Crusade II: Crusodomy
Last Updated on Saturday, 17 April 2010 18:17
CRUSADE II: Crusodomy
Will drop during 2010s
“YOU MISERABLE DARWINIAN DEFECT TROGLODYTE, NEANDERTHAL THUG BASTAAAAAARD!”
I don’t know how much the pig fucker heard. I don’t care. I have the strap of his stash-belt gripped tightly in one terrified hand with all the demonic strength of the possessed. Must hold on to it at all costs.
He’s done some horrible shit to me. Years and years of heinous abuse. Years of weekly, daily, hourly acts of deranged turpitude. The kind of torture no sane man would tolerate. Yet, he’s my photographer.
But not anymore! This is the absolute final act of perfidy I would suffer at the hands of that ungrateful, psycho halfwit.
But first, I had to live through this, or all my anger would fade into the spray of my dissipated molecules. And make no mistake, my molecules would scatter. The splatter pattern would be one for the record books. A true ‘paint the town red’ moment.
There is important stuff I’m supposed to be doing. The nice rush I should be enjoying, is gone. Replaced by ‘the fear’. I have to do something.
YES! Pull the string on the side. That’s right. I should have paid closer attention to those lectures. No, amend that statement, I should have avoided the place at all costs. I should have seen this coming.
“WHOA... SHIT!”
Recreation my ass.
When a man, a man you’ve known for years, a two-bit liebag scumsucking leech on the ass-end of a rabid gila monster hands you a double vial of insanely potent mushroom oil. Thoughtfully provides ice-cold bottles of spiced rum from a cooler. Swears the whole thing is just a photo shoot. Explains in detail how the photo will be edited to add the stuntman. Well, any rational human being would believe, know in his very core, that everything was legitimate. Innocent. Completely safe.
Only the most disturbed individual would get a man this twisted on drugs and liquor, then push him out of a damn airplane. He’s always been jealous. The writer gets all the credit. The photographer is just a scraggly bum who never shaves. It’s redundant, but I feel it important to reiterate: I should have seen this coming.
I’m going to have him killed. I have money. Lots of money. More money than I have any idea what to do with. Now I have an idea. I’ll hire Chuck Norris and some damn ninjas. I’ll scour the planet for angry, unemployed masters of mayhem. If there are any unemployed ones; the world being in such a state of widespread pre-rapture disharmony. But I’ll pay top dollar. Sic a horde of mean bastards on him. More than even his mutant capacity for carnage can withstand.
I looked around. The rest of the idiots who had jumped on their own volition were nowhere in sight. Shit! I am supposed to grab these handles and guide myself. But that would mean letting go of the waist pouch. Maybe I can steer this fucking wad of hi-tech pantyhose one-handed.
But steer it where? I have no idea where the hell I am. Where the hell I’m supposed to be! I can see trees, a road, canals, fields of something, rutabagas? Rhubarb? Who the hell knows.
I looked upward; thinking the oaf might be hurtling down to catch up with me. He enjoys this kind of harebrained shit. Does it all the time. I enjoy my life—on the ground. Which is where I’m heading. Fast.
Shit! Power lines! I remember some gibbering in that class about NOT hitting power lines. But, what if you are going to hit them? What did he say about that? Baste yourself with cooking oil. Visualize yourself ‘grounded’? Think positive, accentuate the negative? Scream?
I pulled hard at the ropes on my right side, and was rewarded with nothing but a miserable twist. The damn strap was broke on the waist pouch. Not my fault, it was just one of the important things I grabbed while windmilling extremities in sheer terror when pushed from the plane. I had to have it. My very survival hinged on that waist pouch. I jammed the strap under one of the 8000 straps currently pulling my crotch up into my lower intestine. I grabbed the bottom of it, pulled it further and stuck it under a second time.
Stash secured firmly, I grabbed the other rope handle and risked another look beneath me. This was just another outback, isolated, cornpone rural zone. But there was a house. I pulled the handles and headed, more or less, in that direction. Maybe they had a cold beer!
