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j.l. feinstein

Shit Mountain

by posted in prose on permalink

Look how he sweats and scrambles, climbing this entire stinking, slippery, steaming mountain of shit. Braving wide bogs of excrement; wading up to his neck in deep drifts of dreck, stumbling past flatulent geysers that spew brimstone and fecal ærosols that seep into his every pore, coat his throat with their septic humors, and settle in his lungs to fester and rot…

Before long, if he hadn’t yet drowned in the poisonous scat, he would reach many thin and trickling streams, yellowish-brown, the warm and stinking tributaries of Stercus, the effluent Styx—the mightiest enteric flow up which you should not want to be caught without a paddle—but which he must ford to reach his fabled destination. He must crawl carefully across, up strange polyps coated in sanguinous slime, the maladjusted, malicious, and malodorous growths that break the pale foams of that colicky cascade.

Up, up he creeps toward that shining prize, the golden throne set atop this great midden of a tortured world, douche-splattered and shit-stained, diseased diarrhœa pooling around its eagle-clawed feet, and he, encrusted in crap, rank and foul, one with the mountain, on it, emetic, Presidential…