Road Trippin' in the Hoosier State: Slobbering Mushmouthed Damned Thing

this is the thing to which I referred in the title of this post

The thing pictured above damn near gave me PTSD. I don’t know what it is. I was on the job one night last fall. To open the feed bin lid, I usually duck between the bins to go around back to where the ropes are to pull open the lids. As I squeezed my bulk between the two bins on this particular night, I glanced up and came eyeball to eyeballs with this creature.

Oh, it was awful. It had eight or twelve or sixteen eyes, small and glittering, each one regarding me blandly, yet humorously, like it thought I was probably inconsequential, but I might– just might– provide brief amusement. It giggled and called my name. I bounced off each leg of both bins twice getting my ass out of there. Poultry farmers with a lot of time on their hands and a little musical talent tune the legs of their bins. I didn’t know that until this particular night. The opening notes of Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells” rang clearly as I jackrabbited away from this thing. I pinballed back and forth for what seemed like a very long time, but this creature only had time to brush a tentacle across the back of my neck before I was free.

It was seven feet tall and it had a hundred legs, each one of them with four or five double-jointed knees. Its feet were gnarled and twisted with knuckles the size of grapefruit and yellow talons caked with dried blood. It weighed 420 pounds and it ran the forty in just over three seconds. That’s really fast for those of you who had any doubts, even faster than my high school football coach’s grandmother, but she was only 6’5″ and 280.

When it opened its mouth and grinned at me, I could see all the way into its throat. Its tongue was gray and flabby and veined with some kind of black tarry crap that smelled like a rendering plant in July.

It giggled again and called my name. “Tonyyyyy….” it called. It sounded breathy and slobbery, like your creepy junior high friend when he talked about his porn stash.

“Nuh uh,” I said. “Nothin’ doin’.” I backed away. I’m no fool. I went around the long way to open the bin. No way was I getting within ten feet of that thing.

I don’t know what it was or what it was doing there. I went back to that farm a few weeks later, after the first frost, and it was gone. All I found to show it had even been there was part of a gnawed femur, possibly from a cow or some hapless hitchhiker.

Christ, that thing was repulsive.

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