Of Manic Kiwis and Masturbation

The privilege of punishment or thrill of flagellation accompanied my visceral hallucination of multiple venereal vaccinations, and yet I was accosted by that manner of feverish Afrikaner erotic night terror inflicted upon all sons of those isles most wretched in their reticence, Great Britain.

A dreary screamscape in which I was flogged repeatedly with a sjambok whip by sequined sadists savoring the sanguine discomfort of sedentary circus seals; echoes of the Boer Wars languidly lapsed through moth-eaten drapes verified by bootleg VHS tapes or remnants of Satanic midwife scrapes.

I had run afoul of a cannibalistic cabal that calculated currency in corneas, a devious denomination fed to the fetid phylums of insane asylums. I found myself the victim of various conspiracies of Canadian confections and ebola infections, and had begun receiving rent from the depressed louses now benefiting from the plague upon my houses.

I suffered an abject isolation unheard of outside the dank dungeons encountered during the annual spring-time Ukrainian insect torture exposition, and yet still fancied myself a conquistador in the conquest of conniving concubines. I had not anticipated the ancillary anxieties involving the extracurricular particulars or mundane curriculars of white slavery. This a dark era indeed… 

I had received a contract to locate and potentially assassinate Die Kakkerlak, an antagonistic animal hoarding Afrikaner who regularly fed stray kaffirs to the maligned monsters in his mangy menagerie of the macabre. The misunderstandings of miscreants or the minutiae of deviants had somehow led a manic Kiwi, one S. Schomberg, to seek to hire me to murder the Cockroach.

Before this ill-advised excursion to the Dark Continent I recall I had found myself adrift in the remote South Atlantic to investigate the impish implications of lactating crustaceans.  

This barren uncharted island a fixture of phobia and fascination due to legends of weary sailors surviving by milking giant albino arthropods sunning themselves under a godless sun, a horrific hallucination of dehydration or an accusation of cryptic inclinations. Quaffing the bubbling fluorescent ichor led these lost souls to awaken temporarily in some manner of mosaic mandala.

I had searched for this damned dystopia on a previous expedition to Antarctica to no avail. A fortnight of frog wine and pickled swine, brackish brine and spoiled lime had led me to anticipate this forbidden nectar, and yet it was not to be...