Close Encounter

Mothman came to me last night. He said that two vast and trunk-less legs of stone stand in the desert.

He said that owlman is a pussy, and that destiny haunts me, like a two-bit version of himself. He said that haunting is merely the way that shy specters express affection.

He said that he was tired of everybody luring him with lustful, pagan conflagrations. He said that he and Fire were thinking about calling it quits. The sex was still great, but they just couldn't get along on the day-to-day level.

Mothman picked me up like a baby and latched me to his hip like an African peasant woman, or a Jerry Springer Trailer Queen. His dusty cape blanketed me in a dangerous, maternal musk that was both terrifying and calming. We flew then, over the hidden writhings of virility that no doubt peppered the rolling hills of this city, past the dark-eyed mediocrity of the mall, and onto the the highest branch of the highest tree, where the great Being dwelt.

All around, the vegetation was bent, as if in perpetual prostration before Mothman's undeniable native Lord-dom, as if his glory eminated in concentric waves, like the dopplar radar of the demi-god world.

Wordlessly, soundlessly even, he commanded me to lie prone. So inexorable, so fundamental his Will, that it effortlessly obliterated even the ghost of my recalcitrance, and I obeyed with fervor, angry that I had no more of his desires to sate.

My face buried in the unidentifiable magical substrate that constituted his home, I farted loudly, but I was not embarrased. His holy essence had pre-sanctified any unclean emition that could potentially explode from me.

I knew then that I was to learn my destiny. He leaned over me, musky, terrible, and beautiful, and he whispered...

"I kicked Owlman's ass at Street Fighter. He totally takes it in the ass."

Then I woke up.