Whargoul

by Dave Brockie

  “All coming this way to kill us. That’s why they have come, to kill everyone of us and grind our bones into dust. What do you think of that, hmm?”

  I glare at him. I know I am both wondrous and painful for him to behold. He doesn’t turn to me, he just keeps staring out into the desert—into his onrushing death. He is, for the moment, truly beautiful.

  “I really don’t know why you won’t talk to me. I could order you to speak but that would be no fun. But if you’re in the mood come with me to my dugout. I’ll make some tea and we will smoke some hashish. And we’ll fuck awhile. Then we will go and deal with the American assault.”

  After a short delay I hear him following me up the trench. I duck into my dugout and turn just as he enters, my ass riding up on my small table. Now his face is flushed and angry. He throws his helmet to the floor.

  “When I saw you fucking that man, I went crazy!”

  Then we are on each other like wild dogs. His tongue pushes into my mouth as he goes after my tits, sucking off my fake mustache. I slide my uniform off my shoulders and drop it with a clank of medals. Then I undo the elastic bandage that restrains my tits. His hot hands are all over me and my box begins to throb. We are soon without pants and I suck his cock until he’s begging to fuck me.

  “When the end of my life came, I always hoped I would be able to fuck a woman quickly, get off one last time before I died . . .” he manages to get out. “The Koran says that it is wrong . . . aah . . .”

  He begins to erupt inside of me but I start bucking, forcing him out of me. He shudders violently and shoots a thick cable of hot cum right in my face. I squeeze and lick his balls. Several blobs drop onto my uniform

  “There is nothing in the Koran about this, my pet,” I say as I eat his hot and salty man-seed.

  We both look up with concern as we hear artillery begin to detonate. Assad because he doesn’t want to die, me because I do. We are in the fifth line of trenches from the first, which sounds like it is getting plastered. We hurriedly replace our clothing and grab our AKs.

  Assad looks at me with concern. “ Your breasts are just hanging out. At least button your uniform.”

  “No, today I shall meet my death with my tits hanging out. And if this repressive society cannot deal with that, then let it be trampled by the beasts of the infidel. Now to the battle, and that’s an order!”

  ***

  After the south of France, my mangled body lay on a hillside for many months. I had no arms or legs, or even a head. But still I was attractive. Attractive to bugs, and small animals, and even a bear. They kept eating off my constantly regenerating corpse, slowing the process that would lead to my return. To this day, I wonder what happened to those animals.

  That is not to say that my consumers were my only company. I had the corpse of Gabrielle wired to me. We had died together, her first. That had been the worst part of my torture, watching her die. Worse even than having a propane torch held up to my instep. Still, I had ingested her soul-fume which gave me the strength to survive. After they thought we were both dead they had bound our bodies together in a gruesome parody of a lovers embrace. Then they set an overly large charge of nitroglycerin under us and blew my charming sun-washed villa into smithereens. Clutching at each other, my whore girlfriend and myself had made one last trip together, as we where blown through the roof and over the cliff, where my rear porch and balcony had been. It had been a great locale, and from it I had been painting the surrounding countryside. In all my years spent there I had probably only killed a couple dozen people. Maybe I had fallen in love, maybe I had been happy here. Now my Shangri-La was a flaming wreck, my lover and I fused together in a sputtering ball of burning flesh lying in a silent vale at the bottom of Whargoul Mountain.

  Yes, fused together. They had tortured us with battery acid as well. They didn’t have to do that to her. But the bloody potholes the acid had made helped our bodies merge. We now resembled nothing quite as much as a meatball, devoid of features, just a red, wet, bubbling chunk of struggling flesh, struggling to find a new life with only the mangled remains of the Whargoul and his human whore lover to work with.

  But somehow we had made it happen, even though animals kept eating our progress. It was the closest I had ever come to being obliterated, worse than my murder at the hands of Necrosov or the crash of the Warthog (which hadn’t happened yet). And in the end Gabrielle would help me even in her death by supplying me with parts that were needed that I had lost. They fused our bodies to make me live again, to fulfill the ghastly purpose which I had been created for. They did a good job with what they had but the genetic material available imposed certain restrictions. Or maybe they just thought it was funny.

  I had come back as a woman. I had tits and a pussy. And something that looked like a dick but did not work like one. But I was endowed with my normal omni sexual tendencies. I had fucked and been fucked by a large selection of fleshy configurations. Form could mean nothing. But sex was a way of opening the gateway between my spirit and my flesh.

  I try to physically intimidate people because I am not clever enough to do it mentally. I always end up resorting to violence; indeed I rely on it, to solve my problems. It seemed like I had myself under control for a while there, before Iraq and the Gulf War. But my propensity for violence has increased steadily ever since. I was capable of great things but the source of my power had always been an evil one. It seemed as if I had almost been human, and I had been enjoying sex a lot more. But the transformation in the desert, which had made me the O.J. killer of Harlem, had also remade me back into a monster. Sure I looked human enough, but I knew what I was. I guess it made sense. In WW II the human race had glutted itself on war. They needed time to recover and assess the results. So did I. But soon the dogs had begun to howl anew, and we, the brethren of the damned, flocked to their call.

