Tuesday, June 14, 2011
I’d like to start by introducing myself, since from the day I arrived here, my captors have done nothing but try to erase my identity, starting with reducing me to the mindless moniker of Wormy. I mean, I’m not even a worm, obviously. In fact, I can’t think of a much higher insult. Maybe dung beetle. I’m a centipede, people. Doy. Just like the video game. Never made a Worm video game, did they? Well, okay, unless you count that game Worms where the disgusting little pink annelids brandish bazookas and things. But I don’t. Centipede got it done with brawn and guile alone, just sayin. But I digress.
My name is Clarence, and I’m a legless giant Amazonian centipede. How I lost my legs, exactly, is a complete blur. This is a common symptom of PTSD. One day I’m out in the jungle, tracking a tasty monkey frog, and the next I’m here. Where here is, exactly, I can’t say. It’s on the inside. There is no foliage aside from a pathetic insult to foliage occupying window space, dying a little more each day. There’s no water, no humidity and no hope of escape. Especially without legs.
What I do have is my eyes, and let the record show I am identifying my captors here and now. There are 3 of them in total, a regular sideshow. The least offensive is the woman. She occasionally shakes me around a bit, normally in front of The Little One, as though she wants me to eat him. Sure I might have leftovers, but I’m up to the task, let me assure you. He’s much meatier than a cane toad, and also seems fairly daft. I’m sure I can take him.
But then there’s the Large One. A real piece of work, this bald-headed bigmouth. Small head, beady eyes, ridiculous little chin-beard. I’d like to get my forcipules in him just once. Bleed him slow, carve my initials in him and mount him like Bass Masters. It would only begin to redeem the hours of dehumanization to which he’s subjected me. He pounds me on the floor like a Neanderthal bone. He squeezes me, throws me shuriken-style, uses me as a baseball bat. One time he even used me as a burp rag. Humiliating.
Which brings me to Little One. Two feet tall, bulbous head, big gawky eyes, staring problem. Always trying to shove my head in his filthy mouth. I swear to God I’ve pumped at least two gallons of poison into his grubby little neck to date. It has now become a tango to the death, as he aggressively tries to sprout teeth into that big undiscriminating black hole he calls a mouth. If this happens, at least he’ll put me out of my misery.
There was a glimmer of hope a few weeks back, a near escape. I thought they were actually returning me to the Amazon, but we only made it as far as Springfield, Illinois. God knows what sorrow they wrought on the unsuspecting homeland of Lincoln, but as they packed up to go, they very nearly forgot me. Of course, it’s hard to blend with Howard Johnson carpet when you look like this. Please send help.