Friday, September 03, 2004
The End is Lear!
It is difficult to blog. The storms have blown me far off course. Watching is not as simple as cable news would have it, a quiet ingestion of the facts as they occur and are reported. No. This was at first a simple investigation into the Cause of the Trouble. Now it has become Monday’s hash, reheated on the camp stove. Not that I can eat it. Not that sort of hash, no. It is filled with crusty bits, chunks of scripture. It seems to be some sort of game, this hash ... no restaurant in the whole of the Caribbean will serve me now. Chef Pharaoh has died, and his beautiful daughter with him. My mouth is filled with red mud. It reeks of communion wafers and burnt communist banners.
In the deeps of the river—oho, you were thinking the Tigris or perhaps the Euphrates, no! the Mississippi, but aren’t all rivers the same?—under the effluvium of the immense fat leech, the catfish even now sits smiling. But only the smile of the fish was there, no fish itself. No shit. Only teeth, and perhaps a hint of a whisker. Yet the smile was prominent. Omniscient. Oh, Dodgson has done his work well ... no doubt with help from his disciple LaHaye… the bastard! May he be eaten by a goat!
The fish, when I saw him, held in his maw the leg of Skinner, the young osteomyelitic disciple of W, the one Marked from Birth. The jewel in the crown of the turban on the vast head of the fish shimmered, as the storm raged above. Dervishes fell from the sky, seeking the blood of godfearing stormwatchers, several of whom have already given their all. Their goat masks could scarcely hide the bulk of worldly weight that rested on the river. Something was in the air ... could it be The Rapture? Where was Hank? Even the image of Hank would be a comfort.
But there had been so many false raptures, and so many false resurrections. So many dead-end investigations. So many meals that ended up as shit.
The mullah rested, hanging the edge of his hammer on the unfinished wall as he mopped his brow.
“When,” he shouted to heaven, “when will I be able to finish the preparations for the Final Storm? Must I be maggot’s food before the end comes? I mean, the final end? The real end? I can scarcely eat, with these teeth, and my leg, my leg ...!”
Just then, a vendor came by selling pornographic magazines and an assortment of drugs. Drugs and images that beckoned, called to him, even as the sky rained goats…