He ushered me into his home, and plopped on top of an overturned milk crate. "I need to be apologizin here Laddy. Ya see, last child who be a comin to visit, was this big ol' fat hoss, sat down on top of m'milk crate, and busted that bleamin thang right into bout a million little pieces. So ya best be sittin on that pile o'dirt over there, if yer feet be troublin ya."
I glanced at the mound of dirt in the corner. Red ants scrambled over the mountain top. They looked like tiny charging foot soldiers. "I think I'll just stand if it's the same to you."
"Ya kin be standin on yer head for all I care." He placed a soiled cooking pot on a few hot coals, spat into it three times, and wiped it nonchalantly with an even dirtier rag. "Ahhh," he sighed, inhaling deep, "we be in for some good eatin tonight."
His ritual of preparation drew near an end. The fresh corn was placed into the pot with a bubbly brown liquid. A gentle breeze was blowing outside the man's home, and my nose received a sneak preview. My nostrils flared in disgust. The smell was like nothing I'd experienced before, stinging my senses with a mixture of boiled garbage, and unchanged diapers. The aroma soon fill the cramped space of the cardboard house. It had the intensity of an early morning fog, enveloping and consuming everything that happened to be in it's path. But the worst thing was that the more bizarre the ingredients became, the more foul the stench got, the hungrier I was.
My gracious host made one final trip to the cupboard (actually, it was an old rotted cereal box with the front flap ripped away, and the word "cupboard" childishly scrawled on a sun-bleached spot with colored chalk) and grabbed the last ingredient, while his bullfrog voice broke into song.
Ya take a sock of three weeks old, A bloated rat carcass covered in mold, And this is what m'granpappy told, Is what ya need to be makin gold. Fresh corn all from tha field, Latex condoms and banana peel, Cedar wood chips and rusty steel, Sure do make a mighty fine meal. Now I'll a tell ya once, I won't tell ya twice, Nothin beats a little head lice, Throw in a pair o' casino dice, The girl can't talk when 'er head's in a vice. Entrails of cat, Look better like that, When they be all stretched out and flat, They make a purty doormat. When eaten all up it be good fo tha soul, Don't just stand there, git a bowl, Wash it down with red hot coal, An' you be feelin just like gold.
The four last lines of the song seemed to be directed at myself alone, because when he finished singing, he stood there waiting for me to try some of his disgusting brew. Reluctantly, but with no kind of will power of my own, I grabbed a tin cup and dun ked it into the steaming potion. I attempted to breath through my mouth as much as I could, to avoid the nasty smell. I looked over to the cook, and found him smiling and nodding me on anxiously.
My stomach was a demanding mistress, begging for satisfaction. Well this mistress was through with waiting, and she was ready for whatever I could throw her way. So, with a deep breath, and an eye closure, I took the hot soup straight up, without a twist.
Warmth filled my throat and spread south. It felt like I'd just swallowed a giant glass of liquid sunshine. It was the most wonderful feeling I'd ever experienced. Quickly, I took another dip and downed the liquid.
"Now," the man whispered, "don't that just be hittin tha spot?"
"Yes, it's wonderful."
He stood up, ducking a bit because of his low ceiling. "Well, m'thinks it be time to git down to business, wouldn't ya agree? As I recall, it was m'information fo a little bit a service?"
What was this? I didn't agree to any service. Anyway, what kind of service could I give to him? "I'm not sure what you mean?"
The moss-man was slithering towards me. "Aye Laddy, I be sure ya don't. Ya see, sometimes a man like m'self kin start ta git a little lonely. Livin like the way I be doin, and ya find yaself a talkin with tha wheat. So Jumpin' Jim be thinkin that a young buck like ya could help out an old croon like me wit a little o' companionship. Wadda ya say, huh?"
What was I going to do? I was being propositioned. I tried to think, but my mind felt heavy and thick. Oh no, have I been drugged? I thought. I finally managed to wheeze out a reply. "You tell me about the map first," I said.
"Oh no ya don't, Laddy. I didn't a bring ya all this way ta be outdone by the likes a you." While he spoke, his left hand was busy untying his belt, which was no more than a ripped up scarf cinched about his waist. "So you best be actin like ya enjo what yer gettin, 'cause yer gettin it no matter what." The smile on his face was now more like a perverse grimace.
I backed up as far as would permit, but the walls of the house were stronger than I'd first anticipated. I was trapped in the far corner.
He finished struggling with his belt, and let his mud-caked pants drop to the floor. His legs had almost no hair (or grass) on them. Just two plucked chicken drumsticks, yellow and covered with scabs. The underwear he was wearing seemed to be clinging to his body for dear life, held together by only two frayed threads. If they had ever been white, it was surely before I was born.
My vision became blurry and out of focus. I noticed there was a glowing haze pulsing from his head; a halo of blue light that drifted towards the ceiling, then vanished. His face seemed to contort and shift, slowly spinning into a spiraling whirlpool pattern.
The warmth I'd felt earlier settled in my stomach and became increasingly hot. Trying to speak again, I found my motor skills at nearly zero. I stumbled for a grasp on my vocal abilities, but heard little more than an idiotic babbling. The sound of booming footsteps reverberated through my head as the man took his final step towards my body. He kneeled down for a closer look, while the features of his face spun like a drunken televangelist.
His voice filled my head with thunder. The stereotypical Southern drawl was not needed anymore. "Don't be afraid, little one. Once I consume you, you'll never feel pain again. You'll live forever as a fragment of time and existence. You will be existence. There is nothing you can do to prevent it." The man's entire being shifted before my heavy lids. And that's when I realized my earlier mistake. That what I was seeing before me now was not some hallucination brought on by my ingestion of the man's cooking. I was seeing this thing for what it really was. It was not some little fat man with grass for skin, it was some kind of multi-dimensional being, and it was removing its mask.
