The Captain’s Society for Happy Cannibals

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THE CAPTAIN’S SOCIETY FOR HAPPY CANNIBALS

1. Day one

Your first reaction while in a plane crash shouldn’t be,

“This doesn’t seem right,”

but for me that’s what it ended up being.

As the cabin pressure dropped,

I was filled with disappointment.

I felt like this, more than any other time,

would be an appropriate time

to freak out.

Everyone tried to stay so calm.

Even when the morning sky blossomed over

shards of minced plane cabin

& everyone’s prayers were answered

by the gusty howl of an apathetic God,

the people remained in utter silence.

It was annoying.

No beautiful women,

much less virgins,

offered themselves up for the taking,

fearing they would never know the touch of a man’s penis.

(Something I assumed would happen

in an overabundance

leading to the reverse problem

of there being only so much me to go around)

Unfortunately,

most of them

were apparently very loose

& did not have that curiosity.

My life flashed before my eyes.

It was mostly Internet TV & pay-per-view,

So at the end of the day

I really did get to indulge in the fantasy

of women clamoring for glances at my danger parts.

All the girls would be lustfully crying,

Surely there’s not enough time for us all!

But under the bullet,

precious seconds to spare,

I would make it in time.

They would all cheer my name.

The pilot would pull us out of the nosedive,

inspired by my bodily art

& I would enjoy the rest of the flight in business class,

Totally comped.

I considered taking my penis out to masturbate,

if only for one last time,

but reasoned if my privates were between my jean zipper

when the plane hit the ground

it might tear the whole thing off.

This was to be my first brilliant deduction of the adventure I was about to face.

I kept it in,

but the lady next to me totally knew I had a boner.

& for the record,

in case anyone ever asks,

plane crashes really hurt.

Like, a lot.

I am the sole survivor.

I am on an island.

This is all I know.

Literally everything.

    The island itself is rather large, in the shape of a bean or peanut with two large peaks at each “nut,” one of which looks suspiciously like a volcano though one can never really be sure of these things. Thick tree foliage plumes from the ground mere meters from the shore. The air is humid & sweet, while the wind brings wet salt to the lips. Under the sea gust a ripple of insect chirps beat away in the manner that only happens when it is seriously way too hot outside. Clouds have decidedly fucked off. The beach is sort of on fire with jet fuel. It could be between eleven thirty & two in the afternoon.

Still a little drunk from plane wine

or possibly concussed

I scavenged wreckage for supplies,

or at least the ones that weren’t consumed with flame.

A flight attendant corpse had peanuts in the breast pocket.

I took them, & felt my first dead boob.

I’m thirty.

The peanuts were warm.

It could have been the plane crash

or boob heat.

or the sun.

The sun looked at me kinda funny

so I masturbated.

    Ocean water warped sizzling steel & foam mixed with boiling petroleum, melting seat-belt plastic, flinging buckle clasp springs skyward shattered by the blaze. There were also people parts. It kind of put a damper on everything. If you could ignore that part, the silent drone of it all was quite mesmerizing. A finesse of nature colliding with a sudden release of entropy.

Finishing led to feeling famished.

I’m that good.

Although I was getting hungry,

I felt the need to create shelter before finding food.

I wandered into the tree groves behind the beach

& began gathering sticks of all shapes & sizes.

Years of Boy Scouts made this part fun.

I made a broom of fronds & cleared an area.

For hours, I Lincoln-logged sticks together

until I formed a small outhouse

just large enough to lie down in.

Then I layered palm leaves & smaller twigs

in a basic weave on top of the structure

& stepped back to admire the work I had done,

stranded on this island

with nothing but my wits & wilderness.

It looked exactly like a coffin.

After a quick, four minute weep

I realized I was thirsty

& still quite hungry.

A fire wouldn’t be too bad either.

I rushed back to the wreckage

to see if any of it was still burning.

There were embers, but nothing worthy of birthing fire.

I knew how to make a fire with sticks

in theory,

but never had to put it into practice.

I had a brainwave.

Piling dry leaves & grass

on the embers & blowing,

I began to coax smoke out of the embers.

After twenty minutes of huffing

smoldering airplane seat lining glue,

I had a small reasonably non-toxic fire.

The only problem was

it was nowhere near my stick casket camp.

I tossed a heavy log on the fire

& hustled back to my dwelling.

After assembling a second pile of kindling & plant husks,

I returned to the fire with a long dry stick to act as a torch.

This part became tricky

because the ocean breeze kept putting out the flame,

& the wood wasn’t all that flammable,

but after one,

or two,

or nine failed attempts

I managed to get a burning stick over to my camp

& make another fire.

