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A Samurai Saga - Part One
My story. It's boring.
It was a stormy night.
I was snoring.
Or wait...no...that was another story.
That's a good story. You know, the other story. I wake up the next morning, next to a whore, I come to adore her. Most of it transpires on a barstool (in a bar) in Barstow. That's in California. There's CIA agents, Russian informants, an ornery orange oranguntan named Norman. And...yadda yada yada....
Good stuff. Good stuff.
I did meet an actual orangutan in that one. That uh...story. If you will. Named Norman.
I was also doing a lot of...uh...everything, if you will. Don't you judge me, you fuckin' straight laced mother fuckin'...mother...fuckers. So...there probably weren't any CIA agents. Or Russian informants.
Don't you judge me.
Fuck. You know what? I don't think there was even an orangutan. That fuckin ornery orange bastard was the best friend I ever I had. The ONLY friend.
And he was all in my head.
Kids - listen to that uh...one broad. That evil one. You know, the one that was scared of black people and sent a generation of them to prison. What's her face? Nancy Reagan. That's what the country called the cunt. "Don't do drugs," she said.
But if you do - make sure you buy your stuff off the Mexicans or the bikers. Or for the love of Christ don't sink so low as to get it from some darky in an alleyway.
But....anyway....
Back to the main 'haps. The...uh...story.
Right. The story.
It was, in fact, a stormy night.
Dark.
Dark and stormy.
Rain. Lightening. Thunder. Wind. All that shit.
There I was. Alone with fright.
Standing - teetering - at the very brink of a precipice so precipitous it made other precipices look like pussy ass wanna be precipices that never even graduated whatever precipy school a young precipice attends when it's barely a ditch or a pothole or whatnot.
A recipe for disaster if ever there was one. Me, teetering, untethered over that yawning chasm, or precipice, if you prefer - the depths of which could not be guessed.
Well...I'm sure they could. You know. Be guessed. The depths of which. Which depths? The depths. The fuckin...depths. Where I was teetering.
Pay attention. Anyway. I peered, foolishly, down to where my feet had almost strode. Or stridden. Strayed. Whatever.
I almost fuckin walked off a big fuckin cliff. Okay?
It was late. It was dark. It was stormy.
And I was in the middle of butt fuck nowhere. Snoring. I think. Or wait. That was the other story.
Fuck.
Nowhere being the backwoods of eastern Kentucky. Some people call it...eastern Kentucky. Some people(if the ghastly lookin beings who haunt these hills could be called 'people') call it home.
Ghosts.
Ghosts inhabited by host bodies, living lowly lives, minds imploding, sunken gray skin, red eyes exploding, glazed over - dazed and roving aimless.
Beings. Humans? Perhaps. A sickly flesh and blood parody of some marble statue in the dark of time, their fate sealed from the transluscent fetal veil, their stagnate stale and agonizing smell is the very stinch of Hell.
Thriving on Mountain Dew and cigarettes, they swell in numbers - viruses, they spiral into living hosts and replicate their kind. Dumb and growing dumber.
Dying high. Numb and growing number.
Corn syrup and heroin coursing through their veins. Their blood.
It stains.
Through the brambles I had stumbled and shambled. Bumbled. The whole thing had been a gamble.
It wasn't so bad I guess. This whole shit-fuck of a fuckin fuck-shit in the shitter. It had been a stubborn turd. Yanked - by these very hands - from my own clinched sphincter.
That's not a metaphor. I had literally just pulled a log jam from outta my asshole.
Shit stains.
And me? I was getting ahead of myself. Hell, I'd nearly just trapsed off the edge of a thousand foot precipice.
Or whatever. However many feet, precisely, it was.
And you know what? I've gotten ahead of myself here, too.
Let me back it up.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Deep breath.
>>>>CHAPTER ONE<<<<
“Sounds like a case of arrested development.”
The words. They dropped and chopped like a ginsu knife, making mincemeat of my manhood.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Not my manhood - the transpirings here that I'm about to regail you...
