the Mysterie of Mount Misery

I arose the next morning, bathed in the guilt that customarily follows my spontaneous ecstasies. Moreover, I had broken the covenant negotiated with the Unspecific Deity before I left the old country. What had I achieved in the new land?, I morosely mused. My soul was as mucky, nay more polluted, than ever; opportunities for reform had been shunned; my antipathy towards the unwashed had prevented me from ministering to them; and with no Suki to correct my path I had become sidetracked by an imagination unfettered by the mere glimpse of a slip.
It was time to refer to the book of martyrs, to learn from those saintly men and women of old who knew how to negotiate their baser instincts and ensure incorruptibility of body and soul. I turned the musty pages to an oft-consulted section, that which recounts the holy deeds of Saint Gleb. Sure he lost his head and his useless body was discarded in brush, but I find inspiration in his fallibility. Unlike his too-perfect brother Boris, he was never popular with the people and whinnied like a girl when martyrdom approached. Yet he still attained immortality and was responsible for some cracking miracles. And in all the pictures I have seen of him, he is tall and slim and wears a dress well, none of which can be said for me. As I said, an inspiration indeed.
My mind thus invigorated I decided to offer gentle chastisement to my body with a flagon of ice-cold water and a brisk walk. The watery sun was a feeble ball that did little to dispel the chill of the air and the freezing breeze that never seemed to consider its welcome outstayed. With something scratchy on, I followed the path from my front door, marvelling at the detritus the neighbours had deposited on my land last night, to the road. More humps had sprouted overnight, so the the road resembled a plague victim's bubo-pocked back. It occured to me that, while the unfortunate recipient of such protruberances could credit their appearance to divine will or unhealthy living, the poor road, and all who travelled upon it, remained entirely ignorant of the reason for the humps' materialisation. I could think of no reason for their being, but comforted myself with the knowledge that it is not for us to question the mysterious ways of the overseer of carriageways.
Musing upon humps had somewhat distracted me. Unthinkingly, I left the road and headed for a green expanse, venturing that this was some sort of recreational area at which the local people could refresh their bodies. The few souls I spied were moving like automatons, circling the grassy area on a chalky path that girdled the park. Many were dressed especially for their perambulations as if it were a special occasion for them to be placing one foot before the other. Granted, they moved so leisurely it appeared that this was the first exercise they had undertaken for some time. Wondering what value they could gain from such a slothful pace, I increased my speed. My breath shortened and my garments began to itch, which was always a good sign. Flushed withe enthusiasm I endeavoured to leave the path and cut across the grass, however, as my first foot sunk I realised that the grass was but a skim of scum thrown across a sinksome clay bog. Effortfully withdrawing my muddy foot, I cursed this land's inhabitants, who perpetually entertain a delusion that this country is not quite the wettest place on earth.
As I was struggling with my mired footwear, from behind my back I heard a deep-throated gurgling. Swivelling around to locate the source of what I now imagined to be a snigger, I saw no one, but this absence was backgrounded by a dark scrub-strewn elevation: Mt. Misery.
I knew then that I was going to have to tackle this loathsome canker.