    All the flora teemed with life. Each appendage of lithe tree sent squadrons of bugs, as diverse in color & size as the expired selections from a strip mall candy store, out into the fire; branches sighed whistling screeches while the liquid mold & moss flushed smoke. Some of the larger beetles withstood the initial shock of heat, managing to tumble out of the direct flames before their wings singed away in totality. Their broiled agony was dispatched swiftly & a snack source found.

The taste of roasted beetles

is almost like a fast food chain apple pie apple slice

prior to a thorough drenching in syrup & sugar,

that also happens to wriggle & twitch as you eat it,

as it throws itself through the insect equivalent of shock.

These cooked unevenly, albeit the beetles being blameless.

It would go well with box wine & sharp cheese.

The problem with appetizers is that they’re really just there to get you going.

Now I was starving, & very thirsty.

Bugs are salty.

From my camp,

I could barely make out the sound of a waterfall.

I decided food was more important at the moment.

I wondered if that lady had any other peanuts,

maybe hidden deeper in her boobies.

There was only one way to find out.

On my way back to the crash,

I wondered how long it takes

before people consider

& eventually partake in cannibalism,

& if one would inevitably get to that point,

then wouldn’t it be best to eat the lets say

flight attendant

sooner, rather than later,

lest the meat spoils?

    Her body appeared to be soaked in wine & jelly, but those were just organ parts. Aromatically, sand & blood are complimentary, particularly at night when a chilly gust is just about to set in, but at the same time no one thinks wearing a sun dress would be entirely inappropriate. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s quite lovely.

    She would have looked divine in a sun dress, (if you put all the chunks & bits back inside where they belong). Like the kind of girl who never drinks except for champagne, but when she does most always takes it far overboard. This woman’s death mask evoked an appearance of adorable incompetence, hours away from the precise moment when that kind of thing stops being cute.

    Not to say that she wasn’t a charismatic, professional flight attendant. She smiled at everyone, even the baby who boarded bawling; the kind of worker who knows these things will happen & embraces them as an opportunity to excel… It is hard to appreciate the fine, hard works of a person until you see them dead before you.

I’ve read that human tastes like pork,

which is supposed to be bad for the heart,

but isn’t human meat healthy?

Like, if “you are what you eat” is true…

I looked at the body.

I checked it for peanuts.

Thoroughly.

Nothing.

I’m super positive.

I wondered how hard it would be

to just pull an arm off.

That would hold me over for a long time.

It would also be easy to hold over a fire.

It turns out to be pretty hard.

The human body is well designed,

but after a few tough tugs

the arm came right off.

She was wearing an engagement ring.

I kept it.

Although I love rare steak,

I had the haunch of hostess very well done.

It needed seasoning

but the meat was fatty & really juicy.

I wondered if that would tide me over,

water-wise.

It was dark now.

I was exhausted.

Really thirst too.

I didn’t feel like wandering in the blackness for water,

so I went to sleep.

I had a wet dream for the first time in thirty years on this earth.

I dreamed I was plowing the one-armed air hostess.

I ate & banged her at the same time,

eating her out like no one has ever done before.

    The ocean, when warm & fouled, can taste a lot like blood. People meat could easily be cooked kalua style, but the flavors could be vanquished completely if cooked too long, & really if you’re going to have kalua human, surely you’d want the flavor intricacy of the primary ingredient to shine.

    Warm food & a woman’s touch can really calm a soul in its darkest times, so this was kind of a two for one thing. After a long day, it is nice to have a reward of some sort, circumstances notwithstanding. Belching left a bad aftertaste.

    Clear night skies & a feast of stars would have made a trained eye’s navigation & coordination easy. Unfortunately, “under the stars” does not suffice as a traceable position. The insect fanfare faded soft & mild into the waves of popping sea foam. An educated man might have been concerned & kept up by the complete lack of bird song as what that implies of his position relative to larger nearby land masses.

I slept fine.

2. Day 2

Woke up with sand in my foreskin.

Not a good start.

    The night compressed fire back to pulsing ember glows. Morning ushered gray ash in films upon a log, layered like manically applied dry lipstick on cracked skin. Even in an uncontrolled August hill blaze, fire never looks like it’s in much of a hurry. That’s probably what’s so terrifying about it; how calmly it destroys everything. You’ve probably never thought of a fire, “trying a little hard, aren’t we?”

Some things, like pizza or fried chicken

or spaghetti, taste better cold the next day.

Not this lady.

