Thursday, December 6, 2012
Prologue: Elder Gaud
The first few waves were always the toughest, then gradually became tolerable as the day went by. They usually started when the 6:20 A.M. alarm bellowed, got you out of your improperly-sized bed, and ran you out the door. To describe a wave would be like trying to remember a word you never knew to begin with. You'll know what words to use around it, but the simplest one-word explanation fails to surface. It's like a deep James Earl Jones voice mixed with sand and gravel, but still slippery and full of toxic laughter. It's twisted and knotted, a spiked ball of mucilaginous warmth. A bristled worm, dancing around like a 90's boy band wrapped in a claustrophobia-inducing cling wrap blanket. The sound of a watermelon being devoured in front of a sensitive, high-powered microphone might come to mind...
The first time you noticed it, you were taking a shit and simply felt it was something you did not need to do anymore, even though you really wanted to. It seemed such a superfluous act to even bother with. You might have called it a day on the whole ordeal were it not for the screaming coming from your chest. A really frightened scream, something one would hear when some older brother runs into his little sister's slumber party with a zombie mask on. You'd think something like that would be off-putting enough to make you call a doctor or eat a handful of laxatives, but every time you'd think these things, the screaming would get worse. There certainly was a fight over you defecating, and it was coming from within. You recall attempting to relieve yourself once again, only to find that you were then being punched in the stomach in combination with all of the crying and carrying on.
The days went by like this. You would wake up, go about your morning business, and then the hollering would commence... you seemed to feel more and more like you were feeding something other than yourself, and tapeworms don't scream...
Chapter 1: Taste Buddies
The world moaned itself awake on a cold Wednesday morning a couple of years ago. You found yourself craving sweets. You had gone about your normal routine, brushing and flossing, omitting the shitting. You had already gotten used to the continuous grumbling and beatings every time you bothered, so you didn't bother.
For the first time you noticed a slight hissing noise under your normal thoughts. Like a radio stuck on one station yet still getting reception from another. Every word you would try to think would have an undertone of something else. You probably did not drink enough water, or did not sleep well, maybe you're coming down with a cold. All of these thoughts went through your mind, still being spilled over onto by the station hiss. By the time you got into your car for work, the noise had become a voice. A chilling voice, you remember. Like a chunk of dry ice being rubbed on a piece of steel, combined with an early 90's type-activated computer voice for the blind. You felt every muscle in your body freeze up and threads of jagged, hooked worms crawling through your limbs. You were being controlled. You got out of your car and walked back into your house, during which all you could think of was ooey gooey treats. You walked into the kitchen, washed your hands, and set about your business. The putrid, pus-throttled voice was clear:
"Take some unpopped popcorn, enough to make a large bowl with and pop it up on the stove! Now set it aside, and DO NOT season or salt or butter it or you will feel the hooks again... gooood...
Now, in a separate saucepan, melt down one 1/2 Cup sugar, and one 1/3 Cup honey... if you have no honey then add a tiny bit of water and let it simmer very gently, stirring all the while.
Now, add a VERY small drop of vanilla extract, and it had better be the real stuff. None of that imitation crap!
Melted nicely? Nice and liquid? Good. You just made caramel, simpleton! Now add 1 Cup of chunky peanut butter. Mix it constantly while simmering. Don't fuck around! This is why we don't need butter for this!
Now... pour it over your popcorn and mix well with a rubber spatula, adding nuts or dried fruit, or toenails, or virgin's hair, frog guts...
Mix it up! Don't mess it up! Good! Now scoop it over wax paper and shape it into a giraffe or fecal matter or something!
The next time you make it, use any kind of cereal or oatmeal or plain nuts, or dried apples, banana chips, dog hearts, or whatever! You will call this Caca Corn, and you will prepare it for many guests.
...... now eat it and I shall devour your feces before it leaves your body, for this is your curse as long as I possess your useless mortal frame!"
