Hiking the Blue Hills today and an obviously insane, mutant alien hybrid swamp creature came flailing out of the underbrush at us. Just a complete muck horror, all wild limbs, tentacles and arms, two heads and an undebatable desire to consume human flesh.
I fended the slimy fucker off with little more than a blackthorn shillelagh , an issue of Locke & Key and an adopted greyhound named Soup. Sent the dirty thing back to whatever dark, fornicating den of fetid extraterrestrial filth it originated from. Scary moment, for sure, but what do I live for if not the occasional encounter with the yawning maw of certain, screaming death.
Had a coconut ice cream at Crescent Ridge Dairy afterwards that was the shit-you-not best I ever tasted. And I’ve tried coconut flavors from everywhere from Venice, Italy to Mexico, Maine.
The. Best.
Then I remembered. Alec Holland is dead. And I never was Alec Holland. Just a tangle of mossy swamp weeds that thought it was Alec Holland. I’m saying I’m a monster who dreamed he was a man but now the dream is over and the monster is awake.
Everything’s Gone Green.
