert and death and the bloody red bricks. They sang of joy and sorrow. They pantomimed the death of Android Lovethorn to the cheers of all around them.

  And the men ate scruff goat from the mountain and moo cow and grilled jizz-critters. The spirits flowed from the barrels and filled the men with great joy. And the celebration lasted for three days and three nights. And on that third night, John stood atop one of the walls that surrounded the courtyard where his friends drank and danced and laughed with each other. John raised a glass to his friends and laughed at their gaiety. And he shouted out from the wall, “I threw light on the darkness, and the darkness understood it not. And I threw myself at the grounds of this mountain nest, and Lovethorn and his people wilted like dainty flowers in the desert sun.”

  The men cheered and clinked their mugs together. The put their arms around each other’s shoulders and stared up at John.

  John continued: “And the grounds of Abaddon drank the blood of all who followed Lovethorn. And he built high walls and towers to keep out goodness and love and warmth. But Abaddon does not belong in my land. It was as useless as a gold ring in a stink-pig’s snout. Android Lovethorn did not realize that he who builds high gates and walls invites destruction. And you and I, my friends, we were that destruction. We were the heavy storm that washed the grounds of this place clean. This is our place now. This is Beyza M’Geyza. And the gates to these grounds shall never be barred shut again. Evil cannot touch us here. So drink up, men. Drink to yourselves and drink to what we have done. For it is a good thing. We have taken down the one in the corruptible crown. We have recompensed him, evil for evil. Now that he is gone, there shall be no more weeping and gnashing of teeth. We shall have nothing to be troubled at, and thus, shall be troubled at nothing. We have followed the path. And the path is the way. So celebrate yourselves tonight, because you deserve it.”

  And the men raised their glasses. They wept tears of happiness, and camaraderie warmed their hearts. Alf the Sacred Burro and his sons ambled about the courtyard and grazed on the grickle grass around its edges. And though John still had no inkling as to the details of his other life, he knew it in his gut that he had never felt like this before. A flood of emotions washed over him and he knew and recognized each feeling and it was good. It was right. He finally felt complete.

  At the end of the third night, John retired to a bedroom in the fortress and weariness overtook him. Taking a straight razor to his head, John shaved off his long hair and shaggy beard, even cutting off his eyebrows. He liked the way his shining head and face looked in the mirror. He rubbed his hands across his scalp and enjoyed the smooth, cool touch of the bare flesh on his head. And he stripped and lay himself out naked on a large mattress stuffed with the feathers of fluff-hens. The soft bedding conformed to his body and comforted him. And a fluffy pillow of fluff-hen down supported his head. John took one last look out the window of his room and wondered at the two full moons sitting low on the horizon. And the light of the star Wormwood bathed John’s room in a warm green haze. John’s eyelids grew heavy and a much-needed rest overtook him. Peaceful nothingness swirled around him, tossing off strands of cool blue and flecks of gold. The ten thousand things played out a fantastic lightshow on the backs of his eyelids and then fled and left in their place a cozy void.

  And when John awoke, he realized that his room was no longer a room, but instead a craggy cave. His bed was now the dusty ground; his down pillow now a rock. And beside the spot where he awoke was a hole five cubits in diameter. John peered into the pit but saw no bottom. He dropped a rock, but the sound of it hitting bottom never came to him. At the edge of the pit, John saw claw marks in the sand and a trail that dragged itself to the spot where he awoke. And then John remembered everything.

  He stepped out of the cave entrance and stretched the sleep from his arms and back as he stared out from the mountainside. Warm light shone down from the morning sun and tinted the mountain and everything in sight gold. And John’s heart throbbed and swelled with joy as he heard the out of tune clang and bang of a guitar coming from somewhere down the hill.

  MUCHAS GRACIAS

  I owe many thanks to those who have helped me shape Sloughing Off the Rot into the big, gloopy, gooey glob of a story that it now is. Thanks for the advice, critiques, and authorly support of David David Katzman, Patrick Wensink, Andersen Prunty, Kirk Jones, and Mykle Hansen. Go out and buy their books, they are all talented and entertaining authors. Thanks to Kelli Reich for always helping to pimp my work. I couldn’t ask for a better kid. Thank you to Deneen Meischker for the editing/proofreading. That was very cool and generous of you. And in return I burden you with the indelible shame of having your name included in my book. Thanks to Kelly Williams for being patient and working with me until the cover and illustrations were just right. Thanks to Lori Hettler of The Next Best Book Club for your support of my books and other independent authors. And, finally, thanks to my readers, who give me words of encouragement and support. Without the feedback that you give me, I do not think that I would bother to publish what I write. It means so much to know that there is a market for my work and that people actually enjoy my writing.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Dr. Reverend Lance Carbuncle was born sometime during the last millennium and he’s been getting bigger, older and uglier ever since. Carbuncle is an ordained minister with the Church of Spiritual Humanism. Carbuncle doesn’t eat deviled eggs, and he doesn’t drink cheap beer. Carbuncle doesn’t wear sock garters. Carbuncle does tell stories. His stories are channeled through a pathetic little man who has to work a respectable job during the days in order to feed the infestation of children in his house. Carbuncle is the author of: Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed; Grundish and Askew; and, Sloughing Off the Rot. Carbuncle likes to hear what his readers think. You can let him know how you feel about his books, or just send him strange questions and/or pictures, at bonesbarbuncle@lancecarbuncle.com.

  Lance Carbuncle can be found online at:

  LanceCarbuncle.com

  www.Goodreads.com

  www.facebook.com

  Twitter.com/lancecarbuncle

  ALSO BY LANCE CARBUNCLE

  GRUNDISH AND ASKEW – Strap on your athletic cup and grab a barf bag. The Dr. Reverend Lance Carbuncle is going to kick you square in the balls and send you on a wild ride th
at may or may not answer the following questions: what happens when two white trash, trailer park-dwelling, platonic life partners go on a moronic and misdirected crime spree?; can their manly love for each other endure when one of them suffers a psychological bitch-slap that renders him a homicidal maniac?; will a snaggletoothed teenage prostitute tear them apart?; what is the best way to use a dead illegal alien to your advantage in a hostage situation?; what’s that smell?; and, what the hell is Alf the Sacred Burro coughing up? Grundish and Askew ponders these troubling questions and more. So sit down, put on some protective goggles, and get ready for Carbuncle to blast you in the face with a warm load of fictitious sickness.

  SMASHED, SQUASHED, SPLATTERED, CHEWED, CHUNKED, AND SPEWED – Idjit Galoot has a problem. He escaped from his master’s house for a brief romp around town, seeking out easy targets such as bitches in heat, fresh roadkill and unguarded garbage cans. When he returns to his house, the aged basset hound discovers that his master has packed up their belongings and moved to Florida without him. “Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed” is the story of Idjit Galoot’s ne’er do well owner and his efforts to work his way back to the dog that he loves. Along the way, Idjit’s owner encounters Christian terrorists, swamp-dwelling taxidermists, carnies, a b-list poopie-groupie, bluesmen on the run from a trickster deity, and the Florida Skunk Ape.

  ALSO BY KELLY WILLIAMS

  Hello, Do You Work Here?

  The Cabinet

  The Hobo Kings: Bum Sub