I blow blunt smoke of Unicorn Poop in the shape of brontosauruses through my tracheotomy hole. My son Connor is a gangsta rapper. Connor rocks relentlessly on our rickety porch swing, guzzling cans of Coors Light, spitting rhymes to the beat of the squeaky double-loop chain. His Mormon friends listen intently, bopping their skulls with the wizardry of worldly tweakers.
Connor can catch a sunburn from the refrigerator lightbulb. His flow is smoother than a baby-oiled boob and colder than a clew of earthworms. Connor’s rap name is Cocaine Cul-De-$ac. His YouTube channel bankrolls cases of Coors Light, gaudy gold chains, and Ziplock baggies of Unicorn Poop and Cheetah Piss—the holy trinity of bad decisions.
***
Connor got higher than giraffe titties and the Young Men from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints dared him to eat a Jerusalem cricket. Jerusalem crickets can carry pathogens, parasites, and toxins—but Connor swallowed the bulbous apostle of the desert as if guzzling a cold Silver Bullet.
Cocaine Cul-De-$ac spit a fire freestyle about Salt Lake City, Siamese blunts, Jerusalem crickets, polygamy, nude beaches, and Waffle House. A humongous slug scrambled up the double-loop chain. The Young Men dared Connor to eat the grotesque backyard revenant.
“Do I gobble this slizzy-bizzy before we get pissy-pissy?”
“In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” said the Young Men in unison.
“Put a slug in me!”
Connor’s testicles spun vaster than godless stars when he swallowed the slug. He spit murder rhymes ’til dawn. None of our neighbors called the cops to complain about the commotion. We all fear God. Connor supplies the entire neighborhood with enormous sacks of Jesus OG and Monk’s Punishment.
***
Connor complained about leg pain, dizziness, diarrhea, and projectile vomiting. Connor’s condition deteriorated ’til he couldn’t communicate coherently and started mumble rapping and fumbling cold cans of Coors Light. My husband Duncan drove Connor to the Emergency Room faster than a Busta Rhymes tongue-demon escaping an exorcism.
Blood work confirmed that Connor contracted a rare parasite known as rat lungworm. It comes from rat feces containing the parasite’s larvae. Connor contracted encephalitis and plunged into a coma for four hundred twenty days. He woke up paralyzed from the waist down with horrific brain injuries from eosinophilic meningitis. No more thug life. Connor’s rap career vanished with a maggot-soft whimper.
***
I push Connor’s wheelchair sluggishly up the sidewalk. He drools bubbles into his gold chain. Connor can’t eat or drink. A feeding tube nourishes Cocaine Cul-De-$ac. His relentless respirator keeps him alive.
Connor didn’t choose the slug life—the slug life chose him. I puff canoeing blunts of Cheetah Piss through my tracheotomy hole in honor of the boy who once called himself Cocaine Cul-De-$ac.