Sloughing Off the Rot (21 page)

Far off in the distance, steam rose from the ground around the road, distorting the air. John wondered if it was a mirage and he did not mention it to the men. But as they neared the steaming ground, they could see pools of water dotting the distant landscape and steam rising from the pools. Alf the Sacred Burro pulled up alongside and nudged at John’s leg.

“Hey there, Alf,” said John, scratching the donkey’s scabby head. “How you doing, old man?”

But Alf did not answer immediately, because donkeys do not talk. He thought it over and brayed at John instead because that was the best response he could come up with. The burro stopped walking so that he could clear his throat of a fuzzy bezoar that had been bothering him for hours. He coughed and convulsed and brought up the stinking donkey-ball. Before the warmth could drift away from the bezoar, Santiago fell on it, plucking it off of the ground and stashing it in a bag sown from rat skins that hung from the string around his neck. Alf cleared his throat with a loud bray and then ran to catch up with John.

“Well, there you are again, old man,” said John to Alf. “What do you think of all of this?” he asked, not expecting an answer. Alf merely nudged his head against John’s leg to prompt scratching.

From the back of the pack, Joad answered for Alf, saying, “The donkey thinks one thing, and he that burdens him another.” And the giant picked up his pace and appeared at John’s other side. To John, Joad asked, “What do you think of all of this?”

“I think we need to keep moving. I think something good is just ahead. Look up there.” John pointed toward the steaming ground in the distance. “I don’t know what that is, but I have a good feeling.”

Santiago moved to John’s side. He looked to where John was pointing and his body set to trembling and convulsing. “Holy moly and great googly moogly!” said Santiago, his neurons misfiring with the excitement, making him twitch and shiver involuntarily. “We hit the big one, boys. That’s Aguacaliente.” And then he tried to run. But his twitching muscles rebelled at the physical effort and Santiago fell to the ground, still trembling, his face shifting through his range of expressions and settling on a glazed look of desire. “Gods damned Aguacaliente!”

John and Joad bent over Santiago and held his head and arms while he twitched and raved about Aguacaliente. John jammed one of his sandals in Santiago’s open mouth to keep him from chewing off his own tongue. Santiago involuntarily bit down upon the shoe and his jaw continued to grind. John said, “What is he talking about? What is Aguacaliente?”

Joad wrapped his arms around Santiago and held him tight, waiting for the seizures to stop. “It is said,” began Joad, “that Aguacaliente is a body of water fed by hot springs. But the springs are shifting, disappearing and reappearing in different places at random times. Those who find the springs are said to be blessed with longevity.”

“What is so special about the springs?” asked John.

Joad, still holding Santiago in a bear hug, said, “I’ve always thought that it was just a myth, but I have heard that the springs are the birthplace of blumpkins.”

“Blumpkins and niksiks,” interjected Two-Dogs-Fucking, the pitch of his voice rising noticeably on
niksiks
. “I think that this may be worth checking out, this Aguacaliente.”

A calm settled over Santiago and his twitching spasms faded, leaving him with his usual deranged look. Joad released his hold and Santiago sprang to his feet.

“Why’d you hold me back, Bigg’un?” said Santiago to Joad, and he twitched several times before regaining control of his body. “You trying to keep me away from Aguacaliente? You don’t want me to get to the blumpkins? You afraid I’m gonna break all the toys? Listen up you sons of motherless goats. I’m going and diving in head first, and you all can’t stop me.” And Santiago sprinted toward the hot springs, kicking up a cloud of dust at his heels as he ran. He shouted back over his shoulder, “Last one there has to fuck a niksik.”

