7WEASELS RIPPED MY FLESH
Ostensibly, the viewer is supposed to take one look at this painting and think, "Jesus, can you imagine being caught in that awful situation? However will that man survive?"
That's the intent, anyway. But really look at that picture: What that man is displaying is not fear. That man is not displaying concern, or anxiety, or a will to survive. What he is displaying, very proudly and enthusiastically, is a club made out of the very same animals that are attacking him. The berserker rage has overtaken him so completely that he is actually beating them with their own kind.
Now, look at the direction of the water -- there, in the lower right hand corner.
See it? The water looks like it's flowing over something doesn't it? What's going on there? A reasonable man might assume the obvious: It's a waterfall, probably located just out of frame, thus adding even more tension to the already dramatic tableau.
But this is not artwork for the reasonable man.
This is the artwork of the mad and the damned, and it takes a sinful maniac to understand it. So allow me to explain: This man is not the victim of a sudden and unexpected attack. This man has never been a victim in his entire life. This man has simply constructed a sluice system that funnels angry weasels into the shirtless dam of howling fury that he has formed at its terminus.
But ... why?
Curiosity, of course. Some men climb mountains simply "because they are there." Some men fight a hundred weasels in an aqueduct simply "because I'm pretty sure I could take them."
6GIVE ME BACK MY ARM
The title of this story says it all. It reads:
"GIVE ME BACK MY ARM"
All capitals, no punctuation. That statement does not suggest a cry of fear, an exclamation of surprise or a plaintive plea. No, it is a direct, loud, firm command; as one would order a dog to drop errant table-scraps, so is this man ordering a savage river predator to release his limbs or suffer the consequences.
And oh, poor thing, it looks to be firmly mid-suffer.
But, hey -- don't feel too sorry for the beast, it's like the old saying goes "sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you ... and then your only option is to uppercut your way out from inside of its goddamn mouth."
...Editor's note: I have no idea what Sex Storms are, or what exact meteorological perversions they entail, but I've just burnt my entire paycheck on sandbags and condoms, and I would describe my current attitude as "dreadfully optimistic."