35 A Peanight Nutmare

[Stephen Whiteside]

35 A Peanight Nutmare

© Stephen Whiteside 17.11.2011

Horatio shuddered. A vision hovered before him. A familiar vision. A welcome vision. There was the peanut cow, with big round eyes and long black lashes, winking seductively at him. But then something changed. The lashes grew long, grotesquely long, and thick and black. The eyes grew large also, and developed swirls within them like all-day suckers.

The peanut cow became awkward and unnatural. Its legs changed, sticking out at odd angles, as though they were broken. Its fine skin took on a saw-tooth appearance. Its smooth brown colour disappeared also, to be replaced by rapidly changing, electrical-looking colours - bright orange, lime green, deep purple - until it last it transformed to the sinister black of death. It was surrounded by bright flashing lights that came and went in chaotic fashion.

It was no longer his beautiful peanut cow, the object of his dreams. It was now some sort of postmodern cow. A Picasso cow. Weeping Cow.

And then, unbidden, the peanut milk started to flow. He watched it squirt from the udders with the intensity of bullets from a machine gun. Or a laser beam perhaps. He felt it run against his feet. It was hot. It was acid, and began to burn his skin. And there was something wrong about the odour, too. It was rancid. That was it. It was off. Right off.

The hot, stinking, rancid acid milk began to rise. He could feel it creeping slowly up his legs until it reached his belly. Then it continued to rise, higher and higher, around his abdomen and chest, until his whole body was immersed in a sea of peanut milk. The level continued to rise around his neck and head. He lifted his nose to keep it clear until only his eyes and nostrils were in clear air. His feet seemed rooted to the ground. He was unable to float above it.

Then the level stopped rising. That was good. He was not going to drown. But now something else was happening. The peanut milk was churning, churning, and as it did so, it was becoming stiffer. Horatio was finding it hard to breathe. He realised what was happening. He was being suffocated in a sea of rancid peanut butter. He breathed in with all his might, trying to stretch his rib-cage against the enormous wall that pushed back like hot concrete. It was no use. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die. He began to panic. Harder and harder he strained, using every ounce of muscle and sinew, but the peanut butter would not yield.