And they did not know for sure if it was Aguacaliente before them, or what such a place would hold in store. But, the lure of the steaming water in the distance, along with Santiago’s enthusiasm, pulled strongly on John, Joad, and Two-Dogs-Fucking. Even Alf seemed to have springs in his old donkey legs. So John threw himself fully into the current of the path and was rapidly washed along behind the sprinting Santiago. As he walked, John allowed himself to consider the possibility of encountering women. He had not even been in the presence of a female since his appearance in the cave. Memories of his interactions with women in his other life eluded him and mostly all he felt was shame and guilt when he searched his brain for information about his prior dealings with the other sex. Despite the sinking feeling in his stomach when he tried to dredge up the elusive memories, John also felt nervous anticipation about what lay in store ahead at Aguacaliente. He allowed his mind to formulate lustful scenarios to the point where he realized he was noticeably aroused. He pictured curvy babes in scant clothing, lounging by the edges of the hot springs. He imagined long flowing hair, plump lips breathing hot air on his neck, teardrop shaped breasts capped with large pink nipples, round, firm asses and long, fit legs. As the mental images formed and bent to John’s will, his pace quickened. Initially concerned about his semen and the resulting jizz-critters, John forgot his worries. Like a magnet, Aguacaliente’s attractive force latched on to John’s uncomely parts and dragged him across the desert like a testosterone-bloated pull toy.

Before long, the red brick road led the men to a steaming pool of deep blue water. The men found themselves standing side to side at the edge of a pond ringed with enormous royal palm trees. John scanned the area and felt great disappointment when he saw nothing but steaming water, palms, El Camino de la Muerte, and more desert. And then, from somewhere below the water, continuous streams of air bubbles surfaced. The perfumed smell of flowers and citrus permeated the air. Muffled harmonies, the same as those John heard in the Chelloveck Tent of Meeting, floated off of the surface of the water and rose with the steam.

“They’re down below,” shouted Santiago as his body resumed its manic twitching. He peeled off his stained loincloth and the string of dirt-rat pelts around his neck. He tore off his lunkworm bag and tossed it with the rest of his belongings. The rail thin, twitching and naked man stood at the edge of the springs, convulsing and struggling to regain control of his muscles. And when the twitching subsided, and his face had shifted through his range of emotions and settled on lustful, Santiago tugged at his hair and beard and shouted. He gripped his rigid erection and yelled down at the water, “Lookie out below, cuz I’s coming to get you.” And the little man leapt high and dove with perfect form. At the apex of his arc, he kicked his legs above him and stretched out his arms to meet the water. His hands parted the water and plunged beneath it, followed by arms, head, neck, torso, plumped up member, legs and feet.

Santiago disappeared below the surface of the springs, and the waters settled again. Even more bubbles surfaced, bringing with them fuller harmonies. John, Joad, Alf the Sacred Burro, and Two-Dogs-Fucking stood still, watching the water, waiting for Santiago to come back up for air. Minutes passed, but still no Santiago. John gazed down at the water and saw his own face – covered with a long, thick beard and framed by his wild, long hair – staring back at him. The lines on his face gave testament to his burdens. But he looked healthy, and happy. John and his reflection smiled at each other. Intrigued with his new appearance, John studied his reflection and forgot about Santiago. He saw that his fine linens remained crisp and white, despite his travels. He noted a healthy glow about his own face and a resolve in his eyes. He gazed deeply, engaging himself in a staring contest, falling into an introspective trance.

And that spot of water that held John’s reflection wavered. His concentration broke and he became aware of movement just below the surface. At that spot, Santiago burst through the water. In his arms he held ball of peach colored flesh the size of Joad’s head. Santiago threw the ball at John’s feet and dragged himself onto land. John stared in shocked wonder at the object at his feet. Two-Dogs-Fucking gasped in horror and tripped as he stepped backwards.

The creature was moist and glistening with beads of water. And it was beautiful, gently rolling back and forth before the men, pulsing. Full breasts and randomly placed labia covered the ball. Thick puffs of black, kinky hair encircled the muliebrous slits. And the flowery citrus aroma wafted up from the fleshy folds, intoxicating the men with desire. Several toothless mouths with full lips and smooth, glistening gums, were situated about the ball. And the mouths opened their moistened lips and hummed in harmony with each other.

“What the hell is that?” John asked, contemplating his mixture of wonder, arousal, and confusion.

“It’s a blumpkin,” said Santiago, “and it’s ready for a little sumpin’ sumpin’. So I’m gonna carry her over there and do some humpin’ and pumpin’.” And the madman shivered with anticipation. He shook his head to throw the crazed look from his eyes and rid himself of the involuntary twitches of desire.