Whatever had happened that morning, it was something you really could not explain right away. You were compelled to make a tasty snack, and when you ate it, you were astounded at your result. That stuff was good. You ate every bit of it... You wondered if you were maybe still asleep, or if you might have had one of those weird multiple personality things happen. You eventually ruled out sleeping because whatever that voice was, the fuckin' thing made you late to work.
You knew after that you would not be the same again. Countless days followed, each filled with delicious, rich snacks and meals, all driven by the unseen force within your body. Refusal to provide such wonderful eats would always prompt some kind of a demonic tantrum... it seemed that our internal invader had itself a sweet fang this month, for the day after the popcorn affair, more compelling urges were about to unfold.
You woke up early, hoping to beat the morning tummy grumbles before they started. The Thursday air outside was chilly and dry. All you could hear were the noises from A.M. traffic, your cat snoring, and leftover, desperate songs from crickets that couldn't get laid the night before. Boy were you glad for that. You remembered why it was nice to get up before god, birds, and everybody else. That feeling of being the only thing stirring, you're gettin' shit done while all else remains tucked away in their flannel and quilted cocoons. It was most certainly too good to last at least as long as you got to the latrine. It never failed.
The slightest inkling of anything other than showering or brushing your teeth always got the morning started off wrong with fussing. You made it into the kitchen and right away felt a tiny kick in the side. The voice this time was not faint, not quiet. It felt like your own internal monologue now, definitely IN you, but with the sound of a stylus scraping across a record under it all. You wanted vanilla. You wanted crunchiness. You wanted something familiar. You thought of Nilla Wafers. As soon as you did, you got the sensation that a thick length of barbed wire MIGHT be winding up inside your colon and doing a little rumba. You figured that something needed to be done about this, and that's when the body contortions, hooks, and words came out:
"I probably should have hooked ya' anyway, thinking about that stupid, expensive, brand name shit. Go get 1 stick of butter, an egg, 1 cup of sugar, a pinch of salt, 1 tbls milk, 1 and 1/3 cup flour, REAL vanilla extract, and just under 1 tsp baking powder.
Take that egg and separate the yolk from it. You only want the white part, got it?
Now, take your butter, salt, and sugar and whip it up. Creamy? Goood... now add the egg white. Mix it up really well, get it all together. Now add the REAL vanilla extract. How much? Who the fuck cares? The more vanilla extract, the more vanilla flavor! A few drops will make it perfect. Add your milk. Beat it, mangle it, pummel it into creamy submission.
Take a fork and briskly stir together the flour and baking powder. Now add it to the butter/sugar/salt/vanilla/egg stuff. Mix all of that until nice and dough-like.
You just made cookie batter, maggot.
If you grab a large freezer bag, cut a tiny piece of corner off, and fill it with the cookie batter, you can pipe it onto your cookie sheet in shapes of turds, mold spores, fingers, and toes. Got it?
It is time to put them into the oven, I assume you have pre-heated it to 350°F? Excellent, pest. All it takes is 15 or 20 minutes and you can have your fuckin' stupid Nilla Wafers without having to go spend the fortune they want you to spend on 'em. Next time you can make it with Graham flour or Graham crackers, maybe throw a dried banana chip in the center... or top it off with a few nuts or a couple of cacao nibs, anything. Imagine how great it would be for me if you used some instant coffee into the mix. All I'm interested in is your feces... now go do some Yoga positions or something... get that down here faster, nimrod!"
And that was that...
A bright day was ahead the as you went to sleep the evening of the Nilla Wafer incident. A cool breeze seemed to mark the end of another day of a mind full of sweet, decadent delights. As you even thought these words "decadent", or worse yet "delight", you knew for sure that there was something amiss in your world. You can't even recall a time when you have actually used the word "delight" in any way. In most cases, as far back as you can remember, you pretty much shunned the word from the get-go. It always made you feel a little strange, going so far as to try anything to omit the words as you painfully ask for the Oreo Delight you knew you wanted. "I'll take one of those Oreo Awesomenesses", or "Toss me one of those Oreo Dealies", things like that.
