Sloughing Off the Rot by Lance Carbuncle

Author:Lance Carbuncle [Carbuncle, Lance]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780982280058
Publisher: Vicious Galoot Books Co.
Published: 2012-12-05T20:30:00+00:00

Like sand slugs surfacing on the desert floor with the turn of night, Three Tooth, Crazy Talk, Heap-o-Buffaloes and Throws-Like-Girl all felt the pull of the moons and awoke. The two half-moons hung low in the sky and slowly drifted toward each other as if attempting to jettison their dark halves and join together in a single glowing orb. The men slowly stirred like cave-bears waking from a long hibernation.

Two-Dogs-Fucking stumbled into camp, his face cramped with disappointment. “I’m so glad that no lunkheads found me,” he said. “I accidentally fell asleep away from the camp and could have been ravished if I would have been discovered by another roving group of lunkies.” But his face showed no relief, instead looking sad and lonely.

And Santiago still slept, unaware that Crazy Talk had cuddled up next to him in his sleep. Even though he was waking, Crazy Talk stayed in spooning position, his arm slung over the sleeping Santiago. Two-toned braying and cruffulous coughing from Alf the Sacred Burro woke Santiago, who threw Crazy Talk’s arm from him. Santiago jumped up, spitting and hissing. “Gods damned Injun,” he spat. “Can’t a man go to sleep without being felt up?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” agreed Two-Dogs-Fucking, unconvincingly.

Heap-o-Buffaloes chuckled to himself but said nothing.

“Jump back and kiss myself,” said Crazy Talk, licking at the palms of his hands and slapping them to his head, flattening his fine, blond hair. “Thatwise I am the zombie woof. And I gots me a zombie toof.”

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” said Santiago as he leapt toward Crazy Talk, murder in his eyes. The negative space between Santiago’s outstretched hands formed into a perfect semi-circle to fit around Crazy Talk’s neck. But before Santiago throttled his throat, Crazy Talk held out a wineskin heavy with chicha. Santiago’s hands closed around the skin and his face softened. His threatening demeanor immediately changed, facial expressions shifting randomly and settling on pleasantly surprised. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

“It is the spit of the gods,” said Crazy Talk. “Thatwise I brought it just for you.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so, you crazy son of a niksik.” Santiago put one arm around Crazy Talk’s shoulders and tilted the wineskin back, draining a gut-full of chicha down his throat. Halfway down his esophagus the chicha turned against him and struggled to spew back out of his mouth. Fighting the urge to puke, Santiago coughed and gagged and forced the stinking spit-brew down, holding it there. He passed the wineskin back to Crazy Talk and dropped to his knees in the sand, battling the chicha revolt in his stomach. Alf the Sacred Burro took Santiago’s fits as a reminder that he hadn’t coughed up anything of substance in hours. The donkey joined in the coughing and gagging and spat up a bezoar coated in donkey slime and half-digested grickle grass. Throws-Like-Girl retrieved the bezoar and studied it, ignoring Santiago and Crazy Talk. Both Santiago and Alf concluded their coughing fits at the same time. Then, Santiago’s body accepted the putrid liquid and the accompanying all-over warmth.

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