Post by Jack of Blades on Mar 7, 2009 14:19:28 GMT -5
(OOC Note - Please read 'this place is so greedy and disgusting' by Logan first: wcfwrestling.proboards82.com/index.cgi?board=newrpboard&action=display&thread=3575)
On February 25th, self-styled explorer, Amerigo Burton set out with a team of experts to scale Philadelphia's murderhorn, Mt. Van Der Dood. On February 28th, Burton ordered his fellow explorers back down the mountain and claimed that he would continue the expedition alone. He was never heard from again. On March 4th, a search-and-rescue party was deployed. On March 6th, Deputy Sheriff Ben Nagel discovered what is believed to be the diary of Amerigo Burton. Frozen in the ice, a considerable distance above ground level, the diary tells the story of Burton's last days. This is that diary.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 18th February 2009.
“People spend a lifetime searching for happiness; looking for peace. They chase idle dreams, addictions, religions, even other people, hoping to fill the emptiness that plagues them. The irony is the only place they ever needed to search was within.”
I first came across that quote while hiking through a patch of land in Sahel. This expedition of ours had us as the first men of culture, of true civilization to have passed over its rough topography. The inhospitality of the barren land was only matched by the hospitality of its indigenous people. As my party arrived at their dilapidated cabins (constructed, rather ingeniously, from dry-leaf and mud), the local tribesfolk surrounded us, celebrating our arrival. They marvelled at such technological trivialities as our watches and our cigarette lighters; it was clear that our superior way of life made us walking marvels in the eyes of these backwards, superstitious brutes.
Indeed, we were told that our arrival here was a most fortuitous and auspicious event. They requested that we visit their town's chief so that we could engage in a discussion and sharing of cultural practices. I would offer him a tickle from my snuff box, he would offer me the detached scalp of a gazelle. The usual tit-for-tat.
And so, they rushed me, by the hand, to their leader's abode. A difference in breeding and lifestyle was evident as their palpable excitement was moderated by my emotional restraint. They continued to drag me, speaking their clucking garble, past their makeshift homesteads to their patriarch. Their existence was exactly how that cinematic triumph, 'The Last of the Mohicans' depicted it.
Interestingly, however, the home of the town's chief was not one of tree bark and bamboo but rather brick and mortar. This leader of theirs' enjoyed not a dilapidated shanty but rather a modernised construction replete with air conditioning and tempered windows.
As I was pulled through the building's automated doors, the realization hit me. We had been beaten. We were not the first men of the West to venture into these God-forsaken parts. No, Ronald McDonald, J.C. Penny and A.J. Wright had usurped that title. My team and I were currently standing in the first mall of the Sub-Saharan region. The wise man that I was being dragged to see was not some holy man, some purveyor of universal truths. He was the Assistant Manager of the local Barnes & Noble. Furthermore, our welcoming committee were about as tribal as a frat boy's tattoos. Instead, we had been greeted by an assortment of paid actors from the nearby city. The mall had hired them to lend an air of authenticity to proceedings and lead gullible tourists into the building.
And so, as my party emptied into a nearby Starbucks to drown their collective sorrows with a processed Guatemalan blend, I idly trailed along the bookshelves of the aforementioned Barnes & Noble. And, that was where I found that quote.
It is not a piece of expedient wisdom espoused from some council elder. It is not a mantra nor parable passed down in kinship through tribal lineage. It is from Ramona L. Anderson and taken from page 52 of a self-help book entitled 'Motivate Your Life.'
I found Anderson's words intriguing; infinitely more so than the mystic rhubarb of a bunch of savages. Anderson seems to be directly addressing me as an adventurer. She claims that happiness does not come from mapping some undiscovered country or driving some evolutionarily-retarded creature into extinction. Instead, she concludes that happiness can only be found within oneself…What absolute tripe!
I have attempted to find happiness within myself. Literally. When charting the Malasian coast, I purchased a ball of hashish from a travelling fakir. Having consumed the herbal substance, I spent the next nineteen hours attempting to force my head into my rectum in an effort to observe the cause of the warm firework glow that was emanating from my chin. There was no happiness there. For me, for the fakir or for the primitive witch doctors of Terengganu who had to perform emergency surgery on my person.
