It's moist, smells terrible, and you sure as hell don't want to see it in the light of day. The summers are sweltering, the winters are freezing, and the landscape more often than not reeks of chicken shit. Sadly, that isn't even the worst of it. No, the land might try to break our spirits, but it's the flora and fauna that actively tries to maim our bodies and take our lives.
The world must know of our trials and tribulations. It must know the terrors that lurk at the ass end of the universe, if not for our sakes, at least for theirs. Who knows when (or why) you'll take a jaunt through Mississippi. Maybe you'll be visiting the Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg because, hey, you just love reminiscing about brutal conflicts that pitted brother against brother. Perhaps you'll be frequenting the fine Indian casinos of the Coast, because nothing says "I'm really sorry for centuries of genocide" like popping a coin in the slot. No matter the situation, you'll be minding your own business when tragedy strikes! With the information herein, you might just come out alive. You might just survive
The Dangers of Mississippi!
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And God said, “Let the land produce living creatures according to their kinds: the livestock, the creatures that move along the ground, and the wild animals, each according to its kind.” And it was so. God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.
Except for the possum. Jesus Christ, what was He thinking? It was ugly, riddled with rabies, and... fuck! Creation was all a terrible mistake. God shortly held a conference on nixing his newfound pet project with Jack Daniels and his close associates, Smith & Wesson.
The earth barely escaped unscathed.
"Well, you look cute and cuddly, but... rabies."
You might say to me, "Justin, what are you talking about? Possums are downright cute! What could God possibly find wanting in them?"
"Jesus Christ, is it too late to pass on the rabies?"
You hear that? That's the sound of you shutting your goddamned mouth. Possums are terrible, hateful creatures that feast off of terror and despair. If you met a possum in a dark alley, it would hold you at knife-point screaming, "Your money or your life!" Of course, as possums lack the common decency to speak English, it would come across as random hisses and screeches. It would then probably bite you for not following its demands.
Fucking possums.
A year or two ago, I lived out in the country. As you probably know, country-living and trailers go hand-in-hand, so it's not hard to figure out where exactly I was living. The spaces were cramped, the air conditioning was sub-par, and we constantly heard scratching at the vents in the floor.
Something was living in them.
Our cat, Tery, would follow this unknown creature as it crept through the trailer. Like hell we could see anything, but she only had eyes and ears for it. Many a night she would fall asleep by one of the airways, as if waiting.
She didn't have to wait very fucking long. My mom screamed from the kitchen late one Friday night. Apparently a rat had poked its head out of the bottom of the fridge. That's all it took for the cat and I to come charging in like a dynamic duo, ready to kick ass, take names, and leave something maimed and/or dead. As I was looking for the critter, I laughed at her feminine squeamishness. It was only a rat! What did we have to fear from an overgrown cheese muncher? Stupid women!
It was then a white and gray head poked itself out from under the fridge.
I nearly shit my pants. The possum skittered back under, Tery scattered away, and I was left with a problem on my hands. How the fuck was I going to deal with a possum? Who the hell could even help us in this kind of situation? The brief eye-contact I had made with its beady eyes told me all I needed to know -- it wouldn't stop until my mother and me were dead, and my cat had been taken for its possum-wife. We scratched our heads, fretted over the options, and finally came to a consensus. We went to the phone and called the only man who could handle such a dire emergency.
My Uncle Jerry. He didn't have nearly half the sense God gave a common dog, and I can't imagine he had anything past an eight-grade education -- basically, he was the perfect combatant for a possum. He wouldn't know to fear the bastard like good, sane folk might. He could tangle against the monster without the fear of rabies or the thing latching onto his face. Clad in jean overalls and enough hair to make Robin Williams feel feminine, he marched into the house.
"You want me to kill it?" he asked. It's here that I still curse my liberal education. I thought all animals were precious creatures, part of a delicate and beautiful balance. Who were we as men to dictate the fates of noble creatures? He stared at me with his bead eyes for a long moment, but finally nodded. He let my youthful innocence override his years of wisdom. The plan was simple, then.
We were going to move the fridge outside. I grabbed one side, he took the other, and Tery supervised from a corner. We grabbed the refridgerater and began navigating it for the door. One would push, the other would pull. We shoved corners, bumped entryways, and finally made it out into the fresh air of freedom. "Be free!" I shouted to the possom. "Go join your furry brethren!" I waved my arms eagerly to the treeline!
Shit didn't happen. No matter how I coaxed, called, or pleaded, the possum didn't budge. Soon we resorted to a broom jabbing underneath the fridge. That worked as well as the begging. It was only when we got on our hands and knees, throwing caution to the wind, that we found the terrible truth.
The goddamned possum wasn't there. We ran around inside, checking under beds, around cabinets, underneath tables with the same result: Nothing. The possum had vanished from the face of the earth. I tried to coax Tery into action. If anyone could find that bastard, it would be the cat! Except she was too busy having 'nam flashbacks in her corner. As Tery recounted being pinned down in "the shit" by "Charlie," we gave up the search. The possum was gone.
The monster had won.
Maybe you'll be fortunate enough to never see a possum in your lifetime. It'll be a nightmare that stays at the edge of your perception, a bogeyman to frighten small children at bedtime. If you aren't, at least it probably won't break into your home in an insane attempt to murder you and everything that you hold dear. Should that remote possibility take place, however, remember my tale.
Also, buy a gun.
No comments:
Post a Comment