In all fairness, meticulously removing individual grains of sand from the raw end of a peeled back, unwashed, uncircumcised penis & then immediately handling food may cause contamination of the flavor spectrum.

After breakfast,

I wandered into the jungle

in search of water.

The sound of the distant waterfall

lured & serenaded my parched tongue,

singing siren melodies of promised relief.

Or it was the wind.

I’ve heard dehydration can make one hallucinate,

& if you are suffering from a dehydration induced hallucination,

I would imagine, like other hallucinogenics,

it’s best to stay positive.

    The deeper one plunged into the tits of the island (under certain angles & degrees of squinting, the peaks looked like misshapen– but still perky– breasts), the thicker the foliage & the higher the humidity. Roots of various trees entangled in contortions at once violent & sexual, forcing their way up above ground, leaving several smaller species dead & dried, their bodies now weights, scars & shadows of the ones who lived.

I came upon a coconut tree.

Afterwards, I cleansed all the semen from my hands,

put my penis away & realized

I had found a coconut tree,

solitary on a minor mounded hill.

    Its long, tender stalk, fibrous bark, wispy branch shadows & milky aroma coalesce; the coconut tree stands a defiant rogue in the fruit kingdom. A hard shell on the seed tells passing birds, “Go fuck yourselves.” Reservoirs of creamy nectar call  out to nature, who put it in such a hostile, dry environment. “Fuck you, dude.” Most likely, someone has died from a falling coconut, & if that coconut tree could be reached for comment, the first words out of its mouth would be, “Fuck that guy!” It really is a true American fruit. Strong, versatile & deep down to its core, white.

Wanting some of that milky goodness

I picked up a fallen baby coconut & hurled it at the larger

fruits on the tree.

As I watched it sail past the tree in complete silence,

I realized I should have just eaten the baby.

(I cannot tell you how many times I’ve had

realizations like that)

Feeling that the walking to recover the coconut

would expend too much energy,

I opted to climb the tree

& pull a coconut down instead.

I’ve always thought myself something of an athlete.

I never really did the rope climb in gym,

but I did the “sprint straights, walk corners” part of track really well,

& I figured most of those skills carry over.

Gathering strength, I hopped up

& before long, I was one-third up the tree.

I looked down.

I had jumped chest first into my tree-semen.

    When rain falls in musket ball sized drops, or a burst of sun spits through damp overcast, or when the wind blows & a guy cuts down a tree, but then one second too late realizes that the tree is primed to fall on his car or house, there’s a moment in the gust which sounds like a thousand trees’ euphoric sigh. It’s one thing to treat a tree as an individual, a soul per seed, a sort of unifying sense of oneness between beast & plant. Yet it is a completely different, dwarfing experience to try to view the forest as a collective organism, with each variety of towering tree being something as minor as a wiry hair on some sort of terrifying root-brain-network. The same logic could be extended to ants, or swarms of bees, & when you start applying it to humans the sense of unimportance one must feel most likely explains things like handlebar mustaches, & bedazzled vaginas.

Gathering all my strength to continue

the trek up the tree was nothing

compared to the mental strain required

to block out the fact

that my ejaculate

on freshly sunburned skin

felt pretty nice.

I could see over most of the island,

minus the rear of the peaks,

which from here looked a lot like twin volcanoes.

Thick tree cover coated the bulk of the land mass

except for a near-uniform beach ring encircling the peanut-boob island.

It was then I saw smoke rising in the distance

near the mountain’s summit;

not from a volcano,

but a bonfire by the mouth of a small waterfall.

I knew where I had to go.

Whoever made that fire was my best bet at getting home,

& wouldn’t those helpers be more willing to lend a hand

if they were greeted with gifts

of freshly picked coconuts?

I finished the climb

& grabbed the husky orb.

The shells of coconuts are not

the only tricky thing to break

on the coconut plant.

It is a universally durable form of life.

I looked down.

The baby coconut wasn’t too far,

maybe fifteen feet.

From the treetop, the smoke looked about three to five miles away,

a lot of that being mountain

so it would probably be a full day’s walk.

    If the peaks were indeed volcanic, then a simultaneous eruption would be pretty erotic. It was like looking at a girl in a really tight green knit sweater who suddenly lactates fire. Of course your first instinct is to see if she is surprised by this. She looks surprised, but almost in a posed kind of way. She looks as though she has dropped a handkerchief, but in a, “Well look at me” kind of way. She looks as though she would say “well, I do declare” but not in a classy way. The island was getting pretty hot.