But, I know where happiness can be found. Happiness, for me at least, resides on the summit of Mt. Van Der Dood, Philadelphia's equivalent to Everest. Majestic in its natural beauty, awesome in its scale and notorious in its renown, Mt. Van Der Dood will cement my position in the texts and annals of history. While some who claim to be versed in the skill of cartography say that the only real notable mountains in Pittsburgh are the Pocono family-orientated resorts, any explorer worth his salt will know that it is there, looming over the city of Philadelphia, taunting both the brave and the foolish to tame it.
And, that I shall. Soon this diary will not be the mere property of Amerigo Burton, adventurer. It will be the diary of Amerigo Burton, the first man to have successfully climbed the entirety of Mt. Van Der Dood. It will act as a catalogue for my achievements, my greatness.
Yes, dear diary, I will be scaling the mountain that took my father away from this mortal realm. Yes, dear diary, I am determined to look out at the world below from the mountain's apex. And, yes, dear diary, soon my legacy will be complete.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 19th February 2009.
Today, I received my weekly phone call from mother. I told her of my intention to finish father's life goal by climbing Mt. Van Der Dood. At this, she let out a huge sigh and proceeded to reveal that my father was not an explorer nor did he pass away in an attempt to conquer Van Der Dood. He was a falafel vendor who ran away with Mrs Sanderson from across the street.
Regardless, I remain resolute in my goal.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 21st February 2009.
My team is assembled and my equipment purchased. The name 'Amerigo Burton' has attracted luminaries from every school of academia and adventure. Cartographers, biologists and balloon sculptors. A very well-rounded bunch. I have also procured the services of a number of undergraduates from the university. It is always quite useful to have some expendable bodies around…
My most interesting recruit, however, comes from New York. Realising the need for pack mules, even in this day and age, I was made aware of an advert in the classifieds of yesterday’s issue of 'The Times.' Ringing the number given, an accented man (as a traveller of the world, I immediately identified him as French) answered and said that he had such a mule available for purchase.
Rushing up to the New York Palisades, I was greeted by the young man and a buxom blonde ingénue. Upon asking how he had obtained a piece of real estate in such an affluent area, the young man cocked his head and said something to the effect of “setting fire to Kikyo, dressing Shannan up as a sex-cow and crippling Jade Striker.” He lead me inside his home, a house of considerable taste and decoration, and through to the garden where I saw it. He was not so much a pack mule as he was a six-foot-four adult male with horse blinkers on his head. He was grazing, though.
Aghast at this sight, I asked him what such shenanigans he was committing. The French frog merely ribbitted that he was offering a fair price and that I could either take it or leave it. To further his point, the frog placed a sugar-cube on my palm and called over his mule. And, like any other pit pony, the blinkered man-mule quickly hoovered the treat from my hand even going so far as licking the tiny remnants from my fingers as the cube dissolved.
Even at seeing such a thing, I could not argue that the price was fair. I now have my pack mule but I must say that there are some truly odd people in this world…
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 23rd February 2009.
I have had to return my 'pack mule' back to his home in the Palisades. After only two days of being on this expedition, the mule had resorted to cannibalism to stave away his hunger pangs. Of course, as an intrepid explorer, I know that not everyone is of such character to be able to mentally withstand the pressures of adventuring. However, the fact that we are still present at home base (the motel) where there is an open kitchen does suggest that the measures taken by this particular member of my party were a little extreme.
Regardless of this little mishap, our journey up Mt. Van Der Dood will commence on the day after tomorrow.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 24th February 2009.
Lantern? Check. Cagoule? Check. Emergency flares? Check. Hunting rifle? Check. GPR tracking system? Check. Gas-powered stove? Check. Compass? Check. iPod with the 'United States Army Survival Manual' (FM 21-76) preloaded onto its hard-drive? Quasi-check (I have the iPod but The Mule deleted this vital text in an effort to upload 'Lady Gaga's' new album).
At the moment, I am staring out of my motel window, looking outside at the beastly rock formation that I will soon traverse. There it is. Looking like an overturned snowcone, it calls to me. Looking like a nightmare tower, it calls to me. Looking like an elemental phallus injecting his spunky load into the sky (the words of The Mule), it calls to me.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 25th February 2009.
