Worm Poop

Worm Poop Chapter 1

Something thrashed in the water next to me, sending blood flying in the air. It was big, but I couldn’t see what it was; only it’s pink, opaque wet skin was visible, pulsing just on the surface as it struggled. No one but me noticed it, no one but me could even see it, but somehow I knew it was real. Real in a sense that it was more tangible and ancient than anything I'd ever known. It wriggled its way down the middle of what used to be the street and was now a great river of gore. Before it went out of sight, it let out a shrill scream, almost humanlike in its pitch and tone, and thrashed once more. Then the noise ceased, the thrashing stopped. I stood, mouth agape as the unknown being sank out of sight.

A moment of silence. Abruptly a stream of— yes, a stream of confetti shot into the sky from where the beast had been, a great column of colorful paper squares flying into the dark sky. Then the unseen monster exploded under the sea of red, sending pink, blubbery chunks and little metallic paper bits flying everywhere, sticking to buildings and landing with loud plops in the churning blood. One chunk hit me square in the jaw. It smelled like buttered popcorn and felt like sandpaper.

I could hear ragtime music play and high-pitched laughter in the distance, the sound of bubble-wrap being popped furiously as the smell of gunpowder and fried chicken wafted to my nose. The laughter trilled, the smells combining in a horrible medley, a sensory overload. I sighed, closing my eyes. Oh, how things change once you finally open your eyes. You can never really un-see things, can you?

~

Hold on, I think I need to back up, to where everything began. This can get a little confusing and is beyond weird; in fact, it's mostly in the realm of impossible, but bear with me. Trust me, I'm the Guru of Weird these days.

My name is Greg Jacoby. I’m 31 and I live in the town of Winthrop Locke, a stupid, cramped little arrangement of cheap concrete and wood homes that house stupid people who go about their daily lives worrying about stupid things.

Everything is superficial and materialistic in Winthrop Locke. The town is on the outskirts of a dull, shallow little hellhole of a city. If you ever wonder which city my town is on the outskirts of, stop wondering. The whole damn place is probably blown up by a league of pissed off hipster demons or swallowed by a Pan-Dimensional Paradox Worm by the time you learn about the awful things that happened here anyway, so let’s just call it Paradise, to make things easier and put it into perspective.

Paradise is home to a diverse community of Americans, a colorful bunch that would probably welcome you warmly and invite you for supper if you were happening by. Probably, meaning most likely not. These people include, but are not limited to; gangsters, white trash, Neo-Nazis, adulterers, pimps, prostitutes, corrupt city officials, swindlers, crooks, lepers, dealers, users, abusers and all together unhappy people clumped unhappily together in a dirty, shit-smelling city overrun with generally nasty people. As unpleasant as that may sound, that is not the the most distressing thing about Paradise.

Most of these people don’t really live in the city, although Paradise does act as a hub for every scum bag in the area. They travel from their homes to Paradise and back again at the end of their workday in a perpetual state of anger mixed with the bitter tang of depression and resentment, a slight smell of formaldehyde and vomit wafting around from God knows where. No, many of these fine citizens call Winthrop Locke home. I think a brief history of the city is in order, to fully grasp the situation.

The town is named after two of its mayors; Henry Winthrop and James Locke. These two were known, according to city records, to be the people who cleaned up the crime rates and got the city running better than ever before. But a quick stroll down the street would tell you otherwise. Anyway…

Henry was elected in 1979 and grew up in Paradise, having worked in a foundry until he was 26. He got interested in becoming mayor when a random person overheard him debating a store clerk about the price of a three-piece suit. This person had told him he’d make a good politician, sarcastically, and I guess it just struck him that it was his life’s calling to be mayor. Everyone always said something was wrong with him. Now it is evident that something is wrong with everyone living in this area. But people like to point fingers, and if a finger was to be pointed, it's a safe bet Henry was the best choice.