Interview With a Daltonius, Part Deux

Ladies and gentlemen, the long awaited moment has come and gone, and now I eagerly impart my second experience with the man-beast Daltonius upon all who are willing to hear. For those of you with weak constitutions, I suggest you turn back immediately, for the sordid tale of which you are about to be told may very well liquefy your insides and cause you to expel them in a bout of explosive diarrhea.

After a long drive into the most desolate regions of the appropriately named Death Valley, where summer temperatures commonly exceed well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, I arrive at the EPA's specially designed Ultra-Contaminant Sanitary Disposal facility. This compound, which currently holds over a million tons of depleted uranium, decommissioned chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons, and other miscellaneous hazardous wastes, also houses the creature Daltonius, who until his relocation hounded the people of Fresno, California with the rarest of degenerative chronic health issues, merely via his own proximity to the citizenry.

I approach the main gate and flash my ID to the guard. He clears me and waves me through, pointing me to the Director's office. A few moments later I'm standing in front of his desk. He has the look of a man who's seen everything in the realm of environmental catastrophe that there is to see.

"Please, have a seat," he says gravely. I do. "So, you're here to see Daltonius?" The simple question comes off as more of a statement of foreboding than anything else. I indicate that I am in fact here to see the beast. "Well, we have a few things you'll need to sign, and there're also some health related questions I'll have to ask you before we can proceed." He begins to read down a list in front of him. "Do you or does anyone in your family have a history of susceptibility to skin cancer?

"No."

"Do you suffer from chronic low sperm count, possibly as a result of exposure to small doses of radiation?"

"No."

"Do you or does anyone in your family have a history of hypersensitivity or allergies related to exposure to trace amounts of the following chemicals..."

He begins to list off a number of rather frightening sounding substances, among the more recognizable ones are arsenic, mercury, and cat dander.

"I am fairly allergic to cats, sir."

"Okay, well, you'll have a full body hazmat suit on with compressed air circulation so you should be fine. The thing is he... he likes to wear cats." There is an awkward pause in the conversation. "Last question. Do you or does anyone in your family have a history of heart issues, especially those related to cardiac arrest suffered through exposure to the shockingly perverse and unholy?"

"Um... no. I guess... no."

"Alright, just sign these waivers and your ready to go." He tells me this solemnly, like a doctor informing a patient that he's got a month to live. I sign, and then I'm directed to a locker room where a lab technician helps me into my hazard suit.

"So you're here for Daltonius," he says to me, "I have to feed him from time to time. Everyone here takes turns. I... I puked all over the inside my suit the first time I saw him. I... oh God... Christ, just go." He points me through a door, then sits down on a bench and begins crying softly to himself.

I wind up outdoors again, and a guard escorts me to the holding pen, a square block of 20 foot high electric fencing, stretching about a quarter mile in length and width. At each corner is a guard tower, where I can see men vigilantly training high powered rifles towards the inside. There's actually a second layer of fense behind the outermost one, and between these two layers is a mote which the guard tells me is 15 feet wide and 10 feet deep. "Daltonius might enjoy being electrocuted as he tries to climb the fences, but he can't swim for shit," he explains, "Besides, clean water makes him convulse, like this:" The guard leans forward slightly, cups his mouth into a perfect circle, and begins shaking uncontrollably while uttering "Oh! Oh!" many times over and over again.

He finishes his impression and straightens up, getting serious. "Okay, so once you're in there, you're on your own. He's scheduled to be fed in about 15 minutes, so another guard should be around shortly. Not my turn today, thank God. You'll probably be able to find Chi-mo over there under that big boulder,' he points to a large boulder lying close to the middle of the pen, a few hundred yards in the distance, "He likes to, um, play in there." The guard enters a code into a keypad by the huge main gate. An alarm wails and the doors begin to slowly slide open. "Good luck," he says, "and oh, whatever you do... don't ask him about his mother. Just some friendly advice."

