Wingwango waits for me—on the other side of the gate. Lying sleepless on another hot, sticky night, bedclothes clammy as winding sheets, I can smell the musty, thick-clotted bayou-stink of her ancient evil, hear the gasping wheeze of her abattoir-flavored breath and the flop and rustle of her foul tail in the dewy grass. Yes, Wingwango waits for me, a gross, eager bride, a sluttish coquette, slyly crooning her grotesque invitation to blend with the cry of the loon and the yelp of the hoodoo. “Come rumba, my juicy Muppet, under the wan light of the gibbous moon. It’s not too late to join the party. Guns! Baby Jesus! Terrorists! Cross the gate—to the GOP!”
One step beyond, and our sharp-tusked succubus would snatch me up with one swift, undulating snap of her leathery trunk. And as I squirmed and squeaked like a plump, wriggling rat in a fat weasel’s mouth, she’d lumber back to her dark nest in triumph. Because Wingwango is the very soul of the compassionate conservative: all sweet talk, cuddly and inclusive—until the election is won and it’s time to divvy up the meat.
Happily, the morning light helps dispel the clinging horror. PeeWee and Tweeter seem OK: their eyes aren’t murky or glazed; I detect no stench of ripe pet-cemetery humus; no rabid froth bubbles from their whiskery lips; no zombie-lurch disfigures their frisky gaits. So they haven't been "born again" and turned into Young Republicans! Hurray! In jubilation, I scoop them up for a quick Texas two-step around the room.
Of course, the first visit to the bathroom is never easy. And if the naked she-corpse is lolling in the bathtub, smiling her lipless leer of enticement; if she stretches out her maggoty arms for me, I just know I’m going to lose it. I tiptoe into the tiny room, shuddering in dread, straining to pierce the cloudy veil of the shower curtain. Is that the shadow of a primping, worm-eaten Ann Coulter, coiled to pop up and shriek, “Treason!”? That always scares the shit out of me. I slowly lift the restroom machete, and then, jerk back the curtain!
Thank you, Jesus! Nothing but a grimy tub and a daddy long legs. Tender mercies: the small blessings in life remind us of God’s infinite, if inconsistent, love for us, his lab monkeys.
Heading to the carport, I glance beyond the gate at the circle of crushed, spoiled grass where something monstrous slept last night: Wingwango. I knew it. Damn, that’s going to need new seed and fertilizer. Beyond lies the depression where the lizard people landed their ship, hooked me, Jeannine and the cats up in gloopy vats to recharge their batteries, and then distributed their “I'm NRA & I Vote!” bumper stickers. Which reminds me: I still need to make an appointment to have the metal, Patriot-Act tracking cylinder removed from my sinus before allergy season begins.
The rest of the day is uneventful: driving to work, no dribbling, gore-snouted Santorem-creature drags me from my car into the rows of corn; the office elevator is not filled with hot, viscid blood; the shambling corpses who stalk the hallways are only my fellow real estate agents heading to the coffee machine. A deranged anagrammatist has lipsticked “!REDRUM” across the restroom mirror, but that happens every Monday. Later, during our weekly session, Dr. Frist, my new psychiatrist, suggests again that I’m a paranoid, hysterical, schizoid liberal, yadda, yadda ya: for my own safety, I should be caged, stripped, hooded, electro-shocked and my genitals savaged by German shepherds. He's a doctor: he knows best. I begin to waver. But his unblinking reptilian gaze, crusted scalpels and floor drains tell me he knows more than he lets on. Glancing up quickly, I catch him eyeballing the thick, pulsing artery in my throat: he’s all but smacking his dead, gray lips. I think: Get in line, big boy—but I’m still glad for the freshly sharpened garden stake tucked inside my briefcase.
Man, it's been a long day, so on my way home I pick up the new Stephen King ("The Dark Gazebo"), a quart of strawberry, Tylenol-PM Flu-Syrup, ice and a bag of organic, free-range pork rinds. Yep, tonight, I’m just going to lay back, slide the TV-room axe under the couch, roll a couple of fat, medical-marijuana doobies, and just relax...escape the real world for a few blessed hours until "The Gary Busey Show" comes on. Jeez...doesn’t that sound nice?
But come the next election, I'm voting Democrat: no matter how lame they can be (Oh, Lordy, it boggles the mind), at least they're my own species.
By Henry E. Panky
A Capering Granfalloon of One
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