Today, I set foot on Mt. Van Der Dood for the first time. The ambiguous frisson that passed through me as I begun the slow incline towards my destiny was of such potency that I believe I shed both a tear and a laugh at the same time.
Anxiety and excitement. Fear and ecstasy. Determination and rather oddly, limerence. I felt it all. I was ambivalent but not in a neutral, nonchalant manner. I felt each and every emotion run through me. This culminated in a tremble that I could I feel in my bones, in my flesh and in the very pit of my soul.
Of course, other people could feel this tremble as well. It was an avalanche. The expedition has been postponed for another day.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 26th February 2009.
Another day, another problem. While the snow fortunately did settle and allow for our party to continue up the mountain’s rock face (relatively) safely, there is a more pressing concern.
During our preparation, I had taken it upon myself to delegate certain tasks to my underlings. Well, in truth, I delegated the task of delegating certain tasks to my underlings to my second-in-command. Unfortunately, without my intervention, it appears as if The Mule was given the important responsibility of procuring the oxygen tanks needed as our party climbs and the altitude thins.
As such, we now have forty-nine canisters of helium gas…Thank God, I decided against using a dictaphone to record the happenings of this journey of ours.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 27th February 2009.
Many things happened today:
1.) We have lost eight from our party. Some to frostbite, some to oxygen deprivation, some to misadventure but most to the realization that there is no ski resort present on this mountain. Our number is down to three.
2.) I had a fist-fight with a mountain lion.
3.) While stumbling across a small ledge, Adam, one of the students, discovered a half-eaten hotdog in the frozen planes of this mountain. Still warm. There is only one suggestion that can be drawn from this discovery: That the Yeti exists and that he lives solely on a diet of carnival snacks.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 28th February 2009.
Disaster! A snowstorm has the potential to force this expedition's abandonment. We are so close to the mountain's summit, so close to looking down at the world from Van Der Dood’s peak…
I refuse to give up. I am resolute in my determination. My dedication is steadfast. My mission unchanged. I shall order the two remaining party members to return to the comfort of level ground. I will continue…
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 1st March 2009.
So cold.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 2nd March 2009.
Second disaster! It is impossible. Not this. Not after all I have been through. My life and my legacy lie in ruins…
I write this at the apex of Mt Van Der Dood. I have done it. I have made it. But fortune and fate have not smiled on me today…
When I was dreaming of the celebrity and success that this adventure would bring me, I always assumed one constant, singular question would be posed to me…
"What is the view like from up there?"
And, now, all I can say is…horrible. Vile. Abhorrent. Monstrous. Hellish.
You see, I expected to gaze out at the world and see some eternal, celestial truth. I expected to find happiness. All I found was despair and regret.
As I write this, I am licking away the tears from my cheeks. Before they freeze and my body freezes. Before they become immortal reminders of my failure. The end of the story goes like this…
As I drove my climbing pike into the rocky mountainside for the last time, using the tool to pull myself up over the precipice, I was met with a sight unlike any other…
At first, I could not tell what it was. Through the mist all I could make out was a single solitary figure. The sentimental, naïve side of me wanted to say it was a Yeti. A fantastical creature. An entity whose presence would not negate my success. A yeti? It may as well have been a mermaid. As my eyes acclimatized themselves to their surroundings, piercing the white haze, the figure came into greater, hideous detail…
…A naked man! A naked man seemingly engaged in a very private act! A naked man rigorously masturbating!
I'd heard of such a thing before. In my travels through Sumatra, it was common to hear tales of such a ritual. If one was ever possessed by evil forces, than the recommendation would be to move to a place of natural beauty and perform the act of autoeroticism in the hopes of 'excising the liquid demons.'
But that was not this. This was a man, a middle-aged man with a considerable paunch, who had no other purpose for this. There was no secret meaning; no hidden sirens' call that hid within the vertiginous vista that he was observing. All he wanted to do was masturbate, naked, on a mountain.
