The Deviants Rendezvous

John McConnell was a deviant. He was also a god.

I once saw him quench a cigarette butt in a Salvation Army donation box. With the same hand, I watched him guide a frail elderly woman across the deathly streets of Wellingdale.

I will be the first to admit that I was deeply enamored by the man’s enigmatic persona. But, was it he I was most curious about, or was it my own interest in his deviance I was looking to explore?

John was the wind that announced the tornado right before it struck. Some people would argue that he was the tornado itself. On those rare occasions, I had both the fortune and misfortune of stealthily feeling his pulse. On first contact, I felt the familiarity that came with interacting with a fellow human. It was a warm tinge, and though fleeting, I was just glad to be made aware of its existence. A few more seconds of willing my nerves into venturing into uncharted territory, I found exactly what I was looking for; John McConnell was me.

After three long hours of driving along muddy roads with potholes bigger than the heart of the nefarious shuttle bus driver who had led us onto this hideous adventure, we finally arrived at Creek-Ol-Dally. It was a destination deserving of its name. Perhaps the trip would have not been so terrible had it not been for the heavens deciding to pick that particular afternoon to express their wrath against mankind’s disrespect of the eco-system.

The sun had waged war on Adam’s descendants. Perhaps the Lord had come to collect on His dues, for how else was one to explain the heat coursing through our bodies and burning our skins in such hellish fashion? I knew a day would come when I would have to pay the price for stealing my Sunday School teacher’s notepad twenty-three years ago.

I knew it was time to act when I felt my armpits exchange pleasantries with the last drop of fluid that had been keeping me sane through the long drive to the devil’s cabin. I quickly retouched my lipstick behind the shuttle bus and confidently walked over to John who was now on his seventh smoke since our departure. A single tap on his shoulder and he was facing me. I silently hurled expletives at the curtain of smoke blocking my view of what must have been the finest of the male specimen at hell Creek-Ol-Dally.

“Hey Sammy!” The enthusiasm with which he greeted me send shocking waves straight to my Fallopian tubes and short-circuited my whole reproductive system into forming a mini-John fetus. “Sorry about the smoke,” he said, making a futile gesture of redirecting the smoke towards the reception of the Creek.

Just great, as if the place didn’t have enough airy spirits already hanging from its cobwebs.

“We need water,” I said on behalf of my nineteen colleagues excitedly taking pictures behind us so they could feed their social media alter egos.

“It’s burning hot isn’t it?” He said, fanning his chest by pulling his t-shirt up and down.

He was deliberately feeding my eyes on very tight and defined abs begging to be touched. In just five seconds, my overindulgent eyes had turned me into a full blown glutton.

I swallowed, hard. My womb was creating space for another zygote.

John grinned, he had me exactly where he needed me to be.

“They have everything set for us in the cafeteria,” he said. He was back into his usual tour guide mode. “I’ll just make a quick announcement to everyone and then you can follow me to a special place where we can quench your thirst. Deal?”

I do, yes, I will marry you. It was all in my head but all John saw was me profusely nodding my head into a three-dimensional migraine.

An hour later, I was knocking on the door of John’s special place.

“How do you like your men served?” John asked as he handed me a glass of red wine. “Deadly, or deary?” He was gently stroking the side of my face while his piercing eyes rendered all my senses but one, numb.

“Deadly,” I answered, taking a sip of the bloody-colored wine.

“I was hoping you would say that,” John said, grinning.

I was in good company.


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