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The Walls Were Made of Mud

September 12, 2012

The room was warm and desert-like. There were no windows. The walls were made of mud. We were in Turkey. A deal was made. I had made some faux pas.

It wasn’t a problem, but part of my punishment was that I had to be bitten by a viper.

“Will it hurt?” I asked.

“Of course it will hurt,” the man with the olive skin replied.

“Will I die?”

“No, you won’t die. But it will last a while.”

I agreed to do it. He took out the angry-looking viper and held it against my index finger. It pierced my skin. It didn’t hurt too much.

“Now what happens?” I asked.

“You go mad. Now.”

Then my world fell apart. The tip of my finger swelled up like a red marble. My world fell away. Object fell through the floor, one by one. My testicles swelled and shrank. Words appeared in the darkness, then dropped away like an insane power-point presentation. Images of vipers and cobras slithered around everything. I didn’t know which way was up.

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