1/4 Dead

Overdosed on Insensitivity,
All Varnished to Crosses

An open wound, itching, not quite burning, moist and sticky, a feast for flies and a nursery for their young. No smell, not yet, but the promised pungence of putrescence; makes me lick my lips in anticipation. The sickly sweet scent, the rancid reek of rot that turns the stomach of lesser men –those of a nervous or feminine disposition– and which incites in the lesser of the sexes fits of flummoxing fainting, is, to me, as the aroma of roasting animal meat to a starving soldier.

Fallen bodies litter the broken, black and blasted, land beneath clouds brooding and malevolent in their disposition. A sordid necropolis for the undeserving weak. Rain that washed clean the old world now slicks the husks of decadent cities; ruined crumbling facades sinking into the filth and decay. Where once black tar smothered and sterilised all now fecundity –geologically unhurried by human fragility– devours all.

Naked, I squat to examine the wound on this calf. Picture perfect red and yellow framed with purple and blue. Flexing muscles opening and closing it like a battered and weeping cunny. A finger slipped inside brings stars to my eyes and an appetiser to my eager tongue. A handful of filth from the floor –applied neat to the wound– will speed my future feast to fruition.

Walking on the wounded leg has been difficult but I am strong and the coming feast will be a great reward. A reward of which I am one of the few strong enough to be deserving. I know this and it makes me glad. Before, in the old world of the weak, I was never the sort to shy away from taking what was mine, what I deserved, what was promised. As the corpses piled higher, as the beat of the rains became more insistent, I knew that this was the world being made anew. This was to be the world of the strong.