Friends, feel free to stop right here. Because there’s only an “um” and an “or” separating humor from horror (ok, so there are two R’s in horror–the whole thing only really works when you say it aloud–but that’s really getting way off track here. JUST CALM THE HELL DOWN). However, this is America, and you have every right to read this post and decide which this is all on your own. Or don’t. Or really don’t.
Recently, I posted about the dream I had that got Jill to say “Yes I want more of this stupidity.” But there was another dream that I didn’t tell her about. One that may have changed her decision.
When I was a young non-man I had a defining dream. A simple dream. One that has stayed with me in vivid brutality for over three decades.
It wasn’t one of those dreams with a story attached. It didn’t include a muppet. There was no flying or running or conversation involved. If it was captured on film it might have lasted about twenty seconds. I was the only person in this dream.
It starts with me standing there naked.I don’t know where I am or how I got there. I just am.
I look down.
There’s my belly, my legs, my feet. My arms are dangling there at my sides.
Everything’s normal except for one thing: instead of my penis, I have a huge centipede.
It’s not one of those regular house centipedes that you slap with a flip-flop, leaving a smear on the wall and half a dozen twitching limbs. No. This is similar to the amazonian giant centipede you can find here. But worse. Its segmented body is a pulsing red, thick and muscular. At the end, are long antenna and huge mandibles like two opposing scythes. The jaws are opening and closing. Each yellow leg has a few visible joints, flexing as they paw through the air in horrible synchronization.
It’s stretching straight out from my groin. Like it was in the middle of a dark basement prowl, when I suddenly materialized around it.
As I realize that this centipede shouldn’t be growing out of my body, the centipede realizes that it shouldn’t be growing out of my body.
And it begins thrashing to get free.
From side to side it swings, in a furious S, bending back to attack my body with its powerful jaws.
It’s tearing chunks of meat from my thighs.
From left to right, I can only watch as it clamps down and tears into me in its panic.
As horrible and painful as this is, I still can’t bring myself to touch it. It’s ripping me up but I just can’t grab it.
The legs are scrambling.
I can’t see any eyes, but I can feel it looking at me.
It will chew itself free if I don’t do something.
So I grab it. It’s hot and waxy. I can barely get my hand around it. The legs are poking into my palm, digging for traction. They’re almost strong enough to force my hand open. But I hold on as it tries bending its head back to catch my finger, anything, in its maw.
I have it. It’s wriggling in my hand.
And I have no idea what to do with it now.
I wake up and scream for the next 30 years.
Next time when I warn you not to read, maybe don’t.