Frog Fog
By Joshua Dobson
I finger the wormholes in the frog-swarmed plastic while I scan the sky for sign of the black jellyfish.
- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.
By Joshua Dobson
A
torrential downpour of small yellow frogs and fat black pollywogs pisses all
over my plan to walk to church. The
amphibians are coming down so hard that most of them explode into puddles of
steaming slimy splatter when they collide with the concrete and/or the heads of
pedestrians. With a nearly dead
bumbershoot, half (and counting) of whose bones are broken and whose skin has
several rotten holes through which streams of pollywogs wiggle, I shield the
hair I just paid ten credits to have styled.
The
mist of bufotoxin lacing the air has me the slightest itsy bitsy bit buzzed, so
the semi-translucent tentacles crawling down from the amoeba-clouds and the
enormous horned toad mounting/humping a rusty Volkswagen could just be a frog
fog hallucination, but I quicken my pace towards the bus shelter nonetheless.
The
plastic bunker isn't empty. Spidered in
the corner is a skinny bruja wrapped in flowing black robes elaborately
embroidered with squiggling red silk symbols.
Her long black hair seems to be moving of its own accord, undulating
like undersea grass, but that could just be the fog of frog hallucinogens
pickling my brain. Her frankincense
pheromones mingle with the olfactory aura of amphibian on the air. She regards me with eyes like black smoking mirrors
as I stumble into the enclosure, brushing frogs from my (supposedly frog-proof)
rubber coat. I nod slightly and she
returns her black eyes to the Esperanto tabloid clutched in her heavily
tattooed hands.
The
translucent plastic walls of the shelter, swarming with croaking, clinging,
climbing frogs, are riddled with holes left by either bullets or worms. I can't
help but snake my fingers into them even though the sharp plastic lips of the
wounds slice into my delicate finger flesh.
I'm
sucking blood from my fingertip when a naked fat woman runs screaming from the
frog fog. Her enormous double G tits
jiggle wildly while she runs towards the shelter. Only when she's a few feet from the
frog-encrusted plastic walls of the bunker do I espy the cause of her shrieking
distress, a legless lazar on a skateboard hangs from her ample ass, his mouth
clamped leech-like to one of her immense cellulite-caked buttocks.
The
naked fatty slams full speed into the translucent plastic wall of the bus
shelter. The whole bunker shudders when
the fat woman's flesh slams against it.
The climbing frogs caught between her flesh and the plastic smash into
pulpy goo. The naked fat woman collapses
to the sidewalk. The sound of her fat
flesh slapping against the concrete seems to linger in the air for far longer
than it should.
I
don't see the skateboard bum. For a
moment or two, I think he's been crushed beneath the unconscious chubbette,
then I see him rolling into the translucent plastic bunker on wheels that creak
as he pulls himself along the frog-splattered pavement with his fingerless
hands.
He
smells like a mass grave. His perfectly
white eyes have neither irises nor pupils.
The tattered scraps of a tuxedo jacket and a filthy pair of yellow
tighty whitey underwear have fused to his greenish flesh though rot. He's been sitting on his skateboard so long
the rotten wood has fused to the flesh of his leg-stumps and ass.
I
stare at the fornicating frogs crawling through the jungle of his ashy grey
afro. He lifts his monkey-like nose up
in the air and sniffs deeply.
He
opens his bloodstain-haloed mouth like a tiger will do while scenting its prey,
the inside of his maw is a forest of irregular fangs, scavenged from road kill
I suspect, affixed to his diseased gums with gobs of glue.
"I
smell two a y'all in here. You each
gotta put either a cigarette or a dollar in my hand or I gonna bite yo
butts," the skateboard centaur says in the high pitched voice of a helium
huffer.
I
instinctively go for the can of mace in my right pocket, but then I freeze when
I suddenly wonder if mace even works on blind people. As my fingers close around the cattle prod in
my left pocket, the bruja is raising a bamboo tube to her lips and blowing a
cloud of red powder into the blind butt biting bum's face.
He
screams in rage and pain. The bruja
raises an ornate lachrymatory of red glass and sterling silver to his milky
eyes to harvest the tears gushing forth.
"Tears
from the eyes of the blind lucky for medicine," she says in a heavily
accented voice as she shoves the screaming skateboard centaur out of the bus
shelter and secretes the bottle of tears inside the folds of her billowing
black robes. The blind butt biting bum’s
form and screams are swallowed by the frog fog as he rolls down the hill. The bruja returns to her corner and her
tabloid.
The
crystal of my supposedly frog-proof ("up to 80 ft deep" it says on
the back) watch has been shattered by a bulbous bullfrog.
"Do
you know what time the bus comes?" I ask the bruja.
"When
the moon is eaten by a black jellyfish," she says without raising her eyes
from her tabloid.
I finger the wormholes in the frog-swarmed plastic while I scan the sky for sign of the black jellyfish.
- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.
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