Friday, August 5, 2011

DAY SIX : In which Matheson leaves behind a bloody trail of bloody pig guts all over the bloody place

Matheson peered down at the beach. He actually really didn’t feel like going anywhere, come to think of it.

Part of him wanted to go mine, part of him wanted to sit and admire the sunrise, and part of wanted to him wanted to crawl into a tiny hole and sob for hours, cradling himself until he drowned in his own salty, bitter tears.

But there were pigs down there. In fact, everywhere Matheson looked, there was a pig; Eating grass, defecating, jumping up and down like a lottery winner with Parkinson’s getting tazered in a bouncy house.

He almost just went back inside and let them live. He didn’t want to even think about eating pork chops anymore, much less taste or smell one.

But then he realized that yeah, this was a really good opportunity, and he should take advantage of it, and blah blah blah, so he gripped his axe and walked from pig to pig, crushing and splitting their skulls with grim efficiency and pocketing whatever parts of them survived the mysterious whisking away that happened after death.

He’d never really thought of it before, as he watched corpse after corpse poof away, but could whatever brought him back to life, and placed him on the beach, be doing the same for these pigs? And everything that he killed, actually. They all vanished in the same way, the skeletons, the spiders, those few creepers he managed to kill before they exploded, these pigs, and probably he himself, too. Did they all just come back to life on the beach, same as before? Was he killing the same things over and over and over again?

He peered up at the sky. The sun was high above him, sending rays of light down through the clouds. What animated this place? What spirit had brought him here, watched over him, and why?

He went back to killing. Perhaps I should make a temple, he thought, as blood sprayed into the air, staining the soil, and nearby trees, and his clothes. I should make a giant monument. I could make a great altar out of bone, and perform blood sacrifices. Like the Aztecs! They knew what was up. Those guys were crazy, but they had their shit together.

He’d killed countless pigs so far, but every time he looked off in the distance, he saw more, and just kept following the trail. His cabin was far behind, but he didn’t care, lost in the mindless letting of blood and spiritual contemplation.

The ocean went on forever this way. There were a great many islands far off, and at some point the beach seemed to bizzarely and illogically gives way to a desert that stretched on into infinity.

There didn’t seem to be much out there, so he figured it was probably as good a time as any to go back. His pockets were bulging with pounds and pounds of pig meat, the juices staining his pants and dripping down to the ground with every step he took. He was momentarily disoriented, but had only to follow the bloodstained footsteps on the ground, and he was able to find his way home.

There was a heaviness in him, as he climbed the hill back up to his cabin, just as the sun climbed down out of the sky. He wasn’t sure what the weight was, but he figured maybe, just maybe, it was his soul.

Porkchops all the way down.

Continue to the next post.

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