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06/24/03

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Riding Shotgun  
With Adventure  


by Ron Langston  

Ron Langston

Episode 15: The Penis of Doom


My mouth was dry with a familiar cottony tang. My heart would start racing next, and then the perspiration. Fear. The nightmare returned each morning of my life, but I continued to run with the mad hope of freeing myself from the advances of the mad gargoyle who had resolved to devote its unholy existence to making my life a Hell on earth.

The details of the curse I unearthed all those months ago are still hazy in my mind. The blunt force of emotional torment, combined with the blur of the bottle, have built me a tenuous wall of comfort, a fleeting sanctuary against the accursed gray beast with his burning red eyes, leathery wings, and dangling, prehensile, barbed phallus. One more like down the road, one more swig of mezcal, and hopefully I'd be able to bear one more appearance by the tiny cackling gnome who lives only to stand before my bloodshot stare with his shiny, rigid cock swinging like a pendulum, ticking away the seconds before my utter, utter madness finally frees me from the torture of a mind that was too curious for its own good.

We didn't mean to open the crypt of Dhacharr. It was only a routine exploration project in the mountains north and west of Macchu Picchu. An uprising in the nearby village pushed us farther into the rainforest than we knew was safe. We'd been warned by the locals about the strange voices and demonic possessions. But the crack of the rebels' shotguns filled me with such a fear, an escape through the hidden Inca cave complex seemed a fair alternative to a bullet to the back of the head. Like Doctor DuQuesne got.

Never did I imagine how wrong I'd be. I'd gladly welcome the tortures any of the bandits could dish out today, because I know the lash of their strongest switches could not match the dark foreboding presence that would again flash its wang at me tonight, cackling, cackling all the while! Sometimes he will jack it. Sometimes he flies about my head, trailing his rancid smegma about me in a profane circle, an evil tribute to the gods who created him. Some days he will fuck my ear.

Mexico City. The smoldering peak of Popocatepetl continually serves as a precious reminder of the mortality of forty-thousand souls. We all have our albatross. The tiny room in which I sit is beyond filthy, but somehow I must keep up hope that this dungeon of an inn will hide me from the all-seeing eye of the monster that tracks me like a dog, like an intrepid hellhound with a penis that fills, no, embodies, my worst nightmares.

My eyes burn as I stare at the cracks in the wall. He will come tonight. I take a swig of mezcal. Tonight, he will fuck my ear.

NEXT WEEK -- Episode 16: Dickslapped, Oaxacan-Style




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