Sloughing Off the Rot Read Online Free

you. Just depends on how you deal with them. Those two babies I dropped on you, they gorged on your infection. You are clean and not infected with any defiling mold or fungus.”
    Santiago dumped his sack into his palm, shaking out a handful of the lunkworms for John to see. The small mound of larvae wriggled. Maggots unsuccessfully strove to crawl to the edges of Santiago’s cupped hand but ultimately tumbled back into the squirming clump of grubs. John watched in horror as Santiago threw his head back and dropped several worms into his own eyes. As John did before him, Santiago clawed at his eyes when the worms locked onto the sclera and tunneled behind the eyeballs, back into his head. The madman tore at his hair and rolled about on the ground, throwing up a cloud of dust and shrieking at the heavens. There was much weeping and gnashing of the teeth. When it looked as if he could take it no longer, as if his heart or his brain or some other major organ might explode, Santiago stopped and stiffened, his arms locked straight and to his sides, his legs extended and motionless.
    John stood above the thin, petrified form and looked down, wondering if Santiago died. Not a muscle on the little man moved. His chest did not swell and fall with respiration. His body froze in a pose. His eyes remained closed. And then they opened, flipping from side to side. Santiago laughed nervously, tugged at his beard.
    “Holy moly!” said Santiago. “I just flipped my friggin’ wig, Johnny.” His face rapidly contorted and cycled through his range of expressions.
    John sat again, right next to Santiago, looked over the little man, and said, “I get it that the worms ate my infection. I understand why you gave them to me. But you’re not ill. Why did you drop the worms in your eyes?”
    Santiago sprang to his feet and raised his voice, almost yelling, but not in anger, “It’s not all about infection. Those that are whole don’t need no doctor. Yeah? It’s about reflection and introspection, baby. It’s about inflection, detection, rejection, and the house of correction. It’s about injection and the violin section. It’s about my erection.” Santiago grabbed at the swelling in his loincloth. “It’s about perfection.”
    With a startlingly stunning clarity of mind, John understood Santiago’s rant. John noticed everything. He marveled at the shape of the individual grains of sand. He was amazed at the points on the thorns and the spikes on the cacti. He scanned the world around him and noted the slightest of color variations in the rocks and the sky and found novelty in everything he saw. He gawked at the trail in the sky and felt its movement. “Trails,” he murmured. The sounds of insects on the rocks and small desert animals chittering registered in his head and took on new meaning. John studied the dirt-clogged pores on Santiago’s cheeks and forehead, the strands of beard as they intertwined and knotted into an intricate mess.
    “I see you digging on the cut of my jib, Johnny. You’re starting to understand my jive. I can see it in your eyes. Well that’s all just great and groovy. But you still don’t really dig it yet. Do you?”
    “I think I do,” said John, tearing his eyes away from an intriguing clump of discolored skin on the side of Santiago’s nose. “You gave me those worms. They made my ear feel better. Thanks for that. I’m just glad that we’re done with the worms.”
    “You ain’t done with nothing, brother. And those worms ain’t done with you.” Santiago’s voice rose to urgency again and he flailed his arms about wildly. “They’re still a coming at you. It’s a coming at you. A big wave is coming and you better lash yourself to something strong cause we’re gonna be tossed about and it’s gonna be a hell of a night.”

     
    Santiago flung himself backward toward the ground. His words spat rapid-fire from his mouth in a frothy logorrhea and fluttered about in front of John’s face.