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(posted to r.m.h. on June 12, 1999)
It was a dark and stormy night. It really was. As I mentioned in my ride report, the Slugs had infested a large portion of Micks lake. Denise and I had made our way over to their camp only out of respect for the distance they'd travelled. I did check over their bikes to see if they'd actually been ridden or were trailered to within a few hundred miles. Hard to tell what with all that Slug shit all over them. Our shoes made gawd awful sucking sounds as we sank ankle deep in that slippery slime that seemed to be expanding like some weird creature from a 1950's B movie. Intro's were made and I kept noticing that Madman, while talking to me, was eyeing Denise like Dick Dastardly eyeing Penelope Pitstop. Made a mental note to check all railroad tracks should Denise and I get separated. I swear to God, had he twisted his moustache and went "Muwahahaha!", we would've made tracks for the bike and left. Damn the tent and all our possessions. When I inquired as to the whereabouts of the one known as Snarl, I was told by Maggie, "Oh, he'll find you," followed my maniacal laughter from one of the tents. And I swear I heard her Shovel chuckle. Maggie was busy grinding up some shit in an old granite mortar and pestle watering it down with Jack Daniels. That fuckin Lanter character had a bag of Purina Slug Chow and was tossing handfuls of it into his saddlebags. DP was perhaps the most worrisome. He kept asking measurement questions and tapping away at his Palm Pilot. WTF? Why did he need to know how tall we were and what we weighed? As we made our way out of Slug Central a shudder ran through both our spines as the words "Two More" could be heard. More thoughts of leaving Illinois ran though my mind. Much as we hated to do it, being civilized people we went back into Slug Central Sunday night. This was where things got really strange. Oddly, there seemed to be a zone of total silence surrounding their camp. Denise noticed the lack of insects and flying critters in this zone as well. The same voice in my head that kept telling Jamie Lee Curtis "Don't go in there!" was now saying the same thing to me. Like Jamie, I did it anyway. The moment we crossed some unseen line, the heat and humidity level rose, rain fell and from everywhere one could hear music. Listening carefully I recognized it as the, "Oooga Chaka" song but it was being sung by James Hetfield. Again, that voice in my head was speaking to me. Again I ignored it. Oooga chaka. Oooga oooga. Oooga chaka. For some strange reason we were compelled to walk over to the table and introduce ourselves to the only other person there we hadn't met. Yep, Snarl. We walked up and I stuck out my hand and said, "You must be Snarl. I'm Don and this is my better half, Denise." Oooga chaka. Oooga oooga. Oooga chaka. Slowly this bandanned, beared head turned and looked at us. I noticed there was total quiet around us. A Sporty rode by and I heard nothing. All the rest of the Slugs went quiet as Snarl seemed to be ready to speak. The people around me backed up a step as Snarl opened his mouth and said: BRRRAAAAAAAAAPPPPP!!! Nice to fucking meetcha again. (Again??? Ok, now I'm spooked) What happened after that is a blur. Images of Pterydactils, Janet Reno, a highway sign saying Ottumwa Iowa 23 miles, and Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream keep rising to the surface. Oooga chaka. Oooga oooga. Oooga chaka. All I know is the next morning we woke up and the first words out of my mouth were Limex 40. Denise rolled over and said, "It's Slug 40 you Asshole, (little did I know), and you've managed to stick me with #41. Just for that, you ain't gettin' any for a while. I got a bad head ache and you're buying me a fucking motel room so's I can get this slime off me." Fuckin' Slugs. We walked up to the pavillion to get coffee in total silence. I think the odd feeling of being violated somehow was in both our thoughts that morning. Neither of us drank all that much the night before, contemplating a full ride day, yet we couldn't remember anything beyond: BRRRAAAAAAAAAPPPPP!!! Nice to fucking meetcha. Except for some broken images and the nagging feeling that I was to be called upon to do something tasteless and unable to refuse. That task became clear while packing. While packing I found my right saddle bag had been repacked. It held tools and our chaps on the way up. Now it had a plastic bag with a note on top. The note reads as follows: Oooga chaka. Oooga oooga. Oooga chaka. You have made the Brotherhood of the Slug two promises. The first is a visit to the PNW. (Obviously to reinforce their programming) and the second is to toss this bag into any body of water in Texas. I had to look and it was filled with slimy yellow slithering things. I'm sorry Lake Tawakoni, I was powerless to resist. Oooga chaka. Oooga oooga. Oooga chaka. I sit here at my desk with this tune running through my head constantly worrying about the ecological effects I may have unleashed on Texas by introducing Banana Slugs to the ecology. Then there's that constant need to grab a highlighter and an atlas and find a good route to the PNW. This really sucks. I like Texas. Oooga chaka. Oooga oooga. Oooga chaka. If you should find yourself in the company of a Slug, RUN! Do not come near me if you should see me. I don't know the extent of my contamination and would feel real bad if you caught something nasty from me. I feel so dirty. And it's rained way too much here in Texas since I've been back. Probably my fault.
Gotta go. I've got some personal issues to deal with concerning
cleaning the shit growing in my shower. Almost seems like killing kin
now.
Oooga chaka. Oooga oooga. Oooga chaka.
Don |