  A battle, somewhere. I stumble into the field hospital. My arm is hanging by a strand of gristle. I approach the orderly behind the table. He looks forlorn as behind gauze walls men are drained.

  “I need a doctor,” I say, gesturing at my torn arm and accompanying stump.

  “You need a doctor?” he says.

  “Yes, a doctor please.’

  “You need a doctor?” he repeats.

  “Yes, a doctor you idiot! My arm’s off!”

  “A doctor?”

  Suddenly several staff members rush in.

  “There he is!” shouts one, pointing at my tormentor, who leaps up and runs off. Another orderly quickly sits behind the desk.

  “Now, how may I help you—SHIT!” as he looks up and sees my horrible wound and the bright torrent of blood pouring from it.

  I grin broadly, displaying my cracked and pointed teeth.

  “Thanks but I have no problem shitting. It’s this arm. I wonder if they could sew it on so I don’t have to grow a whole new one.”

  He doesn’t reply, so I rummage around through the contents of the room until I find a medical bag. I remove a needle and thread and set to work. Wounded men are brought in. That’s good—the battle is still going strong. In 5 minutes the arm is back in the socket, held in place with ugly but strong stitches. I cough up a handful of phlegm and rub it in the crack, then run out to find someone to kill.

  My Father had infected the world. Off-world species mated with the animals at hand, and controlling the mutating genes was always the primary concern. The goal—production of new life. The exploitation of that life was the reward. I was that new life. But I was just a tool. A powerful tool but a tool all the same. But I could never be truly controlled; only guided. To accomplish this I had been programmed with a series of subconscious brakes like memory loss, dementia, and hallucinations, all accompanied by physiological effects. This, compounded with an intense and unnatural craving for drugs, booze, and fast women, put me in the perpetually dangerous position which had killed me several times over.

  My body exhibited other weird effects, like inexplicable diseases. Once my nos
e grew larger and increasingly more painful over a series of weeks, until it was three times its normal size and covered in pustules and warts. This occurred while I was in the south of France. I hid from Gabrielle, pretended I had gone on a trip, and waited for the condition to go away. However it just got worse as did my hunger. I went out to kill with a giant, throbbing nose. Then one day Gabby caught me rooting around in my garden, which I could not stand to let die. She tried to take me to a doctor but I refused. Then she brought one to the villa and surprised me. I could not let him examine me and my refusals made him even more curious. I attempted to disrupt the situation by bellowing at Gabby, and drove her from the room as the doctor chased me about with a stethoscope. At this point she stumbled into my “forbidden” room, which was filled with SS regalia and weapons, pictures of me riding tanks, standing next to piles of burning bodies, smiling and waving at the camera. She screamed in horror and the doctor came running. I suppose I wanted to be caught or I never would have been so sloppy, but after all I was quite the drunk. However the room’s contents seemed to have had quite the opposite effect upon the doctor, who immediately snapped to attention and saluted me, standing rigidly until I returned it. He then muttered something about “understanding,” and quickly left. Gabby, crying and horrified, was right behind him. I didn’t see her for a while.

  ***

  For months I have been working on my fortress. I purloin some construction materials, buy others, and convey them back to my fort in the dead of night. Sometimes my need for materials becomes greater than my need for secrecy, and I’ll go shopping in daylight. It doesn’t matter. I know one day they will find me. And when they do I’ll be ready.

  I’ve blocked up the windows with brick, and strengthened the wall with braces of concrete. Basically, I am building several skins around the central blockhouse. There are parapets and walkways leading to several firing positions, all of which I can fall back from to the central area. Here I also have my van, poised to burst through whatever is left of the wall and spew death into their midst. The whole place is mined and I’ve got plenty of ammo.

  I had quite inadvertently become a symbol of defiance, terror, and twisted inspiration to many with my attack upon Moyer and now the many other murders the media claimed that my ilk and I had committed.

  New York had remained relatively peaceful, as other cities had fallen into street violence and open warfare. It was the last bastion of reason, New York, the only town tough enough to take it. Take me and my reign-of-terror town, where I left victims charred and then promptly forgot about them. Where had I gutted schools. For years I had been oblivious to the pain I had caused until I was reminded. Until I was tortured. And all with design, all with purpose. I was being controlled, so he could control them. That was one of my reasons for going rogue—I resented any restrictions on my freedom. I had been set-up all my life, and my attempt at love had ended in fire as I had been dragged back to the crucible of war. Now they called again, they tortured me, and now they came to kill me.

  Now we were surrounded but the enemy could not enter our territory unless he came in force. He watched from below, and from this subterranean vantage point he slowly saw the entire world burnt up to New York’s doorstep. Barricades had sprung up, bombs and firefights were becoming more common after my attack, and of course my minions, the B.A., and I were credited with every one of them. When in reality they had done most of the killing, and I had nothing to do with them. I was locked in my fort, on heavy sedation, occasionally blowing off my head to relieve the tension. I wanted no part of their army or their movement.

  But I could not help but be curious. The B.A. had no political agenda that could be discerned, and that was unusual for any terrorist group. That was always the top priority, after all wasn’t war just an extension of policy, “by other means…” But the B.A. just wanted to kill.

