Nickelback

nickelback

The search for Pasqual has been called off. We've given up any hope of finding him at this point, but it must be noted that this decision was not by our own choice. After four days we were tempted to keep searching, but fate soon intervened.

It was roughly around the area of Royal Peak that we were first discovered by the natives. They surrounded us slowly at first, defensive in their nakedness, but soon realized that we were of no threat. Honestly, at that point we could not have been any threat whatsoever, even if we had tried. We were all on the verge of madness, close to the madness that overcame Pasqual when he ran off from our camp. Watters, I must say, had become completely useless.

The natives took us in rather easily, quickly recognizing us as a harmless and curious party. They studied us carefully, with smiling faces full of young white teeth in glorious smiles. Their bronze skin raised an interesting counterpart to the grey of the sky and the green of the land.

The elder, although hardly in his mid-twenties, was obviously the leader, and the rest of the tribe was barely over the age of seventeen. My associates and I bound hands together, more out of caution than fear, but it was not long until Watters became hysterical, leaping up and down screaming that he'd rather be fucked by God before being raped by savages. He was quickly contained by one of those very same savages who grabbed him by the throat, although what was at first a threatening gesture soon developed into a soft massaging motion, leaving Watters a crying, blubbering mess.

They slowly escorted the four of us to their main village, it seemed, then strapped us all to bamboo staffs laid clockwise around a fire-scorched altar. It wasn't long before the chief came out to greet us, but by this time both Watters and Hembry were weeping openly. The chief made his dancing rounds amongst the four of us. He circled the altar three times before pausing in front of it just long enough to set it into flames.

As the altar burned in a blazing orange fury, the chief came up to each of us, myself first, and did his tribal dance before us. As he danced and jittered, he would crouch down to the ground, scoop up a fistful of muddied earth, then maneuver as close as possible to each of us, dancing and jittering the whole time, and devilishly rub the sopping dirt into our buttocks. I could feel my anus quiver as the chief caressed the cold earth around my clenched cheeks.

When he had prepared the four of us, he then moved to the center of the circle. He danced before the burning altar for a few moments, with all of us swallowing hard in preparation for what awaited us. Suddenly, he leapt up upon the flaming pedestal and continued his dance, apparently without harm from the flames that enveloped him. His voice rose up out of the evening jungle air like a safety flare as four tribesman came up from behind us. Those four took full advantage of us while the chief swirled in a frenzy upon the ceremonial torch. In all tortured honesty, I couldn't help but release as I watched the chief dance maddeningly, naked upon the altar, as the tribe banged their bamboo drums and the tribesman scratched at my chest from behind and Hembry screamed from somewhere to my left and Watters wept loudly enough to make the rivers swell.

Then, suddenly, it was all over. The fire was out, the band was gone, and there was no one behind me. I couldn't help but feel extreme shame for my fascination with the whole ritual, a fascination whose physical presence I was incapable of hiding, seeing as my clothes were far away and my hands were bound. But as I came out of my reverie, I realized that my hands were no longer bound, not were those of Watters, Hembry, or Raleigh. For just a moment we all just stood there, naked and humiliated. Then we quickly gathered our clothes and our supplies, all of which were waiting for us in a neat pile just beyond the trees past the altar. We then hiked for another mile or so and rested by another damp stream. Our search would continue in the morning. Rest was happily awaiting.

- Dr. John Rorbach, 8/11/23

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I'm in the room. I can't think of a better word for it, so I'll just refer to it as the room. It's comfortable enough. There's a full bed, a TV, an alarm clock radio, and two windows overlooking the street outside which I never look through. Apparently I went away a few weeks ago. I was in Portland according to the pictures, and I vaguely remember wandering through Seattle. My thoughts of the trip have grown slim since I've returned, but I remember two strippers in Portland who kept buying me drinks, and there was a beautiful bartender in Seattle who asked me to go with her to see a Pee Wee Herman film in a parking lot in Freemont.

It's all been so strange since I got back. I took pictures, but I can't remember what they were of. No sooner than I had returned than I had a show at Fergie's. I'm not sure if I was too drunk, or nowhere near drunk enough, but I feel pretty confidant that the show was a failure. Sarah was there, and she continually made reference to the fact that Gayle would soon arrive.

I tried to ignore her.

In fact, Gayle did arrive, just as Sarah and her friend were leaving. I commented to Sarah, "Now you can't go, Gayle is here."

"I'm sorry," she replied, "I promised I'd go to this party. You know, fun and all that stuff. I must go. Goodbye."

I apologized meekly and sarcastically and barely glanced at Gayle. I played the entirety of my show without having any real clue as to what it was that I was playing. Afterwards, Gayle and I sat at the bar downstairs. I tried to apologize for the show, blaming the birthday party which had overcome the second floor for the poor quality of my performance.

"You were great," she said, "but I really have to get home."

I didn't argue much as she called her cab. "Third and South," I heard her say over the phone.

I knew that wasn't her address.

I called my own cab and went back to the room.