Gagged on pop culture, polluted by
depression, comes Mantula!
A special fiction series!
ManQuail shouted in my head. “Are you insane? Did you just tell a patron saint to go to hell? Dude, lightning is going to strike you dead!”
“Let it.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Why not? I’m tired of this, Glenn. I didn’t ask to be in this gross body. I didn’t ask for any of this crap. Why is this happening to me? Damn them. Damn them all!” I threw myself across the room to the couch. I didn’t plan on waiting in front of the computer for a reply.
“He’s trying to help us, man!”
“You email him then. You kiss his ass if it’s that important to you. Just leave me alone.”
“Can I use your account? He’s not emailing me. He’s emailing you. We need to apologize to him, man!”
“I’m not apologizing to that bastard or to any of the other bastards that put us in these bodies. They can all go to hell.”
(Story continues below)
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ManQuail Meme! |
ManQuail turned his head to the side, flinching, and stared toward the ceiling of our crappy little apartment as if expecting a bolt of lighting to flash off the ceiling fan and turn us both into fried chicken. When none came, he started for the bedroom, mumbling as he went. “Maybe you should sleep on it, Doug. You might feel different about things in the morning. And maybe, since the guy is a saint and all, he’ll forgive you for being a dick to him. It’s like I always say; if you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best. Maybe Kolbe knows you’re stressed out beyond belief. He should. He is a saint.”
I turned my back to him and settled onto the couch. “Whatever, Glenn. I’m going to sleep.”
Only sleep didn’t come that easily. At first it was nice. I dreamed and dreamed. Usually my son is there. We talk and laugh while he sits in my lap. But this time she was there. She was sitting in my lap. I can’t deny there was something there when it came to Diana Sturgis. Not after that dream. In it she wore a pink, silky number that I could easily see through. It barely covered much of her body. Her legs were bare, arms and upper chest, and I could feel them rub softly against my skin. And I was human again. I could feel her skin against my own. Her fingers caressed my cheeks, trailed over my lips, and I felt a sense of longing I’d not felt in a long time. I could have stayed there forever and let her touch me. Only it didn’t last that long. I’m not sure when, but she turned into someone else, something else actually.
When I looked into Diana’s eyes I found someone else staring back at me. Her eyes were wrinkled and black throughout, like scarred marbles nestled in scrambled eggs. Her mouth had become a puckered mess crawling with green worms and rot. Gang green or some other deadly infection turned her skin a pea green color. I screamed with revulsion and tossed the old hag away from me. Worms crawled and snaked over her entire body. Whether she wore clothes or not was hard to tell. The slippery green things covered her entire body as if she were made out of putrefied wet spaghetti noodles. She cackled as she fell away from me, laughing heartily, and pointed her finger at me as the dream began to fade. I was forcing myself to wake up, but couldn’t shake her terrifying glee from my mind.
When finally I opened my eyes the cackle began to fade. I felt cold inside, as if I’d been kissed by death itself, but it too began to fade. I realized I’d slept all night. Morning sunlight poured through the blinds. I could hear the muffled voice of the downstairs neighbor as well. I checked the wall clock. Not even seven in the morning and he was already prepping to yell at his mousy wife. I figured it would be a full blown shout assault within another half hour.
ManQuail had not come out of the bedroom yet. No reason to wake him up. I looked over at the computer as the shouting below grew a bit louder and figured I would check my email. Sure enough, I had a reply from the great Saint Kolbe.
_________________________________________________________________________
From: Maximilian ‘Raymund’ Kolbe
Subject: WTF?
Date: August 6 2014 06:17 AM
To: Doug Lansing
CC: Dymphna Gurrll
Really? Are you for real?
Maximilian Kolbe
Patron Saint
“God dwells in our midst, in the Blessed Sacrament of the altar.”
_________________________________________________________________________
From: Doug Lansing
Subject: Re: WTF?
Date: August 6 2014 06:24 AM
To: Maximilian ‘Raymund’ Kolbe
I didn’t ask to be stuck in this body. I didn’t ask for any of this bullshit to happen. You’re a goddamn saint. Fix it or just strike me down. I don’t want to wait.
_________________________________________________________________________
From: Maximilian ‘Raymund’ Kolbe
Subject: Watch your language
Date: August 6 2014 06:31 AM
To: Doug Lansing
CC: Dymphna Gurrll
I’m not going to waste my time trying to convince you that we had nothing to do with it, or convince you that – whatever super powers you think I have – I don’t. I don’t have time to work on a case like you. So I will share what we’ve talked about so far. It’s been suggested that one way to cure the affliction might be to help others. This may be a new concept to you, but give it a shot. If you’re not sure what helping people means, Google it.
Maximilian Kolbe
Patron Saint
“God dwells in our midst, in the Blessed Sacrament of the altar.”
_________________________________________________________________________
From: Doug Lansing
Subject: Re: Watch your language
Date: August 6 2014 06:38 AM
To: Maximilian ‘Raymund’ Kolbe
You’re a bastard.
I clicked send just as the argument below erupted into a full scale tirade. The downstairs neighbor accused his wife of being a worthless leech. She replied in her defense, but I couldn’t hear what she said. She was too quiet. But I did hear his reply-a single clap, loud and startling, followed by a series of sobs.
Patrick Whitehurst 