Ten years ago I had the fortune of meeting an Apache Indian from southwestern Arizona. I call him don "Bob". I made don "Bobs" acquaintance under the most fortuitous circumstances. I was sitting with Miguel, a friend of mine, in a brothel in a border town. Suddenly he leaned over and punched me in the face.
"Act casual," he said in a low voice as I hit him over the head with a bottle, which started a general melee. "There's the guy I was telling you about," he said over the escalating din.
He pointed him out by throwing a knife toward the Indian who had just walked in. "He's the Indian that knows about 'Frop. Remember?"
I remember how, in a tequila daze, Miguel had told me about a mysterious Apache 'pueto' (a 'saucier', or practitioner of 'whatcraft') who was highly skilled in the ways of pleasure, and who always had available to him large quantities of the mysterious substance talked of in whispers in dark, dangerous places.
'Frop, if it could be synthesized by some of my chemistry student biker friends, could make us a bloody fortune on the black market. I figured, what the hell, and pulled my trusted .38 from my pocket, and advanced through the brawl toward the grinning Indian.
"Gimmee your 'Frop, asshole, or I'm going to blow yer fookin' head off!", I said with a snarl. But the Indian just stood there, with a stupid grin, and a pipe stuck out of the corner of his mouth. "Comprende Ingles, dickweed?," I said, but he just kept grinning at me.
After a pregnant pause, I pulled the hammer back and was going to drop a round right between his horns, when a single word issued from his lips.
"Padiddle."
I was stunned. Hypnotized. Transfixed. And by the time I finally let slip with a round, it only punched air before neatly castrating a cuckoo clock. The Indian was gone. I was dazed and at a loss for words. Miguel had to drag me out of there before the fight ended and we would be expected to pay up, or before the authorities arrived and we would be expected to pay up more.
But I couldn't let it end there. The trick that the old Indian had pulled on me--I had never felt anything like it.
I had to search out that Indian and beat the shit out of him before I felt I could regain my composure. In my search I regained enough equanimity to consider whether I should kill him first, or get the secret to 'Frop and then kill him.
July 6, 1978
It was only after years had passed that I am able to reconstruct what happened, the events as they occurred at this second meeting with the inscrutable don "Bob".
The reason for this was that after I had tracked him down to a house in Muerto Farto, Mexico, he invited me in, then, offering me a chair, which I gladly accepted, he then pulled the chair out from under me, which sent me sprawling. Apologizing profusely, he said that it was the custom of the Apaches of southern north Mexico to pull cruel practical jokes. Helping me up, and making a great show of brushing the dust from my sweat-drenched shirt, he then maneuvered behind me. Then, with the prowess of an NFL placekicker, he deftly kicked me in the balls as hard as he could.
I fell to the floor in agony. The room swirled about me in shades of amber as brilliantly colored spots appeared before my eyes. I could only inhale in brief gulps of air.
Without further delay, he then explained that he had just created in me a profound state of "unnatural irreality," in which my mind would have the proper clarity and focus to understand what he was then going to divulge to me.
He explained, as I twisted and contorted on the floor, that he was far more than just a mere 'pueto', that he was, in fact, a "Man of Knockwurst". He then dropped his pants to reveal what must have been the largest, burliest, tanned and heavily muscled penis that I had ever seen.
A Man of Knockwurst uses his pecker (he used the Spanish word, 'Huankero') to accomplish the most extraordinary feats, he said. I was barely able to gurgle the question, "Huhnn?"
He then dragged me, still contorted and in great pain, out to his back porch. Here, he said, I must search on these boards for a hidden knothole--a knothole of "power."
I then inquired of him as to how I might use some sixth sense, some innermost ability, to locate this unbelievable abstraction of a pine hole. "Huhnn?," I said.
Use your dick, stupid, was all the advice he would offer. After a while, the swelling of my testicles had peaked, with my balls about the size of tangerines, so I was able to slowly roll around on the floor like a log. But each time I came to rest on my face, the pain intensified to the point where I was about to pass out. But I could not detect any hidden flaw in the otherwise perfect boards. Soon I was exhausted, and when my balls inadvertently fell out under my right leg, and I rolled on them, the pain was so intense that I passed out.
Don "Bob" awakened me perhaps an hour later. He cheerfully announced that I had passed the test. I did not understand him at first, the numbness of my groin hiding the fact that I had indeed located the hidden knothole. I had done this by punching the knot out of that particular board with my penis, which still protruded through the porch floor.
Before he could say anything else, I heard a vicious growling sound beneath me. Suddenly I had an agonizing sensation as something strongly bit down on my dick. I screamed in pain and amazement. Don "Bob" grabbed me by the hair and tried unsuccessfully to pull me up. The incredible force that had latched on to my penis continued to growl and slather. Finally, with a pull that tore out a handful of hair, don "Bob" managed to get me out of there. The shine in his eyes told me that he was laughing inwardly as he slapped his thigh.
