Wild Boar du Jour
Matthu Stull August 2009
August 3 1909: When the rats finally went to sleep, after nibbling at my extremities for some odd number of hours, and after the hazy blue vapors of dawn had transferred beyond the noxious stream of mistly sunlight, I crawled toward my whiskey bottle and took a nice big slug. It was the best breakfast a man could ask for in this freakish landscape of endless jungle nightmare.
In my youth, I had quite a romantic picture of the jungle in my mind. I imagined the parrots and primates and jaguars all frollicking gayly amid strange coconuts and huge flowers of violet and topaz. This fantasy continues with me loading my rifle, kissing Veronica, and shooting a 30-foot long python through the left eye at 40 yards. Then we find the ancient temple full of rare gems and various treasures and whatnot. But no! It's not like that at all! It's a shitty dump full of flesh eating insects, diseases of absurd variety and power, and untold scores of cannibals and malevolent savages.
I took another big gulp of the scotch, then took a piss on one of the slaves we brought along to carry all of our shit.
“Goggo!, wake up, you lazy piece of smelly shit!”, I screamed as I kicked him in the ribs. But Goggo didn't so much as flinch in response. Yeah, you guessed it, he was dead and half rotten now too. His face was all shredded up and eaten up by rats or something else. I carefully took back the few coins I had paid him for last week's work, avoiding to actually touch the slimy dirty skin of the nasty little corpse.
“Son of a bitch.” I mumbled, then staggered over to my rifle. It was time. It was time to kill.
“Hey, can someone bring this stuff to the palace?” I yelled. But there was no answer. Where were all of the slaves, I wondered? How am I gonna move the tent, the kitchen stuff and 3 or 4 crates of rare books to the hunting fields at the Palace of Queen Threenfthra?
“Fuck it.” I muttered and then emptied the whiskey bottle into my mouth. I tossed another one into my rucksack but noticed with no small amount of terror that there were only 4 bottles left. But oh well, I was sure the Quenn would have plenty of drinks for me, as long as I could bring her some wild boar meat, for which she always had a unrelenting craving. But it wouldn't be easy to get there without a horse. Charlotte, some old horse I was using, was eaten 3 days ago my pirhanas. Poor thing, I tried to pull her to safety, but her legs were just bloody bone after about 30 seconds in the Amazon. And then I was even bitten a few times too. I started shooting into the water with my pistol but without much in the way of positive results. Aaahhhhh, the fact is that I must cross roughly 30 miles of dense jungle on foot, without a single guide or servant.
August 6, 1909: I've just hacked a tapir to death with my machete. I have the sharpest machete on the planet. No joke, that's a fact. What, you don't believe me? It cuts through tapir flesh like a samurai sword cuts through marmalade. But it's probably sharper than them jap swords too. I give a fuck, anyway, whether or not you trust the inherent veracity of my claims. The point is this: I got a dead animal to cut up and eat and a half bottle of Scotch to pour down my gullet!
August 8, 1909: I think I took a wrong turn at that village yesterday. I asked some cannibals there which way would take me toward the Palace of Queen Threenfthra and I automatically assumed they were lying to me, so of course, after shooting them point blank with my Laird & Murphy 6 ö 5, I took the direction going exactly opposite to the one they'd suggested. Now I almost rather regret that choice. I'm just surrounded by silly white foamy rapids now, and that silly constant roar which I guess these kayak people just adore. But I adore the roar of the boar. Only maybe slightly less than that of the whore. Furthermore, what matters it now just after before? I'll take this chance to apologize for my meanderings of mind. Perhaps it was not wise to eat that strange mushroom from the jungle's floor......This incessant churning of river ravages me. I must get going and buy a map at some secret kiosk some such place or other. Pray for me, you heathens!!!
August 12 1909: I met a strange old Syrian man today under a steaming cataract of blood at a mountainside of alien vegetables. He gave me a fascinating book called “The Code of Sirozon”. This book has drastically altered my consciousness, so much so that I've developed an amazing psychic ability to navigate this wilderness. With certainty now, I am on the right path to the Palace of the Queen. And I've built a sort of laser spear using some crystals I found in a foggy canyon. I put these crystals into the end of a long branch of some half burnt tree that I found. Then I soaked the staff in a peculiar resin which flowed from a pile of stones under a vast prehistoric terrace of mild richness. Finally I tied it together with some glowing blue spider webs I also found in the foggy cavern near the the canyon of canyons in a land of canyons and deeper gorges than can be believed on this here planet. Of this Laser Spear, it can be said that it is a powerful device, but that I instinctively understood that I must charge it under bright moonlight, preferably a full moon, which was the situation last night. A feeling of supreme power surges through me when I use this laser spear. I have tested it on a few time on some random boulders and I hope you will forgive my sincere delight as I watched these huge rocks dissolve into a fine powder after being struck by the powerful pink beam. The only real drawback is that after 2 or 3 shots, it becomes very weak, not shooting at all, just giving off a subtle and softy rosy amber light. Still, if I charge it and use it only in dire necessity, I will be most happy to have it in my arsenal.
Now, let me take a moment to write a little more abou this ancient book I received. Upon first opening “The Code of Sirozon”, a peculiar mist seemed to swirl around me. The words on the page crept forward almost like Satanic insects, they seemed to levitate before my eyes and at the same time I thought I could hear a muffled chattering murmur of dragons or something, in a language I cannot hope to describe at all whatsoever. After my initial shock of the nature of this volume, I began to perceive actual words in the English language. These words are bizarre in the extreme and I will copy some sections here:
from page 19: “That withall causeth fine timber to squeal up into this there then of rapture's flotation. Canst whither thin milky vapors having blackest shape of eye came narrow. But seest thou how pendulum enformed twin turbo didst bake not blast the fourth vacuums of Quantum Thrust? So too true the cavern lit manifold aflame thereon, caress the sand of bridges whence time simmers in that implosive pulse. Make do with mine envoicings beyond horizon, for that which makest of mine foamy nebulous is therefore contained and optimum to that which alas is of might and broad balance. Still twixt be it conceived to employeth new pistons of stone for thine but the engine it Breathes in fair light of naked raptured effects!”
Of course, any savage can tell you this passage is nothing but rubbish. But to me, as an initiate of The Knights of Exxylcroth, I knew with not even the faintest shade of doubt that there was here in front of me a serious code of interdimensional grandeur. I have only read 32 of the 412 pages, but already something radical is taking place within me. And not just the thoughts in my brain, but all aspects of my being are going through some kind of intense esoteric transformation.