I had been beaten. This man, this bare-butted degenerate had swallowed my dreams whole and expelled them from his body in a white, viscous fluid…
I preferred it when Starbucks beat me...
On February 25th, self-styled explorer, Amerigo Burton set out with a team of experts to scale Philadelphia's murderhorn, Mt. Van Der Dood. On February 28th, Burton ordered his fellow explorers back down the mountain and claimed that he would continue the expedition alone. He was never heard from again. On March 4th, a search-and-rescue party was deployed. On March 6th, Deputy Sheriff Ben Nagel discovered what is believed to be the diary of Amerigo Burton. Frozen in the ice, a considerable distance above ground level, the diary tells the story of Burton's last days. This is that diary.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 18th February 2009.
“People spend a lifetime searching for happiness; looking for peace. They chase idle dreams, addictions, religions, even other people, hoping to fill the emptiness that plagues them. The irony is the only place they ever needed to search was within.”
I first came across that quote while hiking through a patch of land in Sahel. This expedition of ours had us as the first men of culture, of true civilization to have passed over its rough topography. The inhospitality of the barren land was only matched by the hospitality of its indigenous people. As my party arrived at their dilapidated cabins (constructed, rather ingeniously, from dry-leaf and mud), the local tribesfolk surrounded us, celebrating our arrival. They marvelled at such technological trivialities as our watches and our cigarette lighters; it was clear that our superior way of life made us walking marvels in the eyes of these backwards, superstitious brutes.
Indeed, we were told that our arrival here was a most fortuitous and auspicious event. They requested that we visit their town's chief so that we could engage in a discussion and sharing of cultural practices. I would offer him a tickle from my snuff box, he would offer me the detached scalp of a gazelle. The usual tit-for-tat.
And so, they rushed me, by the hand, to their leader's abode. A difference in breeding and lifestyle was evident as their palpable excitement was moderated by my emotional restraint. They continued to drag me, speaking their clucking garble, past their makeshift homesteads to their patriarch. Their existence was exactly how that cinematic triumph, 'The Last of the Mohicans' depicted it.
Interestingly, however, the home of the town's chief was not one of tree bark and bamboo but rather brick and mortar. This leader of theirs' enjoyed not a dilapidated shanty but rather a modernised construction replete with air conditioning and tempered windows.
As I was pulled through the building's automated doors, the realization hit me. We had been beaten. We were not the first men of the West to venture into these God-forsaken parts. No, Ronald McDonald, J.C. Penny and A.J. Wright had usurped that title. My team and I were currently standing in the first mall of the Sub-Saharan region. The wise man that I was being dragged to see was not some holy man, some purveyor of universal truths. He was the Assistant Manager of the local Barnes & Noble. Furthermore, our welcoming committee were about as tribal as a frat boy's tattoos. Instead, we had been greeted by an assortment of paid actors from the nearby city. The mall had hired them to lend an air of authenticity to proceedings and lead gullible tourists into the building.
And so, as my party emptied into a nearby Starbucks to drown their collective sorrows with a processed Guatemalan blend, I idly trailed along the bookshelves of the aforementioned Barnes & Noble. And, that was where I found that quote.
It is not a piece of expedient wisdom espoused from some council elder. It is not a mantra nor parable passed down in kinship through tribal lineage. It is from Ramona L. Anderson and taken from page 52 of a self-help book entitled 'Motivate Your Life.'
I found Anderson's words intriguing; infinitely more so than the mystic rhubarb of a bunch of savages. Anderson seems to be directly addressing me as an adventurer. She claims that happiness does not come from mapping some undiscovered country or driving some evolutionarily-retarded creature into extinction. Instead, she concludes that happiness can only be found within oneself…What absolute tripe!
I have attempted to find happiness within myself. Literally. When charting the Malasian coast, I purchased a ball of hashish from a travelling fakir. Having consumed the herbal substance, I spent the next nineteen hours attempting to force my head into my rectum in an effort to observe the cause of the warm firework glow that was emanating from my chin. There was no happiness there. For me, for the fakir or for the primitive witch doctors of Terengganu who had to perform emergency surgery on my person.