An excellent 'indication' (he used the Spanish word, 'damien'), he said, admiring the bleeding bite wound on my manhood. He then said that I had been selected to learn even more of his hidden knowledge, by a mysterious force that he would only call "The Pitbull of Power."
I then promptly passed out again.
July 7, 1978
When I finally awoke, I found that I had been moved to a different house. Don "Bob" was not to be seen, but in his place was an equally imposing woman. "So," she said, "the sleeper has awakened." She then reached beneath the chair that she was sitting on and pulled out a large box.
"You may call me dona Connie," she said. Don "Bob" left this package here for you." I tried to sit up, and with much effort, I was able to rise to my feet, bowlegged like a 'caballero' (a Spanish horseman). I then realized that I was naked, except for my shoes. My blackened, swollen testicles and penis covered with scabs and dried blood testified to the fact that my previous experience had not just been a nightmare caused by 'shrooms', cane whiskey and peyote; altogether not an uncommon experience; but instead had been something truly strange and wonderful.
Dona "Connie" then said that don "Bob" had left this box for me, not as a gift, but as another test to see if I indeed had enough 'cajones' to learn anything else from him.
I said, "Fuck that shit, I'm outta here!," foolishly, for all she had to do was pucker her lips and forcefully inhale, and I found my penis instantly erect, my whole body involuntarily dragged toward her mouth by my dick.
But within a foot of her face, she quickly substituted the box for her head, and my penis was drawn uncontrollably inside. "Do not withdraw your penis, young human," she said. To which I asked, "Have other men tried to do this?"
Then she said, "Many men have tried."
"They tried and failed?," I said.
"No, they tried and died," was her response. Within the box, suddenly I felt a peculiar itching, then an aching, and a moment later it felt like my penis was on fire!
"Yeeehow!," I shouted, and pulled my dick out. It was on fire! "Owowowowow!," I shouted as I patted it out. "Good move," said dona "Connie", "most guys are stupid or macho enough to let it get char-broiled before pulling it out. You have possibilities." She then doubled over in laughter.
Don "Bob" then entered the room. He was stirring the contents of a large mixing bowl. He said that the bowl contained a powerful healing mixture and that, unless I rubbed it all over my genitalia, my dick and balls would surely rot and fall off. Looking down at the pitiful wreck that was left of my courting tackle, I had to agree that they had seen better days.
"Well, fuck you both, I'm going to a hospital!," I said, before they told me that they had already stripped my car and sold the parts. I was in despair. So reluctantly, I took the bowl from don "Bob", then slowly and gingerly began to apply the smooth and pasty substance by the handful, heedless of the globs falling on their wall-to-wall shag carpeting.
I was almost completely covered when dona "Connie" chipped in and said, "Oh, you shouldn't use more than a tablespoon. Any more than that could be dangerous."
"Oh, merde!," I said, having already applied the better part of a pint. "What the hell is in this stuff?"
"Oh, let me see, said don "Bob": lizard entrails, goat bile, mashed bananas, a cup of parrot shit, monkey semen, squid ink, and a healthy dollop of 'Frop."
"But then again," he said, "I might have forgotten to put in the 'Frop." His statement made them both laugh uncontrollably.
I felt a sweat break out on my forehead. Suddenly, I was propelled to a strange and alien landscape. The ground was dry and dusty, except for the hard black surface on which I stood. A thick dotted white line, extending to the horizon bisected the black pathway. I noticed a small treelike object, metallic in appearance, with a thin body and rectangular head at the side of the black pathway, when instantly some force directed my attention to what appeared to be a plated, two dimesional, tailed entity lying on the pathway. A mucous-like brownish fluid seemed to be extruding from the entity in all directions. It had a strange zigzag pattern across its back. I felt compelled to reach down, pull off a big piece of the entity and pop it in my mouth.
Then a disembodied voice off to my right said, "Hay greengo watchu eatindat ramadillo forhuh," which I inherently knew was the chant I was to use in the future to summon the great teaching spirit whose name was "Chingadumadre". I then ran off into the dusty area, faster and faster, until I blacked out.
When I came to, don "Bob" was standing over me, still wearing that grin which never seemed to leave his face. I could tell from the shine in his eyes that another test was soon to come. Helping me to my feet, I soon discovered that I was back in the house, my clothes had been replaced with the simplest of Indian peasant garb, my wallet and watch were missing, and my tattered shoes and feet were covered with cactus thorns.
He assured me that such things as personal possessions were in fact obstacles to my progress, and that he had already sold them at the downtown market. He mentioned that "Connie" had also used my credit cards to their limit, to strike a blow at the evil credit card companies.
Just imagine them trying to collect from you now that your bank account has been emptied, and your house sold to my bookie, he said.
I was still emotionally insensitive, due to my recent experience with "unnatural irreality," but I started to cry anyway. He sensed that my self-pity was running away with me, so without further comment, he reached down and squeezed my testicles almost to the point of rupture, propelling me back into a state of obliterated conscientiousness.
