Johnny Wraith Stories

The day is coming when the worms will lick my bones clean. I can imagine the million little flesh devourers burrowing their heads into my every pore, writhing spastically until their slimy, yellow bodies are under my skin, into the flesh, swimming in my cold, coagulating blood, biting into my liver, kidneys, brain, and heart. It doesn't hurt. But it does hurt. Though I am past the pain known by the living in life, it does hurt, it still hurts, it hurts more deeply than pulsing, warm flesh can fathom. It hurts like a thousand tormenting tickles, the kind of fast, puncturing tickles to the ribs that all at once freeze us in our tracks, make us kick, flail, laugh, cry, plea for mercy, and suffer for breath with desperate gasps. Suffocation. Clenched teeth and fists. It all screeches in my deaf, dead ears, shoots through the synapses of every lifeless channel of nerve, like a million filthy fingernails scratching down the powdery green of an endless chalkboard face. The intensity increases when the worms finish off the last of the flesh and start into the marrow. When the marrow is sucked out of the bones and licked clean, the relentless shrill worsens even more. Then the slimy little bastards bite into my soul with voracious appetites. It all doesn't end with death. Though there is no heaven, there certainly is a hell.

I first sensed the worms were waiting for me when I was 27 years old. I saw that I was like a flower. From the age of infancy to 30, I would sprout, grow forth and blossom. Thereafter, my petals would slowly wilt and fall off, one by one. Eventually, around the age of 65, or 75, or 90, the stem would finally collapse, joining the entire desiccated body with the mulch and soil being churned by the worms below. The slimy little bastards.

When I was 27 years old, having the intuition of my numbered days, sensing the need to seize life by the balls, to live, to sing out, drink, dance, feel, and see, on a whim and alone, I flew into Prague, the capital city of the Czech Republic. I wanted to experience the world, to taste it, to grasp it, to tune into the current that binds all time, history, knowledge, the arts, and all human hope and endeavor into a common point somewhere in the Universe. I was to glimpse upon that THING, whatever it might be, perhaps the Unmoved Mover, God, the Gods, the source of the Passions of All Mankind.

At the airport and on the airplanes from Phoenix, Arizona, to Newark, New Jersey, to Gatwick, and to Prague, I delved into the pages of Martin Buber's I and Thou. Deep in the thoughts of Philosophy, imbued with Greater Wisdom, I was in tune with all things, and all things were in tune with me. I was at peace and all knowing. I was a mystic. On that journey to Prague, through great labor over Buber's words, I learned how to become one with a tree. It all has something to do with recognizing trees as separate beings, living things that are separate from us and possessing their own individual wills. Trees, after all, stretch forth and grow toward the sun. And my becoming a mystic, shaman, or soothsayer, whatever you want to call it - was before Pilates, Yoga, or Meditation became a fad in America. That was before Dr. Phil or Men are from Mars Women are from Venus. I was ahead of my time. A prodigy, a virtuoso.

Upon landing in Prague, I quickly found a shitty little room in a hostel and journeyed forth. I saw it all. Everywhere I went, I rented audio guides and combed through every detail. I even took notes with yellow pencil on spiral notebook. The Prague Castle. It was built in stages over a thousand years. In 1526, the Hapsburgs started adding Renaissance touches. The Charles Bridge is lined with statues of Saints. I found St. Ives and had my picture taken with him. A local vendor selling pornographic playing cards from a folding table and lawn chairs snapped the famous shot. St. Ives (Yves) is the Patron Saint of Lawyers, and I am a lawyer, so it seemed the appropriate thing to do. And the Jewish Quarter. Did you know that the Jews in Prague were sectioned off, or rather cramped, quarantined and corralled into a dirty little section of Prague for several hundred years, up until the end of WWII? The poor bastards had so little room in their "Quarter" that in the Jewish Cemetery they had to bury their dead standing up. It was elbow-room-only. After visiting that cemetery, it became clear to me why Hitler had been welcomed with open arms by so many Czechs. I saw a lot of other shit too. Wenceslas Square, the Baby Jesus, the Astronomical Clock...

But after 5 days in Prague, I grew tired of my Renaissance-man-training and was ready to journey forward. I rented a Skoda, (that's a little European car) and went driving around, from country to country, led by whim alone. I had about a month before I had to be back in the United States, so I had the time to see a lot of places, windmills, cathedrals, museums, the local flavor of so many small Eastern European towns, as well as the cities of Hungary, Slovakia, East Germany. Somewhere along the way, I lost my copy of I and Thou, by Martin Buber, and didn't realize it was gone until I'd made it back home. Every night, for nearly a month, I found myself in dark taverns, drinking this and that, oftentimes chatting it up with the locals, even though I couldn't understand a lot of their broken English, finally falling asleep drunk in a little motel somewhere, then waking up early and venturing off to the next random point of interest.

But what I remember most was being somewhere on a windy, 2-lane road, in a heavily forested, hilly, almost mountainous area, between the Czech Republic and Germany. Just after ascending a steep incline and coming around a bend, I spotted several young women, dressed in lingerie, or only panties and bras, combinations of high heels, stockings, and fishnets. There were 10 or more of them, perhaps a dozen. As I zoomed past and almost broke my neck, they all were yelling out and waving at me, eagerly gesturing for me to pull over. Though I hadn't gotten much of a look in so little time, I was pretty sure I saw through the white lace panties one of the girls was wearing and had spotted the outline of a thick, pubic triangle. Perhaps it all had been my imagination?

