02-March-2001
Alexander Chiang <achiang@nyx.net>

"On Sickness"

As with most things, the first stage is denial. That tingling feeling
in the back of your throat could be a momentary bout of dryness in the
air or perhaps a bit of dust you swallowed accidentally. You ignore
it, thinking that it will go away.

As with most things, it rapidly snowballs out of your control. That
tingling feeling in the back of your throat has blistered into a
full-blown coating of exacto knives, methodically slicing thin ribbons
of bright pain upon each and every swallow. You do not ignore it,
cannot ignore it; by the grace of god it will not be ignored. And
Damned if it is going away either and you realize It -- you are Fucked.

Along with the bits of dull bloody discarded AIDS-infected
heroin-tinged junky pins and random pieces of crushed glass now
inhabiting the area you once thought was your throat, come the evil
twins of Yin and Yang known as Fever and Chill. 

The temptress Chill seduces you first. She frightens you with
horrifying visions of un-ending cold; the type that makes your entire
body twitch violently and irregularly and uncontrollably and makes
your testicles small and afraid. Frightened and weary and desiring
only the marginal pleasure of non-consiousness, your addled mind and
freezing aching body clamber for protection against the Dark of the
night. Long underwear, t-shirts, sweatpants, sweatshirts, mittens,
scarves, wool hats, jackets all become your allies. They become your
Benedict Arnolds. For you are Fucked.

Laughingly, the seductress sends you into the Night, smirkingly
knowingly deceitful. She does not play Good Cop, Bad Cop; rather, her
style is Bad Cop, Worse Cop. You have been played by a master as you
descend into fitful uneasy sleep...

And awakened abruptly after one meager hour by her partner in crime,
Fever. Slick and hot and sweaty and slimy and oily you are fully
awake, rasping for breath and lying in a pool of your own disease
infested scum pool. Your clothes -- faithful friends but an hour prior
-- are soaked through and through and they smell Disease. Both your
underarms are small cesspools; as you thrash about, you can *hear* the
gurgling suckling sounds of wet flesh against wet flesh. The small of
your back is wet, the backs of your knees are wet, the insides of your
thighs are wet. The sweat from your crotch is dripping down and back
and up into your ass crack resembling some strange sex ritual you
would see in the Alternative section of the porn store. Your ass
cheeks slide lasciviciously and leeringly against each other emanating
more of the slurping sounds.

Crazed, you leap out of your soaked and stained bed and strip yourself
of your disgusting rags. Mind and body numbed and exposed again to the
Night and Chill, you pillage and rape your drawers, teeth chattering
and nipples hard, trying to find clean dry clothes. In the corner,
Fever and Chill try to suppress their mirth, for their night has just
begun. Ho ho. Don't even bother, friend, because this is going to
happen to you all night long. Those two will fuck you right up the ass
and not even give you the courtesy of a reach around, no sir -- no
courtesy at all those two.

And when they get bored and step back from the action, the retarded
half brother Congestion comes and takes his turn in the gang bang upon
your body. Good ol' C -- he's not as clever or cunning or elegant in
his ways as our two sophisticated twins are, but drooling and stupid
and brutish, he'll have his way with you all the same. What's worse,
he's more relentless. Fever and Chill prefer to work under cover of
night -- more effective psychologically, natch. But Congestion, with
his idiot grin and widely separated eyes, he's got no subtlety 'tall.
He comes in the morning when you first wake up, he comes whenever you
try and eat, he comes if you're simply sitting on the couch. And he
definitely comes at night, in-between the Fever and Chill sessions, so
you wake up gagging on your own lumpy greenish-yellow snot, eyes
tearing and chest tight as you fight for air.

You buy drugs upon drugs until your room contains enough chemicals to
kill and then preserve an elephant. Desparate, you turn to your Doctor
for Drugs, the Real Shit that will kill those Fuckers dead.
Maddeningly, he smiles benignly at you and tells you that you should
probably "Just wait it out -- it's only the flu". You rip his pen from
his hand and jam it into his eye socket and lap at the aqueous blood
and brain mixture spurting out to get precious nutrients and secret
antibodies while giggling quietly to yourself. Fantasy finished, you
meekly thank the good Doctor and head home, chastised and prepared for
more Suffering.

It comes.

And a third night.

And by the fourth day, you actually feel improvement. Taste has been
partially restored so you now can recognize the disgusting fake cherry
flavor that most medicines have. Fever and Chill have receded -- not
beaten, but bored, and searching for a new victim. Congestion still
doesn't get the point and lingers on like the last drunk kid at a
party. Even the knives and junky pricks have transmuted into
thumbtacks. Your appetite comes back and you can even consider sex
again. Your ordeal is over, and hustling bustling humanity which
didn't even stop once in your absence welcomes you back.

fin.