    From the trees, one could see the “under-boob” part of the peaks. In order to reach the fire’s origin point, a route must be taken either through the crest, or around the side of the nearer peak, such that the mountain may be scaled at a shallower slope. Walking along the edge would be easier, & there would be no chance of getting lost, but would also take longer & keep the already dehydrated body in the sun & away from the (God willing) fresh waterfall that flowed through the valley. The choice was grimly obvious.

I had already gone nearly a full day without a drink,

two & a half if you don’t count

Wine & stewardess grease.

With an acceptably manly battle cry,

I pulled at the coconut

to the limits of my soul.

It didn’t budge.

& I didn’t want to pull any harder

for fear of falling

or injuring my soul.

The sun passed overhead.

It felt like 3pm.

No one, it seemed, would be having coconut water,

nor would they be eating coconut flesh.

There was always air hostess,

but that’s kind of a lot of red meat

& I have to start watching for those things.

Guess I’m just at that age.

There were no birds to be heard either.

Which is a shame, because

I cook a lot of chicken at home;

again, trying to watch the red meat thing.

Not that I don’t have fun.

I get my kebab on all the time.

Tandoori chicken kebabs are basically hot dogs

but the bun is meat

& the meat is a skewer.

It’s a lean protein alternative.

A lot of happiness

comes from lean protein alternatives.

Bugs are LPAs.

There are plenty of bugs.

The fourteen distinct types of bites on my legs confirm that.

Not giving much thought to it, I scratched my leg.

Slipping from the top of a tree

& realizing you’re about to be in a plane crash

are basically the same feeling

in different degrees of intensity.

One being on the “routine dentist appointment” level of anxiety

the other on the “tea-bagging a bear-trap while blind-folded” level.

My legs morphed into vices

clamping down on the trunk.

They held.

My arms did not.

I found myself hanging upside down.

My heart raced.

Hearts don’t race like that

unless you’re tea-bagging a bear-trap blind-folded.

My legs trembled; ankles locked.

Legs don’t tremble like that unless

you’re tea-bagging the bear trap blindfolded,

& then you hear a bear roar,

but it’s not an angry roar,

more of a, “wtf” roar.

Roar?

As I pulled my

My shirt fell over my face.

Especially the wet part.

Here were my options as I saw them.

1. Suicide.
2. Slide down slowly on my back.
3. Try to do some sort of flip, holding on with the arms, & flopping over backwards, then re-voicing the trunk with the legs (this would probably hurt my arms & privates & not work).
4. Do a sit-up,climb down as God intended.

I eliminated option B due to sunburn.

Option C, I will admit, was retarded.

So it was between A & D.

& I really hate doing sit-ups.

    The world upside down is like being indoors but there are no floors, you’re strapped to the ceiling & if you let go, the void-carpet hurls you into the sky & you die. The bedhead is also terrible.

    Some people like the feeling of blood pooling at their brain, most likely because they don’t get enough oxygen to the head & have, over a lifetime of being slightly deprived of brain-air, turned out as “simple” people who enjoy things like hanging upside down, & feeling that weird pressure in the eyeballs whilst inverted.

    Watching ocean waves upside down from a higher elevation is a sight to behold. They are like tiny hands reaching down from the night heavens only to be sucked & lifted up, curling in & sending that momentum up & out.

    Vomiting inverted bats who are about to get into a fight must be difficult to describe for the inarticulate. “Hey look! That one is gonna throw… up?”

Although I hated sit ups,

I decided to give them one last shot.

This is what 12 years of PE

& a community college Kundalini Yoga class were for.

Actually, I didn’t take PE

in my last two years of high school.

I remember swim unit.

They used to call me the Rainstorm,

not because one time I peed while jumping up & down on the diving board

but because I cried so much when some got in my mouth.

For the record,

I thought it was a reasonable amount.

I was not successful in the sit up.

Getting up the tree had taken

most of my stamina.

It was getting hard to hold on.

Adrenaline paraded through my veins.

I could hear my old gym coach yelling at me:

Why do you keep jumping up & down

on the diving board if you know the pee

is going to get everywhere?!

Because if I stopped & turned around,

I’d get pee on the diving board

& that is not only dangerous, but gross too.

But you know that don’t you, Coach Yelzner.

You got an Associate’s degree in sports medicine.

You know everything.

In spite of Coach Yelzner

& his stupid whistle tassel,

I wrenched myself upright.

Blood returned to my lower half.

It’s weird feeling blood go into your penis

for reasons totally unrelated to sex.

I reached out with all of my will

to two coconuts

that looked kind of like boobs

I grabbed them.

One flew off & fell to the ground.

But my grip

would not give this time.

Sliding down the tree

proved to be excruciating

on my ever-worsening sunburn

& I even managed to get a few blisters on the way down.

