Wednesday, January 30, 2008

As usual, I start things off with a corpse sucker.

Don't look at me like that, with you're mouth turned down at the corners. All distasteful wrinkles and squintily eyes. You can't imagine how terrible the world would be without the occasional corpse sucker like me.

Imagine it... bloated grannies rolling in the gutters, their tummys distended like pale beach balls, coated with carpets of black flies, alive with pale hungry maggots. Dead little kiddies purpling in the noonday sun, expelling greasy gouts of noxious brown fog sickening the occasional passerby. Without someone coming along periodically to siphon the salty salty juices pooling between the hardening folds and coagulating fat the world would become a stinking charnel house in a matter of days. A butchers freezer accidentally left open over a hot august weekend.

And then you'd all come running back, looking for someone to drag his cracked and withered tongue over the un-cremated remains of your sad little puppy, or drain the swollen sacks of mumsys and pop-pop. Someone to bung his straw in a corpse and magically draw out the tainted effluvia.

But I'll be gone, sitting under a parasol somewhere tropical, sipping pureed brains and cherries out of a halved, chilled pygmy skull.
Then you'll be sorry.

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