I thank him and proceed through the doors, getting a taste of how elaborate a system of security they've got set up. The door closes behind me and the alarm shuts off, then a bridge begins to extend across the mote. I cross the bridge, and once safely to the other side, it retracts. Finally, the door in the second layer of fence opens, and I'm inside.

I scan my surroundings. The inside of the pen is much like the outside, just a cordoned off segment of a wide, level expanse of never-ending salt flats. The sun bears down upon me cruelly, turning the inside of my suit into a humid, sticky mess. Not even the slightest breeze flutters by to alleviate the temperature. The setting is eerily quiet and still, aside from the waves of heat that rise off the desert floor ahead of me, turning the distant boulder into a shapeless, wobbly mirage. Daltonius is nowhere to be seen.

I begin walking towards the big rock. As I do, I notice something else. Between me and boulder are the charred remains of what appear to have at one point been some sort of dwelling. As I approach the wreckage, the smell of burnt rubber, feces, and urine somehow permeates my suit and attacks my olfactory glands. I notice a note caught under a blackened wooden beam, and read it.

Memo to Live Subject #0001

Daltonius,

The administration at this facility has sought since square one to provide you with as humane a living situation as possible given the circumstances. However, since this is the third habitat in two months that you've managed to burn down with your own filth, we feel disinclined to build you a new one.

Regards,
The Director

P.S. You disgust me.

The note also has a number of crudely drawn phalluses scratched in the margins. I pocket it and trudge onward towards the boulder. There still is no sign of Daltonius, other than the destroyed house. I arrive at the rock and begin to circle it. I can feel myself getting closer, not just in my gut but in my nose. The odor, which hasn't receded since I reached the wreckage, is becoming overpowering. The other side yields a dugout area of sand which provides a kind of shelter beneath the boulder, about ten feet in diameter. This is where I make contact once again with the truly and utterly depraved soul that is the creature Daltonius.

As I round the corner, I see him sitting there, on a pile of his own excrement, gnawing on what appears to have been a squirrel. He looks up at me slowly. A large grin slides across his face, and he bolts up alarmingly fast, spreading his arms like he was being crucified. Holding his arms out stiffly, but letting his hands flap about loosely, he comes loping towards me, giggling insanely. "HEHEHEHE! GIGGLES!" he shouts in a freakishly high voice. He stops abruptly in front of me and spins his upper torso around, slapping me in the face with one of his flailing hands, then knees me in the groin. I crumble to the ground and double up into a fetal position as excruciating pain roars through me.

"HAHA, OWNED!" he says. The next thing I know, he's squatting over me with his bare ass directly above my head. "What the hell are you doing?!" I manage to say.

"HEHEHE, just marking my territory!" he says in that new and unexpected high pitched voice of his. I fumble through one of the suit's pockets frantically. My hands wrap around the small metal cylinder. I spin around on the ground as best I can and attempt to spray the mace into Daltonius' decrepit little mug. His ass is in the way.

"OH GOD, IT BURNS!" he screams, clawing at his pepper spray riddled hindquarters. He begins hopping around frantically while I patiently wait for him to calm down. While he screams and writhes in well-deserved agony, I observe his abode.

Allow me to describe his living situation, again. It really is pretty Spartan to say the least, but even the Spartans probably had a sense for sanitation. The sand actually swoops deep beneath the rock, making for a small cave with a surprisingly high roof. I first take note of where he sleeps. He has made a mattress of sorts out of what appears to be a pile of dead and rotting desert creatures. These include jack rabbits, birds, chipmunks, and snakes, all decomposing together in a symphony of fly and maggot infested degeneracy. "Every one of the little fuckers dies when I look at them," he says proudly. "Go figure."

