Juipo Jalliper was stepping out of the shower when he noticed, in the bathroom mirror, a small brown dot on the left side corner of his lower lip.
As soon as he looked at the anamoly a voice started in his mind, sounding as clear as if someone were standing beside him, "Hi, I'm Harvey The Hipster Herpes. Some call me the harping herpes. I seldom bother to talk to humans, but with the all the pot you smoke... I'm just feeling convivial, you know, man."
Juipo was fairly certain nothing like this had ever happened to him before, though once something as odd as a talking herpes sore had entered his realm of believability, it seemed to Juipo, then just about anything was possible.
-- and he could very well have other sores on his body that he spoke to as well, and then repressed the memory ...
He wondered if he were having a stroke? Then was a little pissed for a moment over the very banality of his delusion, thinking, 'I could have been a christ, a napolean... or had a six foot talking hooka... my delusion has to be a talking herpes sore? The gods exist -- this I know by the brunt of their very hatred of me!'
The sore seemed to laugh, as if it could hear his thoughts... then proved as much by commenting, "I am not a delusion, okay? No need to be so disappointed, though. Give me a chance, alright. As a herpes sore, I know, I usually have problems with first impression. I think people are turned off by this shade of brown... too sophisticated for the masses, I suppose. Personally, I think it goes good with the blood, and the soft, sandy shade of pus compliments them both. This tiny handicap in the looks department hasn't prevented me from traveling the world and living the high life, man. I've toured with bands dating back to the middle ages troubadours and up through the U2 gigs last month in Australia. I was there at Sea Stadium when the english mop tops first set the little girls screaming. Man, I looked out at all those open mouths and undulating hips and fell in love with America right there. Since then I've been on a few presidential campaigns, gone from the KKK to the Black Panthers, spent some time out at the Mustang Ranch in Vegas. Me and Charlie Sheen did a lot of chicks there for awhile. You get the picture, I'll go anywhere there are lusty mouths and soft, seeping genitals..."
Still looking at the almost mesmerizing brown speck in the mirror, Juipo spoke in a stunned voice edged by rage, "You're a goddamn herpes sore. And you're not supposed to be talking to me... even if you can fucking talk, it is time to shut the fuck up, alright?"
"Who you telling to shut the fuck up? I'm just trying to be nice here, man. Shit, I thought you were going to freak out when you saw me, like most people do, but you seemed cool... or at least your weed did, so I tried to be nice... I mean, screw you humanoid, I will outlive your sorry ass, spend most of eternity just skipping from flesh to flesh, living that party-on perpetual life of a virus, man . . . you pot heads are my winter ticket to Amsterdam every year, by the way."
"SHUT UP OR I WILL CUT YOU OFF AND FLUSH YOU!!!"
You don't have the balls. I've seen some balls the size of coconuts in my days, and those near-raisens you got..."
"My balls are just fine."
"Hey, put that knife down... Oww!! Oh, god, you wouldn't?
Hey, I can't swim alone... gurgle.... I'm going to find a rat and crawl back up through this toilet and go for your ass!!! Arrrgghhhh!!!!"
Later in the day, when his co-workers noticed the extra-large peice of toilet paper stuck to his chin, he merely told them that he cut himself shaving... you would think he would have felt a certain relief that the visions of the talking herpes sore dissipated... but try as he might, Judlip could not convince himself that Harvey the Harping Herpres was merely a one time chaotic misfiring of his brain.
The normalcy of the days that followed seemed to mock his growing paranoia of the Curse hurdled by the flushing herpes. Still, he found himself unable to even go into his bathrooms at home, going instead to gas stations and restaurants in his neighborhood and by work. After a week he checked into a series of hotels, and finally found a new apartment.
Judlip developed nervous constipation as a result of the shock, and began to go for painful days at a time without defecating. The problem grew so bad that he finally went out and bought a large enema, knelt down on the cold, ammonia scented tile of his bathroom floor, inserted the nozzle and squeezed the plastic bottle and filled his swollen bowls with nearly a quart of warm, soapy water.
As expected, his guts immediantly felt like a volcano ready to blow. He sat down on the toilet and felt his spincter blow open and the water splosh out.
Seemingly from the bowl itself, he heard Harvey's famalier voice cry out, "Got yer, asshole... And I brought my buddy Arman The Anal Wart!! Viruses Rule!! Whooo!!!"
"