You literally spent the entire day thinking of these sorts of things. Work was tough, you wanted to eat everything around you, and everything reminded you of sweet stuff. When you almost accidentally ran into the lady carrying her little dog, you noticed the dog had a cantaloupe scent, or some kind of melon. You, of course, immediately thought of slicing one open and scooping out the cool, toothsome interior. Or later that day, you borrowed a pen from a co-worker and subsequently wound up having flashbacks of French silk pie. A quick stop to get some gas turned into a honey-oozing, whipped cream-licking, pudding-dripping, frothy good time in your mind. A barrage of images and sounds, pictures and memories of scents you have never smelled. You went to sleep soundly as sugarplums beat the fuck out of each other until they oozed butterscotch custard from their chocolate kidneys, spilling brains of maple flan.
The next day was easy as pie. You woke up early, grabbed your OJ, and read a book while your demon did its morning ooh-ing and aah-ing. You knew it was coming. You found it pretty funny that you beat your caca-demon awake. This time, no hollering, no punching... nothing. Is it bored with you now? Are you not the future master chef you once thought you were to become? Did that Bible passage you thought you would try to read last night have some kind of effect? You even tried reciting the exorcism rites as you remembered them from The Exorcist, but the only words you can recall were: "The power of Christ compels you!"... maybe that worked?
"Shut up, long pig, I'm just not feeling like making you cook me something amazing today, okay? I'm feeling kind of tired and lazy. I'm a demon, I do demonic shit. But what I AM about to have you make will probably blow your feeble little mind anyway, so scoot the hell over, and I will be doing the driving from here.
Get me 2 eggs
2 Cups of sugar
2 Cups of peanut butter
REAL vanilla extract (the fake stuff will cause me to "Human Centipede" you, something I have wet dreams about)
Mix the eggs and the sugar up a lot. Now add the peanut butter and vanilla and mix the fuck out of it with a rubber spatula. You just made No-Flour Cookie Dough, skin bag. Make that goop into balls. Make your stupid pretty little fork marks in them if you need to. Place onto a baking sheet and into the oven which should be Preheated to 350°. Bake for 8 minutes.
No-Flour Peanut Butter Cookies, or Nutty Shit Balls. These are good. Eat them all because it's time to feed me, and I get cranky without my breakfast, nincompoop."
And it was gone.
Yes, these were indeed something that had blown your mind. Even a damned lazy-ass demon can conjure up something like this. Today, you felt a little like being creative yourself. You tried almond butter. That was great. You tried sunflower butter. Nice. You even tried that powdered peanut butter you like so much. It all works. Your elated, sugared-up body vomited itself out into the clear blue, and the day begun anew, awaiting whatever fresh scents and candy fancies may come.
The following morning was tough going. Feeling weighed down and burnt out from the Nutty Shit Balls sugar trip, you stumbled into your foyer with heavy feet. The vertiginous abyss that used to be your mouth was awful, and you pictured the old cartoon scenes where one character gets a bop on the noggin and out of his mouth pops beaver pelt buttoned up over his tongue all nice and snuggly. Your teeth felt like today was the day to learn a little lesson in equality, objectivity, awareness, fairness, etc, with all of the different skins they were wearing. Nutty Shit Balls are akin to eating peanut butter-flavored rock candy. You certainly would have used moderation when consuming were it not for the incessant nagging from within your skin-teriors to finish up. Yeah, you were feeling it today.
The walk into the kitchen was a long one. You managed to put one step ahead of the next one at least. Your mind obviously was in the driver's seat at the moment, but you felt more like a poorly-kept vehicle. Sputtering and backfiring, jumping from 1st to 4th gear in a single blast. Not exactly a fine-tuned machine that morning. A stroll to the fridge prompted equal parts nauseation, equal parts elation, a combination best left to the fetishists and glue-sniffers. Your hands fumbled through the expired salad dressings, week-old casserole, and rancid sour cream. Past the hot sauce packets, the previous year's Lambrusco (which you could never really stomach, as it always tasted like the mongoloid child of poorly-grown grapes and something the Kool-Aid Man barfed up after a night of partying), and the "authentic" Louisiana Supreme Soy Sauce. Under the stale bread and around the plastic container marked simply: "stew", but mysteriously filled with something iridescent, boasting hues of orange and red.