But, I know where happiness can be found. Happiness, for me at least, resides on the summit of Mt. Van Der Dood, Philadelphia's equivalent to Everest. Majestic in its natural beauty, awesome in its scale and notorious in its renown, Mt. Van Der Dood will cement my position in the texts and annals of history. While some who claim to be versed in the skill of cartography say that the only real notable mountains in Pittsburgh are the Pocono family-orientated resorts, any explorer worth his salt will know that it is there, looming over the city of Philadelphia, taunting both the brave and the foolish to tame it.
And, that I shall. Soon this diary will not be the mere property of Amerigo Burton, adventurer. It will be the diary of Amerigo Burton, the first man to have successfully climbed the entirety of Mt. Van Der Dood. It will act as a catalogue for my achievements, my greatness.
Yes, dear diary, I will be scaling the mountain that took my father away from this mortal realm. Yes, dear diary, I am determined to look out at the world below from the mountain's apex. And, yes, dear diary, soon my legacy will be complete.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 19th February 2009.
Today, I received my weekly phone call from mother. I told her of my intention to finish father's life goal by climbing Mt. Van Der Dood. At this, she let out a huge sigh and proceeded to reveal that my father was not an explorer nor did he pass away in an attempt to conquer Van Der Dood. He was a falafel vendor who ran away with Mrs Sanderson from across the street.
Regardless, I remain resolute in my goal.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 21st February 2009.
My team is assembled and my equipment purchased. The name 'Amerigo Burton' has attracted luminaries from every school of academia and adventure. Cartographers, biologists and balloon sculptors. A very well-rounded bunch. I have also procured the services of a number of undergraduates from the university. It is always quite useful to have some expendable bodies around…
My most interesting recruit, however, comes from New York. Realising the need for pack mules, even in this day and age, I was made aware of an advert in the classifieds of yesterday’s issue of 'The Times.' Ringing the number given, an accented man (as a traveller of the world, I immediately identified him as French) answered and said that he had such a mule available for purchase.
Rushing up to the New York Palisades, I was greeted by the young man and a buxom blonde ingénue. Upon asking how he had obtained a piece of real estate in such an affluent area, the young man cocked his head and said something to the effect of “setting fire to Kikyo, dressing Shannan up as a sex-cow and crippling Jade Striker.” He lead me inside his home, a house of considerable taste and decoration, and through to the garden where I saw it. He was not so much a pack mule as he was a six-foot-four adult male with horse blinkers on his head. He was grazing, though.
Aghast at this sight, I asked him what such shenanigans he was committing. The French frog merely ribbitted that he was offering a fair price and that I could either take it or leave it. To further his point, the frog placed a sugar-cube on my palm and called over his mule. And, like any other pit pony, the blinkered man-mule quickly hoovered the treat from my hand even going so far as licking the tiny remnants from my fingers as the cube dissolved.
Even at seeing such a thing, I could not argue that the price was fair. I now have my pack mule but I must say that there are some truly odd people in this world…
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 23rd February 2009.
I have had to return my 'pack mule' back to his home in the Palisades. After only two days of being on this expedition, the mule had resorted to cannibalism to stave away his hunger pangs. Of course, as an intrepid explorer, I know that not everyone is of such character to be able to mentally withstand the pressures of adventuring. However, the fact that we are still present at home base (the motel) where there is an open kitchen does suggest that the measures taken by this particular member of my party were a little extreme.
Regardless of this little mishap, our journey up Mt. Van Der Dood will commence on the day after tomorrow.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 24th February 2009.
Lantern? Check. Cagoule? Check. Emergency flares? Check. Hunting rifle? Check. GPR tracking system? Check. Gas-powered stove? Check. Compass? Check. iPod with the 'United States Army Survival Manual' (FM 21-76) preloaded onto its hard-drive? Quasi-check (I have the iPod but The Mule deleted this vital text in an effort to upload 'Lady Gaga's' new album).
At the moment, I am staring out of my motel window, looking outside at the beastly rock formation that I will soon traverse. There it is. Looking like an overturned snowcone, it calls to me. Looking like a nightmare tower, it calls to me. Looking like an elemental phallus injecting his spunky load into the sky (the words of The Mule), it calls to me.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 25th February 2009.
