Flesh eating bacteria can be found in supermarkets, hospitals, holes made in dirt, piles made of dirt, spider bites, the waters of our harbors and in the bite of the komodo dragon. Everywhere in the world, it exists to emerge from it's dimension into ours in a way befitting those methods employed by Lovecraft's elder gods. Only here, there is no gauzy poetry or occult description to shield the eye and mind; the terror of this real invader lies in the shock of it's punch and the blooming speed of an attack that is illiterate, wet and brutal.

The only thing warding this unholy terror away from your soft flesh is your dead barrier of skin and the addition or subtraction of an enzyme on the bacterium itself. The mutation between one strain and another is random, making the separation between coming down with Necrotizing Fasciitis or Strep Throat the choice between a bad day and the worst day of your life.

It 'does' feel like a simple case of flu at first, which is why many people tend to sleep on it rather than seek treatment right away. The timing is deadly, one day is enough for the entire immune system to become completely compromised. Once this happens, the flesh-eating bacteria begins to crawl underneath the skin and eat -- and as it eats, it digests and shits. The progress can be marked by the advance of bruising and swelling flesh, a mound of feverish tissue that rides up from the point of entry in a wave of stink and pain. Underneath the skin, flesh is being converted into water -- the immune response rushing fluid to quell the active and rapidly growing colony that is creeping and excavating nutrients from the cramping flesh. Within hours, the human battleground is covered with pitted trampolines of fragile skin filled to the bone with cottage cheese. Without aggressive treatment and sometimes despite the best, the colony rages without mind or concern over the havoc for the sentient buffet it consumes. For you, thinking feeling you, the entire world has quickly turned into a gigantic stomach. The body flies into toxic shock and the core thing that is you now squiggles around within the intestines of a great beast.

The battleground to save the body hinges on keeping the skin intact once the infection settles in. Many times this is impossible and the skin slides off like a rotten tomato to aerate the wound and aid consumption of the host. The window created by the opening skin fuels the spread of infection, creating more surface area for the bacteria to cover and consume.

Many victims of the flesh eating bacteria feel that the touch of Necrotizing Fasciitis is akin to the touch of God. Certainly, there is an awe inspiring shock that comes with the onset -- both systemic and in the actual pain of the ordeal there are many who cannot help but believe they were selected to receive such an extreme ordeal and selected to survive based on the will of God's grace alone.

How does any of this seem like the touch of a benevolent god? Even the healing does not seem benevolent at all, what; with skin debridement of over twenty five percent of the body and the constant threat of multiple amputation and reemergence of dormant pockets of infection following therapy and skin grafting. No, beyond the touch of benevolence or wrath, this decision comes down to little more than the wrath of poor hygiene. It is the arrogance of immunity over neosporin; the extremity of sloth personified . . .

I peek through my fingers at another photo of swollen opened guts. Blackened edema. Ugh! These are things that cannot be named, screaming ordeals that fall apart, the flesh softening into an impossible definition. The images of debrided flesh are juxaposed with prayer. 'Promotional Gore For Jesus', where the medically induced coma is a process of beautification, as is the packing of wounds with absorptive gauze padding. To be blind at this point is a blessing for all.

A quote from necrotizingfasciitis.net

"My ankle was still in trouble after most of my leg had been grafted. The plan was to release me from the hospital, give me time to gain back some strength and then return and have the plastic surgeon perform a flap or some other procedure to fill in the big hole in my ankle. Dr. Blaisdell summed up the situation in these words; "his tendon is hanging in the breeze." However, the Lord touched my ankle and when my cast was removed five days later, everyone was amazed to find the tissue had quickly and miraculously "granulated" from my ankle and was touching my tendon -- an occasion for rejoicing by all . . ."

Under the GAS, the victim is inured to the market. Bumper stickers glossy with split corpses. 'PGFJ' acronyms rolling off the tounges of the faithful. Simplistic doublespeak mantras appealing to a lowest common denominator that sees the fear fly in on bat wings. Cowering, we give thanks . . .

For life. For survival.

There is nothing special about getting touched by Streptococcus other than the fact that is offers the least mercy of all predators and offers the slowest death, the sum of a thousand cuts in one as it creeps under the skin and into the petri dish that is you. There is no compensation at all. As vanity mismanaged, it becomes a higher calling. Stumpy amputees pray every night for my salvation as if they might levitate on the wings of beautitude, reflecting on their experience with shiny moonlike faces. And yet if this is so, such enormous faith would have allowed you to die without fear and need for prayer.

Group A Streptococcus killed Jim Henson.

At this pentupulate moment, the marketing behind stories of healing and survival fails utterly. The stumpy nightmares of fear crash to soft beds and as the lights come on, there is nothing positive to salvage from this experience other than the lingering horror that it might happen again. That is the market excluding beautitude to sell something much older, much elder. And as the flesh is weak in the face of such horrors, so must the mind be as well.

May the fear permeate your day. May every scrape be greeted with horror of the abyss. May your house be bathed in Lysol.

Even now, I am bathing myself with lemon freshness and shaking off the fear. I am applying it to the athlete's foot and as I grit my teeth with the burning purity, I shake my fist and scream to the heavens

"Group A Streptococci: you are predator of the week. Fear my wrath! Fear my wrath!"