Friday, July 7, 2017

Wound: Open For Bizness!

by William D. Tucker

The Open Wound collected all sorts of disgustingness, infections, weapons.
    The Open Wound was what we call a grief fascist, always in mourning for an imaginary lost golden age, its chalkwhite skin oozing on account of sweat/fire/madness/entitlement.
    The Open Wound smells rotten corpse stank from around the fucking corner. And you smell it, and the tiny particles go up your nose, get all up inside your mind-you start thinking, "I wanna be an open wound, too, godsdamnnit!"
Who would've ever thunk it? Your mindstate degenerated by a smell.

    The Open Wound's guns are many. Its trigger fingers legion. Crowds gather before it, promising they weren't gonna let it happen again, but they let it happen again, and Open Wound puts bullets through their eyes, bayonets into wombs, swordtips through dicks. The Open Wound gets sticky fuckin' wet from all this action, takes this new pile of fuckhead corpses into its own self.
    The Open Wound told me that its pain and rage were bigger than mine, but I didn't believe it. I told it to go fuck itself, and it rolled me over, ground me up, made me a mushy bolus, deluged me with digestive juices, absorbed all possible sustenance/nutrition/whatever from my body/my being, then shat starchy tasting/foul smelling leftovers. I was reincarnated as a Snickers bar, and I laughed. In my previous life I was full of cholesterol, chemicals, carcinogens, and big ideas. The Open Wound was that much closer to systemic failure.
Fuck the Wound.
It tried to convince me its rage and pain were greater than mine, but I don't believe it now, didn't believe it then, and it can go to hell. Do not even pass Go. Hell's come early!

    The Open Wound menaced the fair nation of Cadence, causing an international incident, 'cause the overlords of Cadence thought the Open Wound didn't have much imagination. The overlords fired missiles into the Open Wound, but that didn't do shit, 'cause all that did was stimulate the Open Wound's clit.
    But then the Open Wound turned around, invaded the USofA, popped a big mean ol' Moby-Dicksmell style boner, started using it to bash in the heads of college students and avid readers of Tom Wolfe novels. Gore Vidal went on national TV to voice his approval. Strangely enough, so did Tom Wolfe.
Mr. Wolfe appeared on 20/20 hosted by Jerry Springer and Paris Hilton/Raquel Welch (see, the two ladies had recently been surgically conjoined, but, thankfully, Raquel's brain had been given command control for the both of them). Mr. Wolfe wore a pristine white suit. He debunked cabal theory, declared America to be a Christian nation, founded on Christian religious values, though he himself was not a believer. He went on to say that we, as Americans, are trapped within codes and forms of behavior, values/standards and practices/practicalities that have lost their essential undergirding morality structures. "America has become a nation where form has trumped content," and Mr. Wolfe was really hoping that would become highly quotable shit, but the man was too old, and his suit kept fuckin' with the camera's white balance, so they couldn't even air the segment uncensored. Tom Wolfe's suit had to be digitally remastered into a more palatable shade of gray. But Mr. Wolfe caught wise, said, "Alack! I'm being remixed!" and assaulted Raquel/Paris with an oversized, hardback omnibus collection of New Journalism essays. Paris/Raquel valiantly arched a stream of urine into Mr. Wolfe's  wrinkly face, but she could not fend off his strong attack. Raquel/Paris died, seemingly from massive blunt force trauma related injuries, but actually the coroner determined the cause of death as terminal boredom resulting from blunt force tedium. Springer's final thought was, "Take care of yourselves, and each other." The Open Wound then went after Gore Vidal readers. No one was safe.

    The Open Wound met the Peanut Butter Swordsman in battle. PBS-Man intuited the Open Wound's descending vortex technique, countered with vortex in the ascending mode. PBS-Man inflicted wounds within wounds within wounds within wounds within the ultra-context of the Great Open Wound Totality. The Open Wound countered with an infinite inward expansion of wound capacity, hyper-supplemented by Grief Fascist Tendencies. PBS-Man found himself drawn into the Open Wound, and he went from creamy to crunchy. His strategy was to clog the breathing apparatus, induce panic, thus negating Open Wound's tactical thinking, and destroy the enemy. But, at the last instant, PBS-Man saw the folly of his ways. He devoluted from crunchy to creamy to liquid, and was near instantaneously excreted via the Open Wound's back end. PBS-Man reconstituted himself in the middle of the street.
    "Magnificent!" said PBS-Man. "The Open Wound absorbs all attempts to wound it into its utter Wound-State nature. Attempts to eliminate it piecemeal are destined to fail."
    PBS-Man furrowed up his brow real hard-like, causing giant peanuts to pop out above his eyes.
    "The trick," he said, "is to fell the beast with one single, solitary, uno-type, master stroke!"
    PBS-Man spun on heel, marched after the Open Wound, prepared to live, prepared to die.
    This was the first encounter between the Open Wound and the Peanut Butter Swordsman. It was not the last.

    The Open Wound went too far! The Open Wound overstepped the bounds! The Open Wound did not respect the line in the sandbox! The Open Wound encouraged smoking in the underage and the elderly! The Open Wound when sharing a bottle of Pepsi or Coca-Cola did that nasty-ass motherfucking backwash shit, and that was none too cool, 'caused the Open Wound much social ostracism, made it hard for it to make friends, reach out to strangers, cuddle with synthetic animals like Teddy Ruxpin! The Open Wound ate most of the ice cream in the box, leaving only a little bit of a scoop 'mongst the scrapings, really pissing off its roommate at the time. The roommate said, "The Open Wound, why you gotta leave not even enough for an entire scoop, man. If you're gonna take most of what's left, take it all. Ain't nothin' more disappointin' than comin' home after a long day at the office, and I'm thinkin' MMMM! I'ma gonna git me sum of that I for Ice Cream for C-" but, by that point, the Open Wound had left to go to the club, and the roommate was left talking to the cats. The cats didn't give a fuck. Then another roommate came home, and the guy started bitchin' 'bout the Open Wound to this other roommate, and, you know what? The real tragedy in all this is all the wasted time. Time can neither be created nor destroyed, but it sure as shit can be wasted.
    The Open Wound slotted up in the club. The Open Wound bought a beer that lacked flavor. A girl danced provocatively near it, but . . . it just drank its beer, stared at her ass. The Peanut Butter Swordsman pressed his way through the crowd, right near it-but PBS-Man didn't seem to notice the Open Wound. Asshole. Probably just ignoring the Open Wound.

    The Open Wound went through a serious Ayn Rand phase. It began on page one of Atlas Shrugged, and ended on page two when it decided that the latest Kira Reed flick on Skinamax would be more exciting. The Open Wound got bitched out about this by his pretentious roommate. The Open Wound said, "Dude, you're stressin' me out," and threw some pewter elf-head paperweights at the roommate. The roommate dodged, caught a glancing hit on the shoulder, ran into his own room, and started watching the Kira Reed flick on Skinamax with the volume muted. The roommate then entered into a serious Kira Reed phase that began that night and is ongoing to this moment.
-mostly from 2007, a little bit from 2008

Copyright 2007, 2008 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

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