the black cocaine

My Charge, Kirstie Alley.

August 16th, 2009

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The details by which Kirstie Alley became my charge are lengthy and boring, so it will suffice to say at the least that she was placed under my legal guardianship when God himself disowned her for becoming too enormous. Apparently some long running dispute whereas she would have eaten all the turkey, ham, biscuits, penne in cheese and scallopini before any of the other guests had even the chance to ask if there would be pudding. So He, in His infinite wisdom, cast her out from his kingdom on Earth and bestowed her upon me. I discovered her behind my house one morning while I was setting the laundry to dry and she rolled out from behind a dumpster in the alley, bits of bread and soured mayonnaise dotting her lips and chin. She has lived here ever since.

A few days ago I was driving Kirstie out for a ride in the country. We were on our way home from the fair when she exclaimed that she was hungry for breakfast and that she was starving. I told her gently that there was no inn or diner on this road and that she would just have to wait until we got home for Nana to whip her up some pancakes and macaroni. “FOOOOOOOOOOOD NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW” was her reply. Unsure how to satisfy the crossed behemoth, I decided to pull over next to a farm, thinking that having a look at the horses would calm her down. Sure enough, she seemed to quickly forget about food and panted excitedly at the window, fogging it up a slight yellowish color. Her flapping tongue hit the glass three times before I opened her child safety door.

Much to my chagrin, the rotund satanbeast flew purposefully from the car as though discharged from a gun, and ran straight to the barn! I tried to stop her, but it would have been like a small child trying to catch a 12 pound bowling ball hurled at it by its father. It was no use. She stormed up to the barn, gallumping through the brittle wooden doors which threw splinters aside without protest. I jogged after her and peeked inside. To my horror, the insatiated rumpleprawn began her putrid ritual of grabbing up the live pigs and sinking her quivering jowls straight into their backs, tearing flesh from bone as blood sprayed like so much red sea foam crashing upon a bubbling shore of fat and teeth. This wretched theatre of squalor was made even more eerie and brain-melting by the splitting tremolo of pigs squealing their last mortal screams. Unable to stop the madness, it was all I could do to stay and watch the hellish scene unfold as she went from pig to pig, peeling hot bloody strips of bacon from their wrinkled pink backs with her machine-like jaws, her glazed eyes spiralling wildly under specks of blood and spittle. Finally having enough of this grotesquery, I ran outside to vomit in the pasture. A few minutes later, as I kneeled still in a pile of my own discharge, I looked up to the sound of the east wall of the barn exploding in a shower of splinters. There stood Kirstie in the hole, several mangled corpses of pig in each monstrous hand, her face and entire body covered in a fantastic chili of blood, entrails, eyes and what-have-you. She raised the corpses up to the sky and exclaimed, “IN THE LAND OF THE PIGS, THE BUTCHER IS KING!” To which I had no answer.

At home an hour later, she enjoyed her normal late-morning fare of pancakes and macaroni, but not before a thorough sponge bath. I have since invested in a harness and chain system for the car.

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