Hittin’ this dispo like it didn’t hear my tail shake.
I hear voices in the distance. Humans, children, in a backyard. I need to get the fuck out of here.
Oh yeah, I can see ‘em there, runnin’ around through the trees. Their rooster heckles me. As I’m walking down the trail I see a fallen log caught by a growing tree. There is a hat on this log, a decrepit Home Depository hat just sitting there. I lift it to stash my roach there, right, and what do you think I see? An actual roach, right?
WRONG. There was a fucking CAVERN CRICKET the size of my BIG FUCKING TOE, but not a roach. Not a living one, at least. I complete my missions as planned.
And now that I’ve written it and made it thusly real, it is about time to unShashlik King Boris Style: Slav Squat Supreme and continue on my merry way.
And so I go.
And so the rooster heckles me evermore.
The children no longer frolic nor whinny their cries. I hope that’s not on my account. I mean, sure, I shot the ‘volver a good six or seven back there, but I wasn’t even looking. I’m telling you, see, I’m good, but I cannot be that good.
As I approach yet another crossable river, the rooster is sacrificed so its caretakers may feast. I walk down the muddy rock’ed slope, wondering to myself just what in the fuck you might be getting up to right now, and stop. There’s a bridge, footbridge, a ‘manmade by hand wooden footbridge the perfect length to cross over the water, and it’s lying there parallel to the flow on the opposite fucking bank of this goddamn shitting river.
But, as I am a High God, this is a nonissue. I literally hover up and across. Fuck you. Thank Adam you’re not here right now, and fuck you for being at all.
Don’t worry, I’m comin’ to save ya.
It is an actual jungle coming up to Sto’town Ro’. Total raptor pasture scene from Jurassic Park vibrations going on here, tell you that right now. Plantlife up to my busy fucking fingers, a flowerstalk just reached and typed the word flowerstalk for me, I didn’t even know that was a fucking word. Duck beneath some sort of… of a cherried… willow, I suppose. I squished a cherryberry I plucked off the willo’ and it didn’t smell… too good. But that matters not… much, as I didn’t eat the fuckin’… thing. Blegh.
I peek my head out from the solid wall of foliage and see a crushed plastic drink cup next to a half-full plastic water bottle, both of ‘em dead in the fucking dirt. Just as well. I sprint across Sto’town Ro’ so fast the approaching Jeep doesn’t crush my corpse to the uncaring pavement. Over the guardrail and into the bramble, fuck me they changed the trail. They changed the fucking trail on me and now I have two legs full of thorns and they’re poking dangerously close to the third, they changed the trails on me and look what happened! Look what they fucking did!
I take a stroll down to the water, Shashlik King Boris Style: Slav Squat Supreme, soak in the Existence around me. Mother Monksville laps the pavement at my feet. Three disjointed globs of white foam which grow brown near the peaks are there, they’re kind of like snowcapped mountains except the literal goddamn opposite, and I’m rightly grossed out. Back up the ro’ I go.
For this is a road that I Shashlik King Boris Style: Slav Squat Supreme’d on, you see, hypothetical reader, for the Monksville Res’ was once a town, a thriving village by the name of Monks, and when the final leprosy-infested member of that dying shanty’s populace finally puffed their final cloud of dust, the ‘town of Sto’ flooded the shit out of it. Bodies still float up to this day. Some of ‘em even slaughter writers, steal their things, and continue their manifestœs all slick. You’re reading this – hardly – you inconsequential son of a gun. You don’t know what the fuck’s really going on.
Plastic shopping bag all tangled in the brush.
Translucent plastic shopping bag buried in the dirt.
A fork. A straw. The wrapper from a pair blunts long burned. An actual shingle off a roof. Water bottle, ‘nother straw, shatter’d can, shirt. You all came from somewhere. From someone who was hurt. And felt that a good reason to piss off acting berserk like some dumb son of a bitch who’s yet to do their work. Grow up and write a book, you fucking loser, quoth The Bookmaker. Me? I’m just here, ‘man. I’m just here, cloudy eyes a’roll.
Dispo clouds all over the wood. I duck und’r another one’a those cherries and keep on. I haven’t even climbed a mountain yet, this tryp might never end…
The amount of joy I feel over the fact that Sto’tryp exists is unparalleled. That is all.