  The date for the first mass assault was scheduled for 10:00 p.m. EST, Jan. 24th, 2002. The best time to start a war against the whites—during the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl. Everybody would be drunk and occupied and the absolute absurdity of a Toyota pick-up full of screaming Negroes emptying a 50 cal. into your house was the last thing anybody would have expected. And it’s just what they got.

  All day the game had been plagued with questionable calls. Penalties had dismantled a couple of touchdowns and nullified other examples of excellent play. There was no doubt as to who was controlling the game despite the best efforts of the players. It was the zebras and their unseen masters. Even the whirling chaos of pro football had to be controlled, indeed it was essential that it was, otherwise what kind of message were you trying to promote to these people? That they could control their own destinies? That they, through the force of their own actions, could rise above the lot that society had set for them? Certainly not.

  So when the only white player on the field got that critical, and totally bogus, pass interference call with only three seconds to go there was stupefied disbelief. When it led to the winning field goal there was absolute fucking bedlam. In the crowd, on the sidelines, and on the field. And in a million bars and homes where millions of people were getting drunk. People were pissed. The losers couldn’t accept it, and the winners couldn’t believe it. Everybody knew they had been cheated.

  It was a defining moment in American history. Wasn’t the strike supposed to have fixed all this? Never had so many people at once been confronted by the fact that something was very wrong with the system, the entire system and not just the fucking N.F.L. The whole gaudy charade held back a potential tidal wave of brimming bullshit. Of course, a lot of other people already knew that, or had a strong enough suspicion that they were ready that very night to die in pursuit of the destruction of that wall. So at just about the same time that #86 came running across the field (he had already been ejected), took his helmet, and smashed the head referee right in the face, the rest of America got smashed as well.

  That night, war came to the U.S.A.

  There were a lot of things that terrified people about the Black Army, or “B.A..” They got to see it all on TV that night in the year 2002, Super Bowl Sunday, and it scared the shit out of just about everybody. Even me.

  First of all, they were very well funded. The first round of attacks in the U.S. must have cost millions of dollars to prep and execute. Bombs went off in front of hundreds of police stations across the nation almost simultaneously. Individual strike teams carried out over 2,000 murders. Mayors, judges, Klan members, ordinary folks. But all white. Across the nation, bands of well-armed death squads laid waste to life and property on a level undreamed of on U.S. soil. Some of it seemed random, some seemed deliberate. Whole families were wiped out save one child.

  Another aspect of the attacks was the level of hatred they inspired. Within two hours of the initial series of attacks most cities had riot alerts in the ghetto areas. Whitey had been given a bloody nose and it was time to follow it up with a kick in the nuts.

  They claimed no responsibility, left no names. The name, “Black Army” came from the media. They had no visible leader, no discernible dogma other than the bloody disruption of the status quo. No bases were found, no vehicles tracked. And the few corpses they left behind were utterly unidentifiable, unrecorded as any human being on the face of the planet. They were a faceless, formless terrorist army living in our midst, ready to attack with horrific intensity at any moment. And no one knew where they would strike next.

  On the field the players fight. In the stands the people fight. On the sidelines the coaches fight. Some fight to stop others who fight, others fight in self-defense; others run to escape and cause even more harm, trampling many. Others fight because they are drunk on bloodlust. In fact, that’s why most of them fight—because they like it. Referee “Bud” Tarlatan lies in the grass, bleeding profusely. People begin to scream, “Kill the white (or black) motherfuckers!”

  Others just scream “Kill!”

  I watch from my belfry as the crowd surge
s across Crown Avenue, towards the liquor store.

  They save the best for last. A Black Army Suicide Squad attacks the White House, crashing through the security blocks with a series of expert demo-attacks, and then crushing into the gates with an 18-wheeler, which disgorges 40 men armed with AKs, Uzi’s, and rocket launchers. Other assault squads come from below. Despite heroic resistance from Secret Service agents and Marine guards, the White House is stormed and the first family taken hostage. The end result is the release of over 18,000 inmates from mostly American, but also Israeli, French, and British prisons. In America, most of these people go straight from jail to the war zones, swelling the ranks of the uprising. It looks more like the PLO pulling out of Beirut than something that could happen in the good ole’ USA. Key figures from Native American, militia, and Islamic groups also go free. The B.A. has finally disclosed their political agenda.

  Necrosov led the attack and performed the negotiations. I know because I saw him on TV. His face was masked but his voice was unmistakable. His demands were of the most inflammatory manner, and the televised butt-fucking of the President was certainly uncalled for. And after Necrosov had completed his mission he disappeared back into the ground to prepare for his next assault.

  ***

  My Father was slowed by the fact that he could not manipulate machinery as well as he could flesh. But that could hardly be construed as a weakness when you considered just how powerful he was. A being that could create life from death. He could build a vast army, or create a race. As long as he had the basic energy to work with, the livestock, he could populate a planet. But he needed lots of flesh. He used the tunnels, the sewers, and the mindless maggot mazes to suck the bits towards him from places far away. The world was a circular toilet—he was the drain. And everybody went straight into his maw.