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Authors: Lance Carbuncle
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and twitched and coughed up a hairy lung-ball that he spat on the ground. He slowly approached and walked beside John, hoping that the man would need him for assistance with his balance again.
First the tickling on the face, like a feather duster on his skin. And the buzzing. Then the burn and sting of many bites on his face and arms. Santiago ejecting profanities from his mouth like spent cartridges from a Gatling gun. The irate, strained braying of a sacred burro. Drawn out hisses of turkey vultures. Surprised cries of desert scurves. Crazy Talk screaming, “Boze dee boze dee bop, diddy bop.” And John woke up. A black cloud of munkle flies, so thick that it seemed to extinguish the morning sun, had enveloped their camp. John jumped up from his sleeping spot and clawed at his nose, where he could feel flies wriggling into his nasal cavities. He blocked his left nostril and blasted out a snot-rocket of flies and their eggs and then did the same with his other nostril.
Three Tooth ran through the swarm of munkle flies, waving his arms to try to clear the way in front of himself, and grabbed John by the front of his robe. “You have brought this plague on the land. You have polluted our desert. You must move along, go away from here. I am leaving two of my men with you to help with your journey. But I must leave you to your business. So take Crazy Talk and Two-Dogs-Fucking. You can take the donkey, too. We will have scouts tailing you to make sure that you need no assistance. But, we can stay with you no longer.”
Through the black cloud of airborne insects, John made out Three Tooth’s fly-infested face and saw a tear clearing a streak on his cheek. Three Tooth turned and ran, calling out to his men. The scurves fought their way through the flies, fleeing the stinging swarm. John, too, decided it was time to flee and he called out to Santiago, Crazy Talk, and Two-Dogs-Fucking.
And they were on the road again, sprinting down the red brick trail and swatting at the flies that bit at them. A writhing carpet of munkle flies turned to a black mush as the men ran and slipped on the desert floor, now greasy and slick with the paste of flies smashed underfoot. Two-Dogs-Fucking, despite his rotundity and usual lack of motivation, ran the fastest and slipped the least. Just behind him, the moist clopping of Alf the Sacred Burro’s hooves on the ground beat out a hasty rhythm of retreat. The high-pitched screams that exited Two-Dogs-Fucking’s mouth pained the men’s ears as badly as the stinging of the flies on their skin. The enormous cloud of insects trailed John and his men, buzzing and swirling around them, and departed the pile of lunkie corpses from whence they hatched.
The departure of the munkle flies from the site of the lunkhead-massacre left behind an army of turkey vultures. The buzzards hissed and spat and undressed the corpses, tearing at the dead flesh and devouring it until all that was left was a pile of bones and a fattened flock of vultures. And when there was no more flesh for them to consume, the buzzards briefly turned on each other, hissing and clawing and pecking, until drowsiness from the feast mellowed them.
John, Santiago, Two-Dogs-Fucking, Crazy Talk, and Alf the Sacred Burro raced down the red brick road, dogged by the munkle flies the entire morning. Everything along the path – rocks, cacti, trees, the ground – buzzed with a covering of the nasty biting bugs. At midday, the sun sat directly above the men and sapped their strength with its glare. And though they felt ready to drop, they persisted in their flight. And the swarm of flies abated. The insects’ half-day life span fizzled out lamely under the harsh desert sun. With no cadavers to lay their eggs in, the entire swarm expired quietly and left no descendants to pester John and the others. The dead flies piled up, ankle-deep, and John and his crew continued until they were clear of the blanket of insect corpses.
The sweltering
First the tickling on the face, like a feather duster on his skin. And the buzzing. Then the burn and sting of many bites on his face and arms. Santiago ejecting profanities from his mouth like spent cartridges from a Gatling gun. The irate, strained braying of a sacred burro. Drawn out hisses of turkey vultures. Surprised cries of desert scurves. Crazy Talk screaming, “Boze dee boze dee bop, diddy bop.” And John woke up. A black cloud of munkle flies, so thick that it seemed to extinguish the morning sun, had enveloped their camp. John jumped up from his sleeping spot and clawed at his nose, where he could feel flies wriggling into his nasal cavities. He blocked his left nostril and blasted out a snot-rocket of flies and their eggs and then did the same with his other nostril.
Three Tooth ran through the swarm of munkle flies, waving his arms to try to clear the way in front of himself, and grabbed John by the front of his robe. “You have brought this plague on the land. You have polluted our desert. You must move along, go away from here. I am leaving two of my men with you to help with your journey. But I must leave you to your business. So take Crazy Talk and Two-Dogs-Fucking. You can take the donkey, too. We will have scouts tailing you to make sure that you need no assistance. But, we can stay with you no longer.”
Through the black cloud of airborne insects, John made out Three Tooth’s fly-infested face and saw a tear clearing a streak on his cheek. Three Tooth turned and ran, calling out to his men. The scurves fought their way through the flies, fleeing the stinging swarm. John, too, decided it was time to flee and he called out to Santiago, Crazy Talk, and Two-Dogs-Fucking.
And they were on the road again, sprinting down the red brick trail and swatting at the flies that bit at them. A writhing carpet of munkle flies turned to a black mush as the men ran and slipped on the desert floor, now greasy and slick with the paste of flies smashed underfoot. Two-Dogs-Fucking, despite his rotundity and usual lack of motivation, ran the fastest and slipped the least. Just behind him, the moist clopping of Alf the Sacred Burro’s hooves on the ground beat out a hasty rhythm of retreat. The high-pitched screams that exited Two-Dogs-Fucking’s mouth pained the men’s ears as badly as the stinging of the flies on their skin. The enormous cloud of insects trailed John and his men, buzzing and swirling around them, and departed the pile of lunkie corpses from whence they hatched.
The departure of the munkle flies from the site of the lunkhead-massacre left behind an army of turkey vultures. The buzzards hissed and spat and undressed the corpses, tearing at the dead flesh and devouring it until all that was left was a pile of bones and a fattened flock of vultures. And when there was no more flesh for them to consume, the buzzards briefly turned on each other, hissing and clawing and pecking, until drowsiness from the feast mellowed them.
John, Santiago, Two-Dogs-Fucking, Crazy Talk, and Alf the Sacred Burro raced down the red brick road, dogged by the munkle flies the entire morning. Everything along the path – rocks, cacti, trees, the ground – buzzed with a covering of the nasty biting bugs. At midday, the sun sat directly above the men and sapped their strength with its glare. And though they felt ready to drop, they persisted in their flight. And the swarm of flies abated. The insects’ half-day life span fizzled out lamely under the harsh desert sun. With no cadavers to lay their eggs in, the entire swarm expired quietly and left no descendants to pester John and the others. The dead flies piled up, ankle-deep, and John and his crew continued until they were clear of the blanket of insect corpses.
The sweltering
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