You felt the first wave of the day, coming on strong like a drunk super cougar singling out who she thinks is the youngest guy in the bar. Altough your demon didn't quite punch like a girl.
"Okay, so maybe the Nutty Shit Balls were not the most healthy snack. Maybe they weighed us both down a little. Maybe if you weren't such a pussy, we'd both be better off. I have something for you to prepare for me that might counter what we have begun. You'll appreciate this, fleshbag. You might even feel like you're doing something good for you, but you're not. We all like those fuckin' pies from that Micky Dee's place, yes? Well, instead of going out and sitting there in some drive-thru, waiting for them to pull the premade bullshit out of the freezer for you, you can make your own, and make them better. Ready, toadlick?
For the crust, you will need:
1 1/3 Cup all-purpose baking mix
2 tbsp. sugar
1/4 Cup warm (not melted) butter or margarine
2 1/2 tbsp. boiling water
REAL vanilla extract
Dash of cinnamon
Abuse the baking mix, sugar, cinnamon, and butter until combined. Now add the water and REAL vanilla and stir it up until nice and blended. You just made a tasty dough, McTwatburger. Press and roll it out over a little flour to keep it from sticking to the table and make some rectangles. Put that in the fridge and move on.
For the filling, grab 3 apples, 3 pears, a few handfuls of raisins, and a few handfuls of grapes, all of these sliced up.
Now you will place these in a pan and throw 1/2 cup honey, and 1/2 Cup sugar. If you simmer this on LOW HEAT and stir it for a while, you will have made a decent fruit filling, pigsucker.
It should be nice and carmelized. Got that? Now let it cool down in the fridge for 20 minutes. Grab your dough rectangles and place a little filling in each one. Take your TOP rectangles and lay over the filled bottoms. (Filled bottoms has a nice ring to it, eh?) Press the edges down and seal them off. Take a knife and cut a couple of small slits on the top, I'm sure you know what a slit is. Or do you? Look familiar? Bake those fuckers for 15 to 20 minutes (or until browned) in an oven preheated to 350°. Take them out, let the internal magma cool down. Now eat it. Eat them now! I need breakfast, too, you know. The next time you make these, use cherries, blueberries, bananas, slivered almonds or chopped pecans/walnuts. Got it now?
We have ourselves somewhat of a relationship, I'd say. Don't fuck this up. I'll have no qualms about forcing you to break your rectal thermometer off right up in there."
And we dined. This seemed like something you could get used to. You went through your entire day, thinking happily of what was in store the next day...
Days of sweets might make your teeth hurt. This something you notice when eating things like this. You remind yourself to brush your nasty teeth from time to time. One day, before brushing, you thought you might come up with an idea or two of your own... see if you could satisfy the sugar urge. You decided to make some kind of "healthy" thing. You thought: "Well, shit... I have three apples getting soft, some sugar, peanut butter, cinnamon, oatmeal, and raisins.
You chopped up the apples while the oven preheated to 350. Heave the raisins in.
You mixed up the oats with a little water and peanut butter until smooth, threw in a little sugar.
You tossed a pinch of cinnamon onto the apple mix, threw in a little more sugar.
You smooshed the oat stuff onto the bottom of a greased glass baking dish.
You poured the apple stuff onto it.
You used a little more oat stuff to cover it.
You baked it for 25 or 30 min.
You ate it.
Then you asked your bossy demon, who remained quiet the whole time, how he felt about it. His response was: "Not bad. This'll go right through ya, health nut. Why don't we go for something a little less grandmother-y next time, yeah? I'm sick of sweetness and sugar. It's making me feel like sleeping all of the time. Tomorrow you will be thinking of something else... something with blood and guts involved..."