Again I saw stars and bars. But this time, as he was dragging me into another room, I looked up to see something most unexpected. For lying on a sofa, in a daring negligee, was a gorgeous teenage Indian girl. I could see her pert breasts with hardened nipples straining at the sheer fabric, and looking down, I could not help staring at her moist, shaved femininity that she was impatiently caressing with her fingertips. Her mouth was open and she delicately ran her tongue over her teeth, as if to say, "right here, right now." Looking at her, I forgot my pain.
Don "Bob", his grin now looking more like a rude leer, then said to me that I should be very grateful to this virgin, for she was going to instruct me in an art of love.
I should have listened more carefully to what he had just said: "AN art." For before I realized what was going on, he had placed my head and hands in a makeshift plywood pillory--a surprisingly strong one. The Indian girl then teasingly glided before me to an end table, and removed an enormous, strap-on leather dildo from it, then tied it about her hips. Since that day, flatulence retention has ceased to be a problem.
July 8, 1978
The next morning, I awoke with such a dreadful feeling that I thought I was surely going to die. My aches and pains were such that I thought I could no longer endure. Little did I know that my training had just begun.
Don "Bob" and "Connie" both felt that I could progress to the next step, but one which was so arduous and difficult that they felt inclined to tell me about it ahead of time, to cushion its impact on my sensibilities.
You have heard of the famous 'Buns of Steel', so admired in the Estados Unidos?, he asked. Well, today, we will perform the exercise that shall forevermore give you the 'Huankero of Iron'. No more shall you have to worry about performance in the bedroom, or kitchen, hallway, carport, or even on network television.
"You people are all friggin psychos, you know that?," I said, "If you let me out of this place I am going to get the biggest shotgun I can buy, load it with dimes, and splat yer carcasses from here to Hermosillo!"
It was a comment that they thought was hilarious. So, shoving two bent fingers up my nose, "Connie" took me to the bathroom to wash my mouth out with harsh lye soap. Gagging and choking, my mouth and throat burning from the lye, she then took me into a room with nothing in it but a large post in the middle standing next to a tall anvil.
Then don "Bob" entered, wearing only skin-tight lederhosen, a hockey mask, and scuba flippers, and carrying a sledge hammer. They both chained me to the post, and I didn't even start to struggle until they laid my pecker on top of the anvil. Dona "Connie" exited, then re-entered wearing an obscene spandex body suit, with strategic holes cut in it, and carrying a portable hand cranked generator. She affixed the alligator clamps from the generator leads to my nipples. The pain was so great from the clamps, I did not even see don "Bob" coming down with a full swing of the sledge hammer onto my dick. Clang! The force lifted him off of his feet.
"Arrragaheeearrgh!," I grunted through my burned throat, my froglike voice jumping an octave as dona "Connie" cranked up the generator, sending amp after amp through my chest.
Whenever I would pass out, the Indian girl, now naked, would throw a pot of ice water in my face. This process alternated for hour after hour. After half a day of delirium, my mind finally cleared enough to look at what was going on.
Both don "Bob" and dona "Connie" were covered in greasy sweat, but were methodically and tirelessly pressing on with their tasks. The Indian girl, in the pauses of my consciousness, had taken to pleasuring herself off in one corner of the room, with what appeared to be a plucked raw stewing chicken.
Little did I suspect how startled I would be when looking down at what I figured would be only a bloody spot on the anvil by now--to find instead my penis--fully intact and erect, easily withstanding the fiercest blows of don "Bobs" sledge hammer! Looking up, I was also surprised to see that the head of the hammer had now become curiously deformed, seemingly from repeated violent contact with some unbelievably hard, round surface.
Had that mysterious substance that I had painted my genitalia with caused such a transformation? I had to admit that my now-healed equipment had never looked better. It almost seemed, no, it was the case, that every time it took a hammer hit my penis was growing, both in length and girth!
My nipples also seemed to have benefitted. The alligator clamps were now overextended to the point of breaking from the strain of the powerful erectile tissue now active in them.
Then almost without thinking about it, my butt cheeks contracted-- and bit a chunk out of the post I was chained to. With a feeling of sheer joy, I busted a fart of such velocity that another piece of the post was blasted away.
Sensing my recovery, both don "Bob" and dona "Connie" finally stopped. The Indian girl ignored all of us and pressed on.
EPILOGUE
There was a tear in my eye as I bid a fond farewell to my teachers, their tolerance for guests having ended all too soon. For after they drugged me and dumped me in the desert late at night, I realized that theirs was but a dissapearing vestige of an earlier, gentler age. A time when the gentle art of hanging someone upside down from a tree and starting a small fire under their head, or pounding shell casings through their kneecaps, or burying them in an anthill with honey poured on them has been supplanted with our modern european traditions of endorphine suppresants, black neurosurgery and high pressure air hoses in the rectum.
I suspect that I was taught far more than I remember, don "Bobs" techniques transcending ordinary recall, and only after a long and arduous process will I ever be able find out why I am now able to lick my eyebrows, or why July 8, 1998 is such a very important date.
Original file name: Don "Bob"- an Apache Sense
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