08 January 2008

The Mist

A heavy fog bank rolled in last night and enveloped us in our home. What is fog, really? Just low lying clouds. Low down dirty dog clouds that have sunk to new levels, on the run from Johnny Law, dropping into the cut and out of circulation until the hounds are called off. Stomping across my backyard and stealing clothes off the line. "Hey, now, old timer, nevermind who I am. I'm gonna need to borrow a hammer and a chisel to get this here chain off from around my legs. Oh, and you got any food in there?"

There are only two things that will get rid of a fog bank - sunlight and wind. Fog, then, is in the same family as darkness and stagnation. That blurry quiet that overtakes a landscape just before all Hell breaks loose.

All the old stories from the Old Country tell us to beware of the fogbank. It brings strange and dreaded things with it: Warlocks, witches, devils, demons, gryphons, ghouls, pirates, gypsies, skinwalkers, vampires, hell hounds, blood monkeys, mutant dwarves, killer clowns, imps, chimps, spaceships, death dealers, grifters, shysters, insurance salesmen, pharmaceutical representatives, ad agency executives, and so on. It brings the undead.

Fog obeys its own laws and no one else's. Renegade cuts of cloud. Anti-clouds. Outlaws. Folk heroes? Nah. Just bad muthaf*ckas.

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