But honestly…

The semen helped a lot.

Not only did it act as a salve & lubricant

But there was a lot.

So I’m good.

I masturbated again.

Not for sexual purposes.

For functional purposes.

Functional lotion purposes.

Afterwards, I gathered the adult & baby

coconut & set about

trying to find a nearby boulder

to try to open one of them.

A pile of promising looking stones

presented itself not too far

from the coconut tree.

There were four in the pile.

A large, suitcase-sized mini boulder,

& three small stones,

ranging in size from an egg,

to a potato sized one

with a particularly fine edge.

I collected the three smaller rocks.

They looked nice.

Then I attempted to smash the large coconut

I had worked so hard for

on the largest of the stones.

At this point I was incredibly thirsty

& I wished I hadn’t masturbated so much.

I needed that moisture inside of me.

Coconut overhead, I brought it

crashing down on the rock.

Nothing.

    Exhaustion is feeling new muscles you didn’t know you had because now they hurt.  Running a marathon will get you tired. Fighting a bear, losing & then being dragged back to the den of cubs for dinner, still alive, fighting futilely,  throwing fists in panic & no real conviction, no hope of escape, into the bear’s unaffected pelt.

    Although maimed, you can so clearly see the ticks in its muzzle, the tartar in its teeth, how she’s licking blood from your leg as you are dragged by it & it feels kinda good for both of you & you have your moment but then you see mysterious white stuff coming out of you, & you know that’s not good, because what the hell is that, anyway? That’s exhaustion.

So very far beyond the scope of exhaustion,

I decided to indulge in a nap.

Or maybe this is what dying of dehydration feels like…

I woke up at sunset.

My skin itched & peeled.

No amount of semen would salve those sores.

    Purple streaks of sky formed fissures along the cloudless horizon. The insect symphony trumpeted, both the day bugs & nighttime cricket crooners embracing the brief span of late afternoon where their songs overlap. Cold wind lifted afternoon heat, smothered in the sand, whose warmth rested between the chilly sky & soaked sand beneath the beach. An unrelenting tide scorched & abandoned the shore with corpses of coral & uprooted seaweed, leaving despair for those who ever imagined the ocean could be kind.

I felt like I do right before the LSD kicks in.

Everything was “normal,”

but I obsessively checked to make sure

everything was normal

& that my toes couldn’t crawl away

if I stopped looking at them.

The coconut must die, I thought.

In a savage, semi-sexual, “I just woke up,”

kind of berserk, I laid waste to the fuzz on the fruit.

Using the sharp rock

I flogged & whacked away with steady determination,

in the way men with missing limbs know

they can’t really “full-body bang”

like their uncrippled counterparts

& focus on the stamina/duration thing instead

that we all know no woman really wants.

Now look at them,

beating world running records,

with those little shoe-infused, flippers.

A small crack emerged on the shell.

It was just enough

for a finger to bore its way

to the center.

Finally, I had a small stream of coconut milk.

Nothing ever tasted so good.

Creamy, refreshing water soaked

into my dry throat.

I think most people say coconut water hydrates

better than water

because the people who say it

have been stuck on desert islands

where their alternatives

are sea water, urine and sunstroke.

After drinking the contents,

My hands were covered in a mess

of spooge & coconut milk.

I heard if a jellyfish stings you,

urine disinfects it.

So I sterilized my hands.

With night sneaking in,

the sounds of the jungle converted

from a sleepy, hot afternoon drone

to the euphonic blitz of bugs hunting.

Unfortunately, I had no information

on what creatures sounded like what.

But there was a lot of clicking

& squeaking & it was all

quite terrifying.

Nearby, either a small raccoon,

or the biggest cricket in the world

garbled.

If it was a cricket,

it had quite a complex range of emotions.

Fear set in, so I threw the largest rock I had.

As it left my hand I recall thinking,

“This is a fuzzy rock…”

I was mistaken.

I had thrown the coconut.

There was a moo-like squawk

& the sound of a creature scampering away.

I wandered through low light

to retrieve my food

with the largest of the three stones

readied and raised like a club.

In intermittent moonlight

the black dampness of blood

was barely visibly

but squished slightly underfoot.

I felt proud

having hit the thing pretty hard by all accounts.

The dark outlined my destination

at the neck of the mountain.

One large fire blazed in the center of six or seven smaller burns.

I could make out the distant sound of drums,

some hooting

& three part harmonies

of a moo-like squawk.

Even from afar,

they seemed quite friendly.
For once I felt like things would finally be alright.

1. TO BE CONTINUED…