How the hell do people operate these things? It now appears I’m going to crash through the window. Land on and kill the family dog. The house cat will jump straight into the air, six-feet high, all four legs stiff as welding rods. Then the poor little bastard will have a massive heart attack, right at the apogee of it’s last leap. Die in mid air. Land like a flimsy, water-filled baggie with a goldfish in it from some cheapjack carnival. The children will cry, the angels will weep, the husband will beat me senseless with a vacuum cleaner attachment and the wife will finish me off with a hi-quality German butcher knife from the Home Shopping Club’s Executive Cutlery Line.
I hit the roof, hard. But, I had time for no more theatrics beyond a few well-said profanities. It was one of those roofs with the severe pitch. Severe enough that before having an opportunity to perform a self-injury assessment, I started to slide down. This was a totally unnecessary development. The chute, still billowing, floated downward, collapsed around the chimney, settled. I snagged a handful of those two-hundred strings attaching the chute to my tightly clenched ass, and pulled my way up to the pointy part of the roof. What the hell is it called? Dormer? Soffit? Shit! I’ll call it, the safe part. The friggin’ part I can straddle and avoid tumbling downward to break my leg on some forgotten lawn implement. A tractor, hay thresher, or weed whacker. RIDGE! That’s what it’s called, ridge. And that’s where I’d stay, on the ridge.
An old man tottered forward into the yard, spun and carefully stepped backwards, one hand shielding his cataract-ridden eyes from the sun. He stared up at me. At first glance, he appeared grizzled, friendly, but the bibbed overalls injected a hint of menace to the scene. He wore no shirt; one long, ancient, leathery arm waved animatedly at some unseen presence beneath my line of sight. Somehow, I knew he was freeballing beneath those overalls. Naked as the day he was born, and I derived no succor from this image.
“Hello, sir,” I cried out, attempting to sound humbled. “It seems I’ve strayed a bit off course. Could I trouble you for a ladder?”
“Mazey!” The duffer called out. “Get over here and take a look at this fella. I swear, he looks like that devil worshipper on the TV.”
Those words confirmed what I already suspected; I’d floundered from one bad scene to another.
This was backwardass Bible belt country. A harsh swampy enclave of pinched eyes and generations of non-selective inbreeding. This part of northeast Florida is an impenetrable warren of thick, dangerous swamp. From the air, it looked like an ant farm of canals, salt marshes, estuaries and winding waterways. All muddy, brackish water rolling in and out with the tides. You had to be vigilant to live here. To carve out a small plot for a dilapidated mobile home, then fight a daily battle against the mutant vegetation which never ceased its efforts to engulf everything. It took a lot praying... and a machete.
“Thass him!” A stout, tough looking lady cried almost as soon as she got an unobstructed look at me. “Thass the anticreest.”
“I’ll get the shotgun,” her elderly mate, and possibly cousin, said.
“No, I’m not him,” I said, making use of my most authoritative tone. “That’s my evil twin brother. I’m on an important mission. I have uh, the mighty iron Spear of Destiny. The Pope himself gave it to me. I’m on my way to smite that rogue bastard twin brother before he starts the cataclysm.”
“Hurry up, Ethan,” the lady screamed, never taking her sinister eyes off me. “He’s using his forked tongue to spread more lies.”
The old man, apparently suffused with the energy of the righteously anointed, quick-stepped out in front and brought an old rusty shotgun to bear on the easiest target of all. A large organism stranded on a dark roof, wearing a bright red skydiving suit. All I lacked was a huge target on my head, and a couple of devil horns.
History has illustrated mankind’s deficient sense of humor. Their inability to chill out and have a laugh at their own expense. No, an alarming segment of the vox populi would rather knuckle than chuckle. And none, no group, no club, no gang, has shown more antipathy to a good laugh, and less restraint in the face of good natured razzing, than the religious fervent. I knew that show, American Idolatry, would end up killing me. Though, I could never have anticipated I would die at the hands of Ma and Pa Kettle.
Comments
Why does the poor guy jump out of a plane? I love stories that start with a mystery. He probably was tricked by his infamous Photographer to jump by himself and realized when he was leaving the plane that he was tricked. Got to love it!
Keep it up!
MB from Germany