Chapter Four – Adam and the Big Black Dick
The raw ache of my throbbing head is my only sense as I awaken. Everything is blurry as I’m trying to open my eyes but the right one feels like it’s glued shut. I can hear the wind rustling through the trees above me. I’m pulling down the bottom of my eyelid so I can see but it’s caked so thick that I have to scrape away what seems like inches of squishy goo. Blood. I finally regain some semblance of strength and manage to sit up. My head feels like it is swimming through a sludgy lake of shit.
As I finger away the last of the coagulated puddle from my eye, I look into the forest enveloping me. It’s almost dark, the moon ducking behind and jumping out of the clouds passing by. The path I’m lying on is wet with rain, my suit now covered in mud. For some reason this is a major concern. Somehow, I had just managed to get from a job interview in Munchkin Land to a forest in Who-The-Fuck-Knows, and my biggest worry is the well-being of the donated suit I bought from a thrift store. Fucking idiot. I try to stand up, but the blood rushing through my body seems thick and unwilling to travel to my extremities. I fall, woozy, landing on my ass. There is a fiery red panic that perches upon my ragged head. This is an unknown land on the other side of some pyrotechnic show called the end of the world, and here I am, an invalid in all its myriad meanings. I settle down, telling myself not to break down. That guy would not resolve to a ball on the floor. I have never had a concussion, but I imagine that unlike countless action flicks, the reality of any post concussive action on my part is not going to happen. For all I know, my brain sustained a trauma so heinous, it decided to peace out for a period. How long, who knows? Upon regaining my outer motor functions, I stand successfully. I’d assume civilization, including a police station and hospital are somewhere in some general direction, so I decide to walk forward, soon finding myself on a path.
This path is not well traveled. In fact, calling it a path would be an egregious exaggeration. It’s more of a somewhat continuous series of trampled grass and occasional collection of puddles. I stick with it as I conclude that’s the most sensible thing I’ve done all day. I’m reaching into my pockets, feeling around for my cell phone. It’s not there and it makes me wonder if I even brought it to the interview. Nope. Left it plugged in at the hotel. Awesome. The smell of rain is fresh on the air, birds just now coming out of hiding and revealing themselves to each other in what remains of the weirdest fucking day of my life.
I’ve been walking for about twenty minutes, gingerly fingering the small gash on my head responsible for the eye-cake. That tiny son of a bitch did this. Musey. What kind of name is that? Little bastard just dropped me off here in the middle of nowhere. Reeled me into his retarded, sex-fiend scheme. I keep feeling around my asshole to make sure I didn’t get roofied and buttfucked by a midg…sorry, little person. I think I’m ok. Of course, I’ve never been buttfucked or roofied so I don’t really know the residual side effects.
The path is slowly converging into a road and with each step is becoming more and more defined. This gives me comfort, as it is a clear sign of civilization. I see something through the trees around the bend. It is clearly man-made and my heart wells with both panic and excitement. Either my nightmare will be over, or it is simply just starting. Two sides of the spectrum, that is all on which I ever focus. Ahead, I recognize what seems to be a…
Wagon?! Like some horse and buggy shit. Colonial Williamsburg shit. So, this is it? That’s the conclusion. Some midget, as some elaborate prank, has dropped me in the middle of some attraction, or maybe I am the unwilling participant in some Truman Show reality program. “Watch what happens when we drop shitty blogger, Adam Russell, into some Amish community where all the men have beards and bull testicles are used as currency! How will he deal in a strongly patriarchic society having never had a father of his own? How will he connect with other humans without a computer in front of him?” Yeah, that is what I was thinking too, Mr. Announcer. I can barely comprehend what I am seeing in the waning daylight. In fact, I wouldn’t have even considered it a wagon except for the two horses neighing at the sight of me. I’m stopped cold, fearing yet again a buttfucking. If this isn’t some TV show, there is nothing to stop a burly bear from turning my insides into ramen. I weigh whether or not this thought is homophobic. I conclude it is and the shame rolls in. Fuck. I’m walking now.
There is a sudden flash of blue from the side of the wagon. I jump out of the path, falling into the grass hoping whoever it is doesn’t see me. He totally does. I can see his feet coming toward me in the grass now. I’m on my stomach, frantically scuffling backwards through the wet grass. I probably look like an undisguised, mentally-challenged Spiderman, crawling on a random forest floor. His foot is now right in front of my face and my crotch is soaked through. Hopefully it’s the rain.
“Who are you? What are you doing?”
Goddammit, Adam. That’s a woman’s voice.
I’m looking up and smiling, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole. I flip over onto my back and hold out my hand. She takes it and pulls me up, my disgustingly wet crotch on full display.
“Uh, hey, yeah I don’t know. I just woke up down the road there and then I saw your wagon and yeah. I don’t know.”
She’s staring at me quizzically, a coarse round piece of what looks like a crowbar in her hand. I notice her blonde hair bound tightly against her scalp, giving her a natural, intimidating scowl. She his wearing a blue dress in a style I’ve never seen any woman wear. I’m guessing she’s about my age, which initially excites me. I imagine how close these tourist attraction actors stay to their part. If this lady is method, I am afraid of what the hygiene situation may be. Surprisingly, my penis does not share this concern.