Doing his best to ignore Santiago’s throbbing hard-on pointing at him, John said, “I thought blumpkins were women, you know, females.”

“Call ‘em whatever you want: women, females, blumpkins or fuck-balls. Call this one Pamela if you like. I don’t care. This is the opportunity of a lifetime and I’m done talking.” Santiago lifted the humming blumpkin in his arms and carried her to a mossy spot under a royal palm, whispering softly to her all the while. Laying the blumpkin gently on the ground, Santiago turned his back to the others and took a step back, tensing his muscles like a ram getting ready to jam a lamb. He shook off a spasm and lowered himself to the ground, wrapping his arms and legs tightly around Pamela the blumpkin. They rolled about on the moss, Pamela crooning and pulsating and throbbing, blasting the perfume of passion from her unoccupied orifi. And Santiago, shouting “Yeah, baby! Yeah,” thrusting himself into the blumpkin and groping at the multiple breasts as if trying to scoop them up and smash them into one big, fleshy mound.

Two-Dogs-Fucking shook his head and said only, “Disgusting! Just disgusting.” He adjusted his filthy bath towel around his girth and waddled away along the edge of the steaming pool. Off to the side of the pool sat a smaller puddle of burbling muck. Two-Dogs-Fucking stopped and sat by the stagnant pond, his back to Santiago, watching large bubbles pop on the surface and inhaling deeply the rancid stench of the rotten puddle.

John looked up at Joad. “So those are blumpkins?”

“Blumpkins, they are,” answered Joad.

“And,” ventured John, “they’re for fucking, then, right?”

“If that’s what you call it.”

“And you like them?”

“Blumpkins are nice,” said Joad. “I like blumpkins.”

John and Joad stood and watched, unashamed and unembarrassed, as Santiago pleasured himself with the blumpkin. And then it ended with Santiago rolling off of Pamela and onto the ground, chest heaving to drag in fresh air, spent from his passions and staring at the palm fronds above him. Pamela rolled up over Santiago’s body and to the edge of Aguacaliente, exhaling sweet smelling breaths of perfumed air in short puffs that went
pahhhhhhh
as she rolled.

Pamela sat at the edge of Aguacaliente, singing and throbbing and sweating, turning red. Every few minutes her pitch climbed and dropped wildly, and then returned to the normal soothing song. And the frequency of the wild singing increased, getting closer and closer in time. All of the throbbing localized on one orifice that swelled and dilated. Pamela’s entire being contracted and relaxed, contracted, spasmed, and relaxed. Santiago remained on his back beneath the royal palm, ignoring Pamela’s distressed condition and puffing on a bezoar in the peace pipe.

“Shouldn’t we do something?” said John, alarmed and starting toward the blumpkin. “Something is wrong with it. We need to help.”

“Do you really think we can help it?” asked Joad. And he put his giant hand on John’s shoulder. “Just let it be. This is natural. This is the way these things work. She is not in pain.”

The confidence in Joad’s voice calmed John. He felt assured that Pamela was not suffering but instead doing whatever it was that blumpkins were supposed to do. So John and Joad sat and watched Pamela sweat through the increasingly frequent and strong contractions, doing nothing to help her.

And then the throbbing mound on Pamela blasted a crimson spray of chunky goo into the water. Following the initial eruption, Pamela spat bone-white pods the size of bloodfruits into Aguacaliente. After lobbing twenty pale, slime-covered pods into the water, Pamela slowly rolled herself back into the steaming waters of Aguacaliente and floated toward the center of the pool. The pulsing larvae-pods and viscous pond-spunk floated toward the blumpkin as if drawn by some unseen force. She lowered the volume of her song and blew off a rapid succession of sweet smelling
pahhhhhhh, pahhhhhhh, pahhhhhhhhhs
. With each puff of her scent growing more fragrant, Pamela sunk into the water until she dropped below the surface and out of sight. The pods and their shimmering slick of spew sank, too, as if following the blumpkin.