Then there's his computer, which he at one point used to pollute cyberspace much the same way he does the natural environment. The last time I was with him, I had to give him credit, as he actually had a real computer, with internet access, nonetheless. Now, thanks to an advanced state of dementia, he has upgraded to a disgusting, moldy old pizza box from Domino's with a face drawn on it where the screen is supposed to be. He does still have a legitimate mouse however, and he's jammed its USB connector into the side of the box, which seems logical in a deranged kind of way. Much like in my previous interview, the "laptop" is placed upon a desk made entirely out of petrified crap, with a matching chair. "When I eat sand, it comes out that way," he says to me.

Speaking of crap, it’s everywhere. He seems to have developed to a point where he'll actually deficate in a designated area, however this means little since he appears to have about nine or ten "designated areas" located throughout his hole. It even looks like he's molded some of his stool deposites into topiaries in the likeness of giraffes and giant phalluses and such. One of them looks like a young school boy. "That's my favorite," he says to me with relish.

By this point the effect of the spray has just about worn off. "So, are you ready to answer some questions?" I ask him. He sits down at his shit-spawned desk and chair and begins rolling the mouse around, staring at the "screen."

"Yeah sure, whatever." With the bloodlust receding, his voice has returned to normal.

Olivonius: So, Daltonius, what do you think of your relocation?

Daltonius: It's fucking sweet. I'm so glad I transferred.

O: You "transferred?"

I was surprised at his choice of words.

D: Oh yeah, that septic tank was totally beneath me. I needed a place where I had room to practice my art.

O: Your art? Are you referring to these sculpted piles of feces?

D: Yeah. In the septic tank, I didn't have enough room, so I just had to shit on the ground and leave it there. Now I can make semi-lifelike statues out of it. It's really a passion of mine. Go suck a cock by the way.

O: Does it ever get lonely way out here?

D: No, there's my animal friends for one thing.

He points to the rotting pile of dead fauna.

D: And then there's the people who come to feed me. Here comes food right now.

A guard enters the cave, with one hand on his holster and the other one on a tray holding curly fries and a can of Pepsi. He's pretty big and looks like he won't take too much shit. He places the food in front Daltonius and then backs off, standing attention a few feet away. "I have to watch him and make sure he actually eats it..." he mutters to me. He notices my confused look and says, "...through his mouth. Don't ask." Daltonius grabs a curly fry off the tray and offers it to me. Or rather, he tells me to take it.

D: Food up, bitch.

O: I'd rather not.

D: O-M-F-G. God, whatever. More for me then.

He rapidly begins to stuff himself. In mid chew his face contorts into a look of disgust.

D: Oh my God, what is this? This is garbage!

He looks up at the guard.

D: What the fuck are you people trying to do, poison me? Christ!

The guard stares back at him, unflinching. Daltonius extends a hand towards him and begins snapping irritably.

D: *snap snap* Hey asshole! *snap* This stuff tastes like shit.

The guard returns a level, inexpressive gaze.

D: Fine, you know what? You know what?

He picks up the tray and throws it out the exit like a frisbee. Food splatters everywhere; it's still far from the most disgusting thing coating the walls however.

D: Get me a new one. Refill, now.

The guard doesn't budge.

D: Hey asshole, did you hear what I said? Refill, now!

He approaches the guard and gets right up in his face.

D: I said refill, bitch!

He slaps the guard soap opera style, then squeals in fright and runs to the opposite end of the cave, where he curls up into a cringing little ball.

D: Oh God, please don't hurt me!

The guard slowly begins to walk towards Daltonius. He takes his time. Daltonius continues to cower like a little pussy. I look on much like one who has just realized he is fractions of a second away from witnessing a horrific car crash, feeling that certain rush of adrenaline, terror, and anticipation.

D: No! Stop, no! Jesus!

The guard quietly and procedurally delivers a boot directly into Daltonius' gut, as though he's done this a thousand times before. He stops for a moment, looks over at me, and says, "I think this interview is over."

"I agree," I say, and turn to leave. I realize as I do that I didn't really get much out of this interview. Nonetheless, as the sounds of Daltonius getting the living shit beaten out of him recede into the distance, I feel strangely more satisfied than I've ever felt before in my life.