Muh Thugga-Dinner With Abortion

A dark gloom overhang nurtured a nightly smile that befriended the twenty-four. A crack on the wall, it was the House of Usher equipped with a bungee cord. A midnight darkness lurked, providing solace for weeping shadows by embracing them within the bosom it lacks, as it tossed Comfort aside: a simple gesture trapping Purpose in a tally. Approaching the door, I noticed a pile of rakes donning muck sweaters: a fashion trend of the past re-visited, and Futility brushed passed me and quickly gathered the rakes thinking his job held importance. A black ski mask smothered a lantern, forgetting that it wasn’t Halloween. I broke its grasp and the lantern gasped for breath within its already dying flame, and I tossed the mask behind the bushes, watching it land as evidence. Finally, some light. Nervousness massaged my shoulders as I stood in front of the gateway, and he answered the knock I never knocked. With a welcoming gesture of open arms, I stepped over the labia threshold. How did I get here?

A window watcher practice: eyes followed an unsuspecting man. They quickly darted behind barren nothingness whenever a shoulder glance was enacted. A workmen encounter, realization of the twenty-four work ethic. This is a place of solitude encompassed with rabbits vexed by their pocket watches, bustling for a man whose very name utterance can formulate picket lines. But it is all business: the busy-ness of a house that doubled as an office building that doubled as a shelter for pregnant teenagers that doubled as everything else a society deemed virtuous. The detractors being provided with capsules of Realization; taken twice daily and a cause will be found, and the not-so-complete one hundred percent satisfaction guarantee. It was all business.

There he stands, full posture doused in curiosity observance, window watcher unawareness on his behalf. Forever staring at a forgotten uniform of a frequent business associate of mine; how little does he know. How little does he know. And still, I hope he likes my decorations.

A dismal interior, quite possibly an exterior wannabe, where reds and greys mingled upon the chime of the social hour. A perfect pallet of chaos with the smiling artist bearing its remote forgot his manners: no “Hello” sent to my Inbox. He stood with a crooked posture, though, harvesting a womb’s fruits is a backbreaking labor, so it is no wonder his spine is in perfect alignment with a vehicle swerving to the right. Excessive scar tattoos resembling nail marks were sewn together for skin, as though he moonlighted as a rapist or something of that element. Onward, forward, and beyond. Maneuvers around an awkward greeting result in a crash landing between a Naomi statue and a corridor of orgasmic moans devoured by positive tests.

These walls don’t know how speak. Those that are cursed with dialect suffer malfunctions within the mandible, and all of the smart ones have permanent teeth marks on their tongues. Squires they were however, and I could decipher a life story carved into their wrists: a picturesque anecdote decades in the making detailing Turmoil as their best friend. It was so sad. Many mothers’ names. I wish I had a name.

Difference stood between us, presenting an obstruction of clear horizon, only to disperse once the man’s face wore a grimace of disgust. He doesn’t like different. Standing there, he stared at me for two rotations, long enough for judgments to cast their stereotypes. He was just another boy that some, himself included, mistake for a man. A thousand customers have come before him holding the same mirror, and a thousand more will follow his departure. So he just another boy to me. How little does he know. He advances beyond my difference and answers the beckoning call of silence, advancing past the dining hall decorated in his honor. I noticed a puncture wound on the side of his head. Bleeding has ceased. A safe distance kept between myself and Ignorance, as I watch him stare into a silenced wall. An Impatience Serenade intercepted by the eardrum; daydreams are broken with a hand on the shoulder. Guidance enacted with a stiff arm and we trudge toward the dining hall; there shall be no gliding in this household. Shoes removed, smart boy, he does the same, must have realized outside muck will stain the carpet. That carpet was a collage years in the making. Dinner and business waited patiently for our arrival.

Impression lingered behind, silently edging towards an exit, one step closer for every look around the room. Typically a business doesn’t display its disturbing secrets with such pride and dignity, though I see neither of the two showing face around here. Impostors impose pseudo-emotion. Sitting down, my feet were relieved from the coarse carpet: one hundred percent pubic hair composition. A relief that my eyes yearned for, and something my eyelids could not provide. Images forever burned into the iris.

He was no salesman. “Dressed for the occasion” statements never were promoted to Motto title. There seems to be no urge for him to listen to my story: a tale of drowning in a pool of responsibility and teenage pregnancy (I wish I could remember her face), so my inquiries persist. Conversation starter: a Jolly Roger is his family shield. “So tell me your success story of peg legs and an eye patch. Piracy of lives, you’ve made a career out of that?” Bewilderment and Misunderstanding answered for him with silence. I remained unanswered, so I resume observing the clitoris stucco dressed in umbilical cords. I must have missed this fashion trend.

Mouth open, I wish I could understand his tongue. So I just watch him gaze at the room’s wonders. This is my favorite room; I bring all my customers here. Hanging above the mantle is my Excalibur. It is always good to remember your origins. Nostalgia-overwhelmed, I am soon sick with remembrance of my rise to power. How many souls bled from that legend? I think he is up to a thousand.

He sat there, staring off into space, and his smirking causes are unknown. His face looks like it hurts to smile. So many scars. So many scars. He was staring at a bloodied coat hangar bent vertical. Why am I here?

Time quietly crept by and dinner soon lay in front of us. My favorite meal and it was the best the cooks had to show.

Cup raised, he proposed a toast to Life, Health, and Irony, and proceeded to sip his cup of amniotic fluid: a Pro-Choicer’s ambrosia. A plate housed a placenta dressed in week-old embryos and an eight-week fetus side dish. I stared at him, fork in hand, tearing off a piece and continuing the digestion system’s purpose. A meal left untouched. Why am I here?

Witnessing his confusion remain and his hunger retreat, I stood up and decided to show him why he was here. A simple touch on the forehead performed a visual explanation no words of mine could depict. His skin was baby soft. He never worked hard in his life.

Light flashes and callused fingers intercepted my emotions and brain wave redirection activated. Incoherent images flickered and staggered trying to find their place of sequence. The room blacked out and more darkness served as its replacement. A woman screams, but I see nothing. I hear Struggle screaming at the top of his lungs, and Stillness soon takes over. A certain nothingness would instill if the rain didn’t interrupt its plan. A woman crying. I see her silhouette radiate a newly formed maternity, even though she sobs next to a shattered silver lining, and a black ski mask. Overcome by recognition of the ski mask, I can’t help but try to change the channel. And so it does, without the help of an outside force, I see a man in dark clothes accept money from…him, and continue to throw on his ski mask and exit. I see the same woman from the darkness approach him, and pay whatever she has, which isn’t enough. She receives that mantle trophy. Flash of light: fast forward in the blindness. I see myself, at an age of manhood, shaking hands with Recognition. Congratulations on your achievement. Why, thank you. Have you met my wife? She approaches, and soon enough, beauty dissolves into nothingness. I stand alone. The woman stares at his mantle trophy and cries. Feeling a sharp pain in my head I fall back and lay still. So many achievements…so many goals…until I see him rip open her womb, and take me out seven months too soon.

This was put into legends because Muh Thugga has mastered his style of telling stories through imagery and metaphors. This is a phenominal piece with more of a message than most of the pieces around here, and some on the imagery is possibly the most disgusting I've ever read. Good Job Muh!
-Maven