It was a stormy night.
I was snoring.
Or wait...no...that was another story.
That's a good story. You know, the other story. I wake up the next morning, next to a whore, I come to adore her. Most of it transpires on a barstool (in a bar) in Barstow. That's in California. There's CIA agents, Russian informants, an ornery orange oranguntan named Norman. And...yadda yada yada....
Good stuff. Good stuff.
I did meet an actual orangutan in that one. That uh...story. If you will. Named Norman.
I was also doing a lot of...uh...everything, if you will. Don't you judge me, you fuckin' straight laced mother fuckin'...mother...fuckers. So...there probably weren't any CIA agents. Or Russian informants.
Don't you judge me.
Fuck. You know what? I don't think there was even an orangutan. That fuckin ornery orange bastard was the best friend I ever I had. The ONLY friend.
And he was all in my head.
Kids - listen to that uh...one broad. That evil one. You know, the one that was scared of black people and sent a generation of them to prison. What's her face? Nancy Reagan. That's what the country called the cunt. "Don't do drugs," she said.
But if you do - make sure you buy your stuff off the Mexicans or the bikers. Or for the love of Christ don't sink so low as to get it from some darky in an alleyway.
But....anyway....
Back to the main 'haps. The...uh...story.
Right. The story.
It was, in fact, a stormy night.
Dark.
Dark and stormy.
Rain. Lightening. Thunder. Wind. All that shit.
There I was. Alone with fright.
Standing - teetering - at the very brink of a precipice so precipitous it made other precipices look like pussy ass wanna be precipices that never even graduated whatever precipy school a young precipice attends when it's barely a ditch or a pothole or whatnot.
A recipe for disaster if ever there was one. Me, teetering, untethered over that yawning chasm, or precipice, if you prefer - the depths of which could not be guessed.
Well...I'm sure they could. You know. Be guessed. The depths of which. Which depths? The depths. The fuckin...depths. Where I was teetering.
Pay attention. Anyway. I peered, foolishly, down to where my feet had almost strode. Or stridden. Strayed. Whatever.
I almost fuckin walked off a big fuckin cliff. Okay?
It was late. It was dark. It was stormy.
And I was in the middle of butt fuck nowhere. Snoring. I think. Or wait. That was the other story.
Fuck.
Nowhere being the backwoods of eastern Kentucky. Some people call it...eastern Kentucky. Some people(if the ghastly lookin beings who haunt these hills could be called 'people') call it home.
Ghosts.
Ghosts inhabited by host bodies, living lowly lives, minds imploding, sunken gray skin, red eyes exploding, glazed over - dazed and roving aimless.
Beings. Humans? Perhaps. A sickly flesh and blood parody of some marble statue in the dark of time, their fate sealed from the transluscent fetal veil, their stagnate stale and agonizing smell is the very stinch of Hell.
Thriving on Mountain Dew and cigarettes, they swell in numbers - viruses, they spiral into living hosts and replicate their kind. Dumb and growing dumber.
Dying high. Numb and growing number.
Corn syrup and heroin coursing through their veins. Their blood.
It stains.
Through the brambles I had stumbled and shambled. Bumbled. The whole thing had been a gamble.
It wasn't so bad I guess. This whole shit-fuck of a fuckin fuck-shit in the shitter. It had been a stubborn turd. Yanked - by these very hands - from my own clinched sphincter.
That's not a metaphor. I had literally just pulled a log jam from outta my asshole.
Shit stains.
And me? I was getting ahead of myself. Hell, I'd nearly just trapsed off the edge of a thousand foot precipice.
Or whatever. However many feet, precisely, it was.
And you know what? I've gotten ahead of myself here, too.
Let me back it up.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Deep breath.
>>>>CHAPTER ONE<<<<
“Sounds like a case of arrested development.”
The words. They dropped and chopped like a ginsu knife, making mincemeat of my manhood.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Not my manhood - the transpirings here that I'm about to regail you...
