Chapter of the Slug

Imatge

It was disgusting. And yes indeed, Morbus, I know that everything seems disgusting in my words, in my acts, in what I have been describing until this very moment, yes, Morbus, I agree with you if you think so, even though I do not know what you are thinking of, you bastard, but when I say that THAT THING WAS DISGUSTING it is because THE SLUG WAS DISGUSTING. So much. But, at the same time, it was disgusting funnily, in a peripatetic way. The Slug and his unfortunate skin, like gelatine, was jumping in its own ferunculic tallow. That colossal body was repulsive, it was so horrible that it could even be beautiful, distinguished, no divisions between perceptions, between possibilities, that horrid beauty, that beautiful horror. Both mixed at the same time in the mirror of sensations and feelings. There was so much flat, so much blubber, under that epidermis of catastrophe that a whole legion of possums, together with crab louses, would have established their home and their dynasty in such a place. It seemed that all that flaccid flesh was going to spread like a wave beyond its own limits of immense body. And that was even funny, like a clown, something incredibly ridiculous and proud of being so. The Slug had appeared so powerful before, and now so fascinatingly puppet, like a meridian act of inconsistency, a circus of paranoia, a caravan of strange termites. And all that flesh fell over the girl in colours of spectacle, and she tried to fight against all that flesh, all that incredibly body which was caressing her, trying to rape the girl’s skin because the Slug was obsessed with touching her, with putting her tiny genitalia, they seemed spaghetti, over her and get a little bit of pleasure. Yes indeed, the Slug was like a big bag of garbage, flesh garbage, raped fleshy shitty garbage. The pigs has brought the girl to the chamber of the Slug, and now she was there, in the middle of luxury, beauty, a violet carnage of clothes and paintings from other planets, sofas from other universes, surrounded by hundreds of tables filled with food and drinks and more food and more drinks: arkhams smoothed with an accompanying sauce of enzium trigs, cooked and breaded clicmahx, copyposts capirraited with figs and plotolum jam, castrated dodgers cut with pastry and nignugs, fried saltamurtrals under a cascade of artificial cocoa, worf cheeks on a bearing of atraigos and jujubais, perched chulthus hultrus grilled with squares and valbenous piltrings, slaziums of sternag with fenchudos of zofire, toasted alicators, tanted ghipsi made miskatonics, a bowl of quanzia and more. Much more. Oh, Morbus, so many things to eat and drink and enjoy, that was an orgy of emotions and fantasies and feelings, oh!!! The Slug, in a sarcastic mood, was dressed with a purple foulard and a golden thorn crown that was set over that polymorphic head with pride and power. The Slug also painted his face with metallic flakes and powders and paints of different colourful tonalities. He was waiting for the girl so that, when she entered, then he started singing something in a language she did not understand. A florypondical psalm, loriloy songs, like a floral poem, presidential verses, laureate metaphors and melodies from an instrument which looked more like a Mongolic nerve rather than a music itself. It was deeply ridiculous, melodramatic and also sad and happy at the same time. A comic tragedy in fat motion. The girl was laughing so much after seeing that. She was possessed by funny spirits, the merry wives of the dancing fields, the vivid images of craziness put into the wild side of beauty. She was crying because of that laughter, even. The Slug did not have any kind of detail to mention the laughter, so he started saying things to the girl, things in a language she could even understand. The Slug asked the girl to reach him, come near, because she would like to eat something after so much time being hungry. She went to one of the infinite tables. She took the leg of the first cooked alien she found and started eating with complete taste, the sauce spitting from her mouth like a pornographic vision. Biting like a beast. She was a beast, a living beast. Tears of oil falling from her mouth, together with saliva, reaching her breasts, her ribs, her arms, her legs, her sex, her feet. There were some candles there making light for all those sensual movements. That image of splendour, of enjoying life and food. The Slug got a lot of pleasure seeing that in front of him. Like a picture of desire. The Slug said that now everything would be perfect for them both, they would live together and be happy forever after, they would keep eating those wonderful things, like in an acid tale of redemption, and everything would shine for them in rose and fuchsia. So bizarre. The Slug wanted his voice to sound sweet, like honey, and it was like a vomit, in fact. Something as enormous as dementia itself. Then suddenly the Slug jumped, and the jump made everything move and tremble and shimmer. The Slug jumped to the girl, to reach her, to be near her, licking her and caressing her breasts, her legs, yes indeed, Morbus, what an image! But she felt very powerful, like never before. Alive, so alive! Killer of any pain, of any decrepitude. And even though the Slug was for her disgusting, she bit his arm, bit with all her power and forces and strengths. The Slug screamed, he screamed so much that the wells almost fell. The girl did not stop until she could eat what she had bitten with a huge smile on her face of triumph, victory. The girl was sure that the scream of the Slug had been heard in the whole universe, filled with horny emotions, sick excitation, tremendous power. The girl was happy, immensely happy with that, she wanted to be heard universes beyond, the infinite hugging her at least, at last, oh yeah! The girl, so furious, so young, so filled with alive blood inside her passion. She escaped from the nails and the hands and the arms of the Slug, who was crazy, shivering, trembling, totally hypnotized by pain and by that hole in his arm, and they both started a prosecution in that room, going up and down, here and there, far and farther, like two animals in hate trying to get one another. The girl jumped and launched herself over the food like if everything was a big swimming pool of food, of liqueur, of something. All the doors closed. No way to escape. And she was happy for that: she did not need anything else. She felt so powerful there. She had escaped from jail and now she only wanted to celebrate. To celebrate existence. To celebrate euphoria in front of uncertainty, in front of pity, in front of sickness. The Slug continued to follow her all the time, making everything fall behind him in those movements. It was a festival, a bacchanal, an orgy! Slapstick indeed. The hole in his arm vomited strange liquids, green and yellow ones, making everything dirty as well. The girl laughed and laughed and laughed, golden girl, ecce donna, Madonna, and this made the Slug be angrier and angrier. The girl danced. The girl sang. For her escaping was like a dancing movement, with grace and style, jumping here and there, ole, ole! Bullfighter, matadora, toreadora, torera! Brilliance and triumph filling her soul, her spirit, her emotions and feelings. And she was drinking all the alcoholic spirits she could find on her way because she wanted to get drunk. She wanted to get drunk of luck, of screams, of happiness, of pain, of poetry, of chants. She wanted to get drunk of whatever, get drunk of something, of infinite and eternity! Ottotoi! And she would have been like this all her life if needed, in that great honour of everything in her whole life. And she would have loved to be surrounded by other beings like her, screaming and dancing and singing, trying to kill all the pain in the world, all the illnesses in the universe. Izikai, itzikai, itzikai! Closed eyes to the eunuch darkness. All of them together feeling the hearts beating, making the same sound as thousands of hands clapping, lorelei! And this folkloric dance of drums and flutes of the skin would have last for a whole century if the pigs had not called the attention of the Slug from the other side of the doors. They told the Slug that something terrible was attacking the palace. Something huge as they had never seen before. Very very very raged. Furious. Strong. Fear conquered the face of the Slug. And the girl kept on dancing and laughing and drinking and singing.

FABLE by Jaume C. Pons Alorda
Translation by Arthur Rippendorf

And this is the soundtrack:

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