Wednesday, April 21, 2010

"Don't Feed The Men Who Feed The Ducks"

(I’m not so sure how well this dare from E. Colell worked out… it all went to a very weird place...)

"Don't Feed The Men Who Feed The Ducks"
by Ash Lomen

City Park in New Orleans was strange enough, but The Men Who Feed The Ducks were so damn peculiar that even the normal nocturnal denizens of the city; elder vampires running bike paths, Uzi wielding nutrias passing blunts with Crips, alligators caught up in copulation with birdwatching pederasts, and slick police with slicker batons that reeked of blood and shit, all steered clear from the group of young Japanese men throwing breadcrumbs upon the roots of ancient oaks.

It was rumored that this gang of men who came out only at night were decedents from those mutated by the bombing of Hiroshima and that they worshiped Tasaki Miike as The Messiah. They were many armed and possessed other various appendages, many of these ”limbs” that shot out from the hooded leather overcoats The Men wore to hide their various deformities were not even discernable as human… or even mammalian.

What they were doing in City Park, god only knew.

It was also rumored that once a drunk mugger had tried to approach The Men with a baseball bat. The tallest of the three supposedly turned and ripped of the assailant's face off with a single whiplike tentacle.

I shrugged this all off as some sort of ancient Japanese custom.

One day The Men approached me with some drugs.

Strange little pods that reminded me of orange tick tacks. Hell, they could have been orange tick tacks for all I knew… but I was already high so I decided to buy them for the price of 400$ a pop. I figured that I would buy two in case the first one didn’t work.

The Men Who Feed The Ducks whispered conspiratorially among themselves.

The tallest spoke, “We are not sure if you are ready for this level of… let’s say “enlightenment” yet…”

Another of The Men procured a simple metal pipe that looked like it had been made from spare plumbing equipment, “Take a hit of this.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” The Men said as one.

I produced my own 50 cent lighter and fired up the bowl, the hit was flavorful but smooth-

I scrambled my webbed feet up an embankment of rocks, and hopped to a thick oaken branch not all that far away. I dropped to the ground and fought some geese and another duck for some breadcrumbs. The Men Who Feed The Ducks billowing longcoats loomed before me, bringing to mind the image of doomed skyscrapers and loose sky rockets. Soft explosions.

I was happy.

When I woke up I was naked and swimming in the murky lake just a few feet away from where I took that first hit. The moon was high in the sky, it's reflection rippling like floating cum across the dark water. Tasaki Miike sat on the water’s edge, wearing only a leather thong, and nursing a baby nutria with two tales and a third eye.

He said something about the “end being only the beginning” and smiled, but I could swear I heard that fucking line before in some shitty 90’s alternative rock tune.

My eyes exploded like bloodshot stars going supernova.

I woke up for the last time cradled in my Mother’s arms, covered in afterbirth. I could see a young nurse collapse when she saw my extra limbs.

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