“Don’t look at me like that, you son of a bitch.”
Never mind, boner.
“Listen, I’ve had a really long day. Could you tell me how to get back downtown? I can call a cab from your house or something, or if you could drive me somewhere, that’d be killer.”
She’s staring at me and takes a step back. She’s grasping the crowbar with both hands now, lifting it slowly into the air. There is really nothing left of the sun at this point.
“Whoa, whoa, listen! Hey, I’m sorry, I promise I’m not a creepy rapist or anything. I have a girlfriend. Listen, c’mon!”
She’s still backing up and trips on a rock falling onto her ass. Hard.
“Jesus, lady, you ok?”
I’m leaning down to pick her up and she’s pointing her shaking finger past my head. She’s trying to say something but is just gasping warm air onto my battered face. Finally, I can make out a single word.
Run
She rises frantically and runs toward the trees opposite of me. I’m just watching her run, screaming past the wagon. The horses are going insane. I turn around to see what she was pointing at and there’s nothing but the waving trees in the moonlight. I cautiously follow her, wondering if she may have hit her head. The horses are jumping like baboons in the zoo, so I go around them as best I can. I notice the broken axle on the wagon and discover why she was stranded out here in the first place. I look in her direction and see her run past a tree and decide to catch up to her. The wind is whipping everything into a frenzy, and the frenzy is whipping up a high school sized anxiety attack inside my chest.
I start walking toward the trees, attempting to prove to her I am not a time traveling rapist/murderer. She peers out and motions for me to get down so I go to one knee and look in every direction. Oh shit, it is not me she is scared of. I see nothing. Looking back to her, she motions at the abandoned wagon. The squealing of the horses has been replaced by a looming silence. The sunlight has almost completely vanished from the sky but I can see that the horses are lying on the ground, convulsing violently. Some kind of glossy, black mass is jumping back and forth between them. Imagine five guys in a line taking turns biting an apple and a microphone is up really close to capture the sound. That’s what this thing is doing to those horses. It’s horrifying. I can’t move and I can’t fully make out what is happening. My best idea is to lie down in the grass again. Therefore, I do as if any drastic movement may force the world to turn against me, well, more than it seemingly already has.
For a few seconds, I consider reasoning with the big black thing. I’m not a horse. I’m in a shitty suit. I can’t look too appetizing. Then I realize it’s eating horses and nothing I know of that eats horses raw is reasonable. Besides, even reasonable upstanding humans are a difficulty for me. So, I continue to lie in that wet grass, silent and submissive to whatever may come next. Death? Fuck it, stranger shit has happened today.
It’s walking toward me now. I can’t see it, but I can hear it. It sounds like it’s dragging a shovel with it. With every step it makes a disgusting sound, a lot like someone snoring when they have a really bad cold; that open-mouthed death rattle, where liquid is begging escape from the swollen lungs. Somehow it doesn’t see me. Perhaps it finds no fun in killing a man that openly accepts death. As it walks past, I decide I’m safe to get a look at it. As I’m flipping over to my hands and knees, I observe:
It’s an inky-black monster. No other way to put it. There is no human way to reference what I’m looking at. Other than it’s big fucking cock and balls dragging through the grass. It’s got to be more than seven feet tall. Not its cock, but the monster itself. Its cock is probably four feet long, digging a trench through the violated grass. It’s going right for her.
She jumps out from behind the tree and falls to the ground screaming. It’s like watching one of those black and white monster movies from the 50’s. She’s so damsel-in-distress and acts as though holding her arm out over her face will somehow defend her. It is a natural reaction, I have heard. Many gunshot murder victims show bullet holes through their hands. I guess the end of your run is considered a good time to test out that superhuman strength you always suspected. Undeterred, it grabs her hand and bites down. I see a soft spray of blood glisten in the moonlight. Two of her fingers fall sloppily out of the thing’s disgusting mouth. Her screams are absolutely deafening.
Without even realizing it, I’m on my feet. Between the dick demon and me is the crowbar, sitting and waiting patiently for a chivalrous action. In one swift motion I’m running through the grass, grabbing the crowbar and crushing the uncircumcised hood of the Big Black Cock Monster’s big black cock into the soft ground. Black ooze sprays in all directions. My face and the woman’s are covered in what’s sure to be monster dick blood. Or cum. The thoughts and possibilities are limitless. Its ungodly shrieks send me sprawling back onto my ass.
I sit up and watch the creature struggle to lift the crowbar out of his pinned dick, his four arms with two elbows each working violently. He jerks the crowbar up and it flies out of his craggy, black hands right at me. A sudden jolt of pain. The seemingly hundred mile per hour crowbar cuts through my forearm and sends me to the ground screaming. I hear the creature shriek and then numerous pulses as it brushes past the trees above me, into the moonlight. The eight fingered blonde woman comes running up to my side, the blood from her hand dripping onto my face.
“What have you done?!”
Damn, she is angry. What have I done?
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Eric Scot Lemons and Sheldon Spanjer have been working on ‘Burning Books’ for centuries. Keep your eyes out for the complete novel sometime in the 2100’s. You can find them on Twitter: @ericscotlemons | @sheldonspanjer
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