25 August 2005

The Heart of Dorkness, Part 3.

Crystal desert dawn, my great, fat, sweaty arse. It was dusty, far too bright and my mouth tasted precisely like what I expect an equine rectum might taste, complete with little bits of gritty straw. To make matters even more pleasant, the caravan swayed sickeningly.

Furthermore, my arm was asleep. There was a largish person resting upon it, gazing lovingly into my eyes. As I slowly became sober, her visage became more and more hideous; soon it was if I had awaken next to a mirror.

“My love...” Cooed Fatima. “You have consummated our marriage with great vigour, but now you must attend to our goats.”

God, what a dilemma! I might live through the flaying should I bring an extra wife home to Gretchen, but goats? Her wrath would assuredly mark my demise. What should I do? What would be the shameful, and what would be the honourable path?

Of course, I did the honourable thing; I waited until Mustafa’s back was turned and ran like hell, accompanied by Bob and Evan. Both of which had committed similar shameless acts of depraved drunken sex, or so our hosts had gleefully informed us.

Apparently, the flight of the groom on the morning-after is a common Turkmeni tradition, for after a brief bout of ceremonial ululation, they vaulted onto their steppe ponies with practiced grace; brandishing wicked, long and very sharp kukri-looking blades. As an interesting side note, Frommer’s guide to the central Asian republics points out that Turkmenis are the principal suppliers of castrati to the Italian operatic circuit.

We ran faster.

“Bob,….Evan…” I panted. “I’m very…. Very… disappointed… in your… behavior.”

Nothing but glares in response. Hmmmph, kids.

“Nevertheless,….” I continued. “I shall… make the… ultimate… sacrifice… on your… behalf…”

I flung my precious centrefold collection into the sky. The pursuing Turkmen reined up and gazed in wonder at the glittering pornucopia pouring forth from the heavens. Truly, this must be holy ground.

But for myself and the Aureegunis, we left the place with tears in our eyes and lumps in our throats. I vowed to God that I would never drink a drop of alcohol, again.

And this time, I meant it.

We staggered over broken lava, past sage brush and junipers; through waddis and washes until close to nightfall, when we spied a tiny shack. I pounded at the door but received no answer. I opened the door cautiously.

“Hello?” It appeared to be an abandoned moonshiner’s shack, and they’d left their whiskey. Sorry, God. Bob and Evan dropped their backpacks outside, and we proceeded to the task at hand.

I lay, that night, on an old army cot, covered with a horse blanket. The shack spun about at a pleasant rate, but soon hydraulic pressure insured that I had to visit the outhouse. Unfortunately, I could not reach it without support. I stepped over the two snoring light-weights; they would be no help tonight, and stepped out into the moon light. The outhouse beckoned in the distance; it's siren like call promising relief from the considerable pain. With one hand against the shack wall for balance, I staggered towards the privy.

Unfortunately, the privy proved not to be attached to the wall, so as I rounded the corner, it vanished from sight.

Grimly, I pressed on. After three more corners, there it was again. I staggered along the wall towards it, when WHAM! I fell face first into the dust. Some IDIOTS had left lumpy things on the ground. I picked myself up and soldiered on. The vicious circumnavigation cycle repeated again. WHAM! And again. WHAM!

To hell with chasing the damned elusive privy. It was likely full of spiders and scorpions in any event. I let loose on the offending lumps. Bliss! I returned to my cot.

Bob and Even, being the young bucks that they were, staggered outside at dawn to catch breakfast lizards, or some-such.

“Gahhh!” They shouted in unison. “Someone pissed all over our backpacks!”

“Mine’s dry!” I thought as I snuggled up in my blanket. They glared at me suspiciously, but could prove nothing. I exude the very essence of innocence.

However, their thirst for vengeance was soon quenched, for the dawn illuminated a glorious sight. Below us lay the waddi Ben-Dah! We ventured forth into the first tavern that would allow my urinarily odiferous companions access to ethanol. After all, the rehearsal wasn’t until 3:00PM.

At two minute of three, I left said oasis and staggered towards the church.

“Evil, where the Hell have you been?” Demanded my sister in law. “You are going to be late for the rehearsal! Get your tuxedo on”

I got.

“Where are Bob and Evan?” She asked.

“Who?” Oh, I am a witty one.

“Your nephews, MY SONS! You great pillock!”

“Oh, yeah, them. Erm, they’re at the Laundromat. They got very drunk last night, and one of them pissed all over their luggage” Cool one, I thought… “YEOW!

Grandmother, not believing a word of it, expressed her displeasure by attaching the boutonniere directly to my rib cage.

“You will fucking behave for the next two days, or I will eat your liver!” She hissed past lizard lidded eyes.

See? You might think that being evil is a lifestyle choice; I have compelling evidence that it’s genetic.

End of Part 3.

Next up, the Wedding! (Finally… )


And that's the way I likes it.