Today, I set foot on Mt. Van Der Dood for the first time. The ambiguous frisson that passed through me as I begun the slow incline towards my destiny was of such potency that I believe I shed both a tear and a laugh at the same time.
Anxiety and excitement. Fear and ecstasy. Determination and rather oddly, limerence. I felt it all. I was ambivalent but not in a neutral, nonchalant manner. I felt each and every emotion run through me. This culminated in a tremble that I could I feel in my bones, in my flesh and in the very pit of my soul.
Of course, other people could feel this tremble as well. It was an avalanche. The expedition has been postponed for another day.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 26th February 2009.
Another day, another problem. While the snow fortunately did settle and allow for our party to continue up the mountain’s rock face (relatively) safely, there is a more pressing concern.
During our preparation, I had taken it upon myself to delegate certain tasks to my underlings. Well, in truth, I delegated the task of delegating certain tasks to my underlings to my second-in-command. Unfortunately, without my intervention, it appears as if The Mule was given the important responsibility of procuring the oxygen tanks needed as our party climbs and the altitude thins.
As such, we now have forty-nine canisters of helium gas…Thank God, I decided against using a dictaphone to record the happenings of this journey of ours.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 27th February 2009.
Many things happened today:
1.) We have lost eight from our party. Some to frostbite, some to oxygen deprivation, some to misadventure but most to the realization that there is no ski resort present on this mountain. Our number is down to three.
2.) I had a fist-fight with a mountain lion.
3.) While stumbling across a small ledge, Adam, one of the students, discovered a half-eaten hotdog in the frozen planes of this mountain. Still warm. There is only one suggestion that can be drawn from this discovery: That the Yeti exists and that he lives solely on a diet of carnival snacks.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 28th February 2009.
Disaster! A snowstorm has the potential to force this expedition's abandonment. We are so close to the mountain's summit, so close to looking down at the world from Van Der Dood’s peak…
I refuse to give up. I am resolute in my determination. My dedication is steadfast. My mission unchanged. I shall order the two remaining party members to return to the comfort of level ground. I will continue…
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 1st March 2009.
So cold.
From the diary of Amerigo Burton, explorer and adventurer. Dated 2nd March 2009.
Second disaster! It is impossible. Not this. Not after all I have been through. My life and my legacy lie in ruins…
I write this at the apex of Mt Van Der Dood. I have done it. I have made it. But fortune and fate have not smiled on me today…
When I was dreaming of the celebrity and success that this adventure would bring me, I always assumed one constant, singular question would be posed to me…
"What is the view like from up there?"
And, now, all I can say is…horrible. Vile. Abhorrent. Monstrous. Hellish.
You see, I expected to gaze out at the world and see some eternal, celestial truth. I expected to find happiness. All I found was despair and regret.
As I write this, I am licking away the tears from my cheeks. Before they freeze and my body freezes. Before they become immortal reminders of my failure. The end of the story goes like this…
As I drove my climbing pike into the rocky mountainside for the last time, using the tool to pull myself up over the precipice, I was met with a sight unlike any other…
At first, I could not tell what it was. Through the mist all I could make out was a single solitary figure. The sentimental, naïve side of me wanted to say it was a Yeti. A fantastical creature. An entity whose presence would not negate my success. A yeti? It may as well have been a mermaid. As my eyes acclimatized themselves to their surroundings, piercing the white haze, the figure came into greater, hideous detail…
…A naked man! A naked man seemingly engaged in a very private act! A naked man rigorously masturbating!
I'd heard of such a thing before. In my travels through Sumatra, it was common to hear tales of such a ritual. If one was ever possessed by evil forces, than the recommendation would be to move to a place of natural beauty and perform the act of autoeroticism in the hopes of 'excising the liquid demons.'
But that was not this. This was a man, a middle-aged man with a considerable paunch, who had no other purpose for this. There was no secret meaning; no hidden sirens' call that hid within the vertiginous vista that he was observing. All he wanted to do was masturbate, naked, on a mountain.
I had been beaten. This man, this bare-butted degenerate had swallowed my dreams whole and expelled them from his body in a white, viscous fluid…
I preferred it when Starbucks beat me...
