From the part of me that remains human there comes a need to explain why I have been gone for so long. That human bit wishes that I had a really tasty excuse, something that would absolve me of my sins and misdeeds like a squat in the musty confessionals of my youth.
The truth of the matter is that I have been learning the subtle art of human taxidermy; tanning human skin is a delicate art and I have become a true master. Plus, you wouldn't BELIEVE where some people get tattoos.
I've been having "dude, what the feck?" dreams as of late, and I'm guessing that working with flayed human skin all day and long into the weary night might have something to do with that. Most are fragmentary, but one in particular has me really concerned. This is because, believe it or not, I've had it twice before. And, believe it or not, even *I* think this dream is so very wrong.
*wavy lines, unearthly harp music: dream sequence commences*
I'm in a dank forest at dusk. Around me, in a straight line emanating from both sides of me, are dozens of men in bizarre Ottoman/Persian/Mughal clothing, and they all have scimitars. We're pushing our way though the forest, and one of the men comes across a bevy of ragged, weeping women. One of my men asks what should be done about them, and I reply that they should be immediately dispatched. I then shout over to the man, who is ready to take the head off a woman, to remember to cut off her fingers to get the rings. I push forward with the dull "thwack" sounds of the execution squad ringing through the forest behind me, and I come upon a palace which has grown rank with neglect. I order my men to go in and kill any living thing they find posthaste. "Leave the empress and the crown prince for me", I shout. In the spoiled grand hall, a fountain sputters and grows quiet at my approach. One of my men rushes in and says that he's found them in a royal chamber. When I enter the chamber, a woman and her child are huddled in the corner. I politely explain that their time on the earth is now over and that they should pray to whatever deity they've cleaved to for their pathetic salvation. The boy has his back to me the whole time, but the woman is weeping and begging in a language I don't understand, facing me. I take the boy's hand and turn him around only to see that he is
HALEY JOEL OSMENT.
{wtf?}
If you don't know who this kid is, you should kill yourself. Like, now. Or go here.
Anyway, so there is Haley Joel Osment, and I have a big-ass sword-thing, and wow. So he walks up to me and smiles, implike, and grasps my forearms. He looks up at my face and says
No, I think you're (voice gets menacingly deep and not childlike) going with me.
All of his facial features then begin to run like boiled tallow off his skull, revealing three-inch vulpine incisors and row upon row of tiny, shark-like teeth. In my dream, I evacuate my bladder and my bowels into my pants, and as I do so, the floor falls out beneath us. I remain strangely upright, and Haley Joel Osment has not relinquished his hellish grip. I smell the rotten-egg reek of sulphur mere seconds before I awaken, drenched in my own brine and paralyzingly close to wetting the bed like an incontinent whore.
What can that possibly mean about what's going on in here [tapping forehead]? It's been absolutely months since I last smoked a brick of angel dust-encrusted opium out of a battered Pepsi can out behind the Franklin Hall Dumpsters.
On Monday, my poppets, I shall return to thee. So, get ready to fire up a test-tube of meth and open a can of Natural Light Ice and feel like your own lives are manageable.
Until then, I remain,
Dom
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