Where in the world did young girls, by the dozen, line a country road in the foothills of a forest, in see-through lingerie and panties, and flag down passers-by?

My pulse rose, I drove a bit farther, then put on the brakes and made a squealing U-Turn. I drove past again, almost broke my neck again, and again the girls flailed their arms and yelled out in Czech and German, perhaps a combination of both, desperately trying to get me to pull over. I did another U-Turn, but kept driving past. Maybe I went 5km, before coming upon a small hotel/tavern sitting back behind some trees, off the roadside. I pulled off the road, went up a slight embankment, and parked the Skoda. I went straight in through double doors that swiveled on squeaking hinges. I felt like I was a cowboy in the Wild West, entering a saloon.

I went up to the bar, held up a finger, and said "Pivo." "Pivo" is "beer" in the Czech language. The bartender pulled out a cold Pilsner, popped the cap off the bottle, and I slid him the money. He was missing a front tooth, and his hard life showed in the lines on his face.

"You from America?"

"Yeah."

"New York?"

"No."

"Los Angeles?"

"No."

"Chicago?"

"No. Arizona."

"Ah!!! You cowboy! Clint Eastwood! Hahahahaha!"

"Yeah."

"You like girl?"

"No. Thanks."

Six pivos later, I made my exit, drove about 5 km back to the girls, pulled over, and killed the engine. The young tits, legs, and asses surrounded and pressed against the glass. Painted fingernails tapped and tapped until I rolled down the window.

A camouflaged military vehicle filled with soldiers in Olive Drab came roaring by, playing AC/DC from loudspeakers:

"HIGHWAY TO HELL!"

The horn honked.

The soldiers cheered.

The girls jumped up and down, hollering and flailing their arms.

And the music faded. "No stop signs. Speed limit."

My pulse rose, but the pivo in me kept the sweat and blush off.

One of the girls finally said something in English through the window, while another girl was reaching in, cupping my balls over my jeans, and licking at my ear.

"What girl you want?"

"How much?"

"600, 30 minute." That was about $20 USD, and none of the girls were fat.

"Alright, I agreed."

I felt like a bunch of spider monkeys were crawling all over me as I was led to a small, rundown trailer sitting behind a skirt of foliage about 100' off the roadside. But I had a hard on. Sitting at an open window was a big, round lady with gray, puffy hair, and fat, jiggling arms. She showed her black teeth when she smiled. I handed her 600 koruna, she snatched it up, and then gestured towards the girls. I knew it meant I was to pick one of them. I picked the girl with the see-through panties. Blonde, 18 and a day, full, painted lips, big D titties that weren't yet sagging, and a sad face she smiled and batted her eyes through. She was the only girl of the dozen that hadn't touched me. She just kind of followed along, at a distance. When I pointed at her, all the other girls sighed with rejection, slumped their shoulders, and shuffled away. I'm still not sure if the girl I chose was on the verge of crying. Her eyes seemed to glisten as if ready to drop a tear, but I never saw a drop fall. She kept her smile the whole time. By the hand, she led me down a little dirt path, and into a one room shack, no more than 10' x 10', with a single bed, a wash basin, a cracked full-length mirror, and a beat up dresser.

With hand gestures the girl told me to take off my clothes. I unhooked my belt, dropped my jeans and underwear to my ankles and sat down. While keeping her smile and standing right before me, she slid her panties off. It was the thickest patch of pussy hair I'd ever seen in my life, but at the same time, it was the blondest pussy hair I'd ever seen, just like the hair on her head. The girl winked at me, and then she turned around, popped open the dresser, and yanked out a rubber. I was surprised by the multiple cellulite dimples all over her ass. It almost sagged. It was saddened. It almost looked like a bag of marbles. Girls her age weren't supposed to start falling apart yet. It was a 40-year-old ass on an 18-year-old lass.

Still, it was a nice, pleasant fuck, though there was no kissing or eye contact, and she kept on her bra, knee-high pantyhose, and high heels. As for the details, she put the rubber on me with her mouth, gave me about 10 minutes of average fellatio, then got on top for about 5 minutes. I tried to last longer, but her pussy was too hot and tight to handle. She really knew how to clamp that thing down and ride, plunge the balls dry. And despite its effectiveness, that snatch really wore a yellow bristle pad! For several days thereafter, I was worried I'd caught something nasty from her, but it was just an injury caused by coarse sanding action after all. It took about three weeks for the rash to heal.

When the fuck was finished, I still clearly remember getting back into the Skoda, and starting the engine. I'll never forget the smiling sadness of that girl waving goodbye in the rear-view mirror, how she grew smaller and smaller, then disappeared, as I drove away.

I was yet another day closer to having my flesh churned by worms. It was just another day as all previous days had been, as all other days to come would be. The magic I'd momentarily seized was dispelled. I wasn't a shaman after all. Even in the prime and full blossom of life, there was no heaven, but there sure was fucking a hell.