The Devil Wears Mango

My friend Chris is full of “tall tales”.  Most of these stories I believe to be contrived.   This can be deductively reasoned out, because contrary to Chris’s claims, I have never even seen the caveman he thawed out of a block of ice (According to Chris he  found this pre-historic man in his back yard while trying to dig out a swimming pool in time for his high school graduation).  I have always regarded Chris’s rants as a colorful interjection into his dull  Westport, Connecticut life.  Of all the stories Chris has painted, there is only one I whole heartedly believe.  Not because of its particular content much more because of the piercing terror that crystallizes in Chris’s pupils when he reluctantly recanted it one night.  (While we were all passing Bessie the Bong around.)  I can say I have heard stranger stories; I can’t claim however, that I have felt as much raw fear as I did while listening to the grizzly tale.  So without further adieu, this is Chris’s story as told by Chris and written by Tallon:

One spring night in Westport Connecticut, a high school aged Chris was looking to escape the confines of his country kitchen styled home.  He pondered if he should go in the backyard to smoke a blunt? Nay, he thought better of this after seeing his neighbor’s three kids playing a game of Narks’ and Whores in the adjacent yard (Apparently Grand Theft Auto must have just been released).  Alas, he walked down his pre-planned long country lane in vain, no where looked to be safe from the prying eyes of Connecticut house wives (drink up ladies, pop those pills).  After a two mile wander, down unlit roads, he came upon one of the first graveyards in the country.  Chris’s extensive knowledge of the surrounding area and a large bronze plack mounted on an arch over the entrance supplied him with this knowledge.  Chris reasoned that anyone who would know or visit these people would be dead.   Which was fine with Chris, he had a blunt in his pocket of the finest New York City Mary Jane, and it wasn’t going to smoke itself, God Damn it! 

            The last shafts of sun were simmering out of the sky and Chris walked down lanes of time seasoned head stones.  The outer head stones were modest, yet some wreaked of grandeur.   There in the very middle of the graveyard, between a open armed statue of an Anglo-sexton Jesus and across from a man who had apparently been killed in a Native American rebel attack( ha ha who’s laughing now, there are like 10 of them left), Chris sparked up a blunt.  Now, there is weed and there is weed and then there is WEED.  For those who care to know basically three levels.   To make a comparison for all you Sideways loving, wine drinkers out there (yes that’s right, rock the fuck on grape fiends), this was the 1787 Chateau Lafite of weed.  Now, Chris is in no way a rookie bitch, I have seen him take down a six foot, three chambered bong and do simple math after.  Context be damned, Chris was stoned and actually giggled himself into a stupor, and shortly after in a euphoric coma fell asleep peacefully curled up in Jesus’s lap.  Chris says there is something unnatural about waking up in a graveyard.  I retorted that if your above ground your still pretty okay, never the less.  Chris sat up in a startled manner and actually decapitate Jesus in the process (fear not I’m sure that the grounds keepers were more then prepared to mortar his head straight back on and this wouldn’t be the first time Jesus died for sins.).  It was late spring but there was a perverted chill in the air.  He shivered and stood up rubbing his Jesus hammered head. 

            Now some could argue that it was the knock to the head or the expensive genetically enhanced weed, but the way Chris describes it, delusion doesn’t enter into the picture.  Apparently, just ten yards from where Chris was wobbling there stood two figures.   In the charcoal hues of the night, Chris thought there was a horse standing on its hind legs next to a woman who was dressed in a colorful sweater set of what could have been peach or mango.  After squinting and straining his ears it sounded as if beast and women were conversing in tongues.  Chris had never been to church before, being Jewish but the language did sound much like that of all those Zealots who get “saved” next to snake pits on tv.  Being terrified Chris wanted to run, but being literally petrified he stayed and observed.  The deep throated horse creature’s back was to Chris but he swore he could make out the silhouette of two steely horns atop the head of the beast in the moon light.  The women whose face was obscured by his view got down on her knees and bowed to the massive creature offering up gifts unseen.  Chris was completely dumbfounded.  This interaction went on for a few more moments, then,( and here is the part that Chris begins to weep.) a tornado of dark matter from the sky silently fell over the two figures and when Chris could see again the beast was gone and only the women remained.  By this point Chris was deeply apologetic for beheading Jesus and could only see this it as some consequence.  Balling himself up and repenting in the shadow of the beheaded Jesus, he heard the crisp footsteps getting closer.  He strongly felt that anyone who converses with that sort of beast might find an interloper such as himself to be a liability (clearly before camera phones, because CNN would have been all over this story before myself).  The women stopped three yards from where Chris was shivering in a pool of his own urine.  Then he heard a phone ring.  Without a moments hesitation the women flipped open her mobile and began screeching harpy commands and hurling insults.  This women was truly terrifying, the hot heat of hell was broiling under the surface of her words.  She must truly be the right hand of the devil beast, his ambassador on earth.  Then like finding a sweater you had forgotten you bought, Chris immediately knew the owner of the voice.  He couldn’t believe that he had not put it together sooner, and just as the shrew walked by dictating orders into her cell, Chris glanced up, and there as plane as Snoopy in the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade was the devil dealer herself, Martha Stewart dressed in what was clearly Mango. 

            Martha didn’t appear to notice Chris as see fled the cemetery.  Some time shortly after Chris ran home Forest Gump style and hid under his bed for a day or two.  To this day anyone who inadvertently uses the phrase “And that’s a good thing” in Chris’s presence can detect him let out a series of little whimper.  Some might find this story anecdotal but I find it disturbing.  I went to Martha’s pastel colored blog and it made me think; you can make a deal with the devil but just ask Martha, it might be at the cost of your soul.

After thoughts: The repercussions of this experience on Chris were tremendous.  Chris converted to Christianity shortly after the ordeal. He thanks Jesus for saving him and now only smokes pot from a bong in the shape of a cross filled with holy water.