Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Gimp of the Perverse
I recall those mirky days when I found myself a hostage of a totalitarian circus family in the unspeakably torrid swamps and pines of Texarkana.
I had been following up on the research of my nemesis Roscoe Sinclair, who had come close to the most tantalizing evidence of the skunk ape before running short of funds, sanity, and volunteers after the Japanese economic bubble collapsed in the late 1980's. A major partner with the Yakuza in many prominent American golf course real estate holdings, Roscoe fled various domestic debtors and focused intently upon exacting a cruel yet benevolent revenge upon me in Eastern Europe, though that is another story.
In late 2002, I was mailed a bizarre clipping from a small town bi-monthly newspaper in northeastern Texas, which related a story that defied the most cyclopean semantics of the surreal - a bizarre tale involving a rash of skunk ape sightings cutting a broad but distinct pattern across the barren and mostly unpopulated hillsides of the region. I felt compelled to immediately find a flight to Texarkana, though I would mostly come to regard this as one of the more ill-advised decisions in my career - Rota Fortunae held a morbid destiny for me indeed.
I traveled deep into the most depraved districts of Dixie; hesitant until a despotic denizen of dentistry (a necessary root canal I had been needing could wait no longer) directed me to Crybaby Creek, a long since forgotten hamlet deep within the heart of Texarkana. I was warned of unnatural and weird rituals that occurred in Crybaby Creek under the annual harvest moon, and yet I ventured forth due to my undying and unfortunate drive to cross those thresholds that leave sane men sane.
At a dilapidated truck stop, I encountered my own incarnation of the Weird Sisters - three garishly painted geriatric syphilitic prostitutes that forewarned of my Fate. This Fate, optimistically prophetic and yet horrific, will be withheld in the interests of dramatic license.
I delved deeper and deeper into the wilderness, praying that this Fate would be made material, not conceiving and not knowing how serious the repercussions would ultimately be. And then I met her - one of the three most devious females I have ever met; only matched by the dark-eyed Gypsy wench of Romania and the dastardly French Canadian whore that poisoned me in Montreal.
Her name - Claret Samuels. I was seduced by her feminine wiles in a grand old fashion outside a notoriously haunted plantation that glowed a nauseating flourescent green under the right (or wrong) kind of moonlight. A frail redhead, Claret seemed to possess a preternaturally wordly persona that defied logic; a demon child that had somehow inherited ten thousand years of occult knowledge.
I was utterly enthralled, though my initial and rational impression of Claret was that of a bulemic whore that may or may not have possessed what one might call a soul. Spellbound, I was tempted by her - venturing deeper into the swamps and undergoing sacrilegious rites that would cement an unholy matrimony amongst the eerily silent pines and dales of Texarkana.
Just prior to our fetishistic consummation, I fled like a mad man - screaming and scrambling into those same foreboding woods naked and flecked with goat entrails. I was welcomed into the home of my eccentric carnival captors - a bizarre clan that included a tranvestite malcontent known amongst neighboring counties as the Gimp Clown.
I spent unknown months there, tending mangy livestock and plotting various plans of escape. On a harsh and frost-bitten night, I scrambled into the wilderness and encountered the storied skunk ape which had served as my initial catalyst into this quagmire of an existentialist hell.
I spent roughly four feral months in the wild, and had traumatic and violating reoccurring experiences with the aforementioned man-beast of Texarkana. These four months are described in fuller detail in my quasi-finished book; Hominid Horror of Honobia.
I had traveled roughly two hundred miles to the northwest, and found myself outside of a provincial fishbait store on a prominent lake in southeast Oklahoma. Rarely does a man find sanctuary only to find abject horror, and yet I experienced as much whenever my incredulous story was picked up by local police and newspapers.
I discovered that that harlot Claret was the daughter of Lew Samuels, the cigar chomping patriarch of a Texarkana Dixiecrat political machine that had dominated local politics since long before the end of the second World War.
I had learned from a Masonic whistleblower in New Jersey that this particular political machine found much of its power and influence through the same Cephida cult of human sacrifice and dark entheogenic entities that I had skirted in the darkest and dankest accursed jungles of Mexico.
I found myself forced into a Satanic shotgun legal marriage with Claret, only to escape the confines of her family's Dixiecrat feudal empire by hitchhiking to Tulsa and catching a bus to Memphis, in lieu of receiving an advance for a Jersey Devil documentary for a Dutch television station.