Whargoul

by Dave Brockie

  Because the Apaches had new friends now. The Russian Mafia never had any qualms about working with the natives, supplying them with guns, drugs, and most importantly protection from all the other parasites that were out to get a bite. They hated the U.S., whom they blamed for the economic collapse of their beloved Mother Russia. And of course, the Native Americans had no love for the hosts that had stolen their land, lives, and honor. They thirsted for vengeance of the most horrific kind.

  They wanted a nuclear weapon, and the Russians got it for them.

  The deal was complicated and laborious. And very expensive. Buy-offs were made at the highest levels. Luckily, the gambling coffers of the native gods were stuffed full of much wampum. The weapon was from Russia, when a group of disgruntled officers, disgusted at not having been paid for months, highjacked a truckload of nuclear devices. They were purchased for a billion dollars apiece by a group of Argentineans who also happened to be Nazis. And they were happy to sell a nuke to the natives. After all, they, with the help of the Japanese, were planning on invading the U.S. after the race war had taken firm hold. They were massing on the Texas border in giant underground bunkers. We couldn’t stop illegal aliens from crossing that border, and we were never gonna stop the Wehrmacht.

  So now the natives had a nuke and they didn’t know what to do with it. The leaders of many tribes came together to discuss the matter. The majority of the elders favored using the weapon to hold the U.S Government hostage. They would present evidence that the device was real, and threaten to use it on an unspecified target unless the natives were returned a reasonable portion of their homelands. It seemed a good plan until several voices started to dissent. They wanted to use the bomb to nuke New York City. It had long been a symbol of just how badly the Natives had been duped. The richest city in the world had been obtained for a handful of beads and glass. So lets take it back by reducing it to radioactive slag. More voices began to join in with support for the mad idea. It made no sense, several argued. A tremendous act of spite was all that it amounted to. And it would solve nothing, grant no new rights. It would make the Natives the most hated group of people in the U.S. The Army would come and destroy the reservations. But everybody finally agreed to it as my Father’s tentacles had grown up everybody’s butts. The questing tendrils implanted new thoughts in old minds until people couldn’t believe what they believed.

  ***

  In Tiki-Bobo’s House of Pleasure, much was forgiven. It was a place to come and purge one’s soul. Men would strip naked and lounge in front of great fires. Women would writhe about, copulating frequently with the customers and each other. In the lower chambers was my cell, “The Howling Room,” the place I stayed in screaming agony as my soul was re-awoken.

  It was the room. The room of my torment as I relived my life. The life of an ageless slaughterer. Cheng would coach these memories from me. Sometimes I grew violent. This necessitated the lower chamber, so I could not escape and run amok in the street.

  The meditations helped, the back rubs and soothing teas. The Whargoul got into herbal medicine. By my balls, I was becoming a hippy. And the endless sex provided by a bevy of gorgeous Asians (not a tit-job in the bunch) didn’t hurt a bit. Still, it was a painful process. Because I’d been so very wrong.

  So I was hanging here all the time. And that meant my dog had to live here too. Maug had been growing increasingly jealous of my thriving friendship with Cheng and my constant humping of the entire brothel. I wasn’t being a very attentive pet owner. We never took our traditional runs out to the countryside anymore. But it was getting dangerous for blacks to travel outside of the cities. So he retreated to his world, the sewers. The subterranean world beneath Manhattan was his stomping ground and his knowledge of this place was far greater than mine.

  So I stayed there, and sweated it out. And in those weeks just before the war broke out, I learned a lot about myself. All the blocks were shattered. I was able to meet and master myself. I saw the worst in me and knew I could then find the best. Lying in my bunker in Harlem, jacked on heroin, strapped to my cot, surrounded by guns and assaulted by the pure hatred which emanated from the neighborhood was not the way to deal with my problems. Cheng supplied me with the perfect environment in which to reveal my soul. He listened without judgment. He gave me the strength to face the guilt of what I’d done, and the determination to do what I must.

  One night, about two weeks before the Super Bowl, I had my most intense recanting, a story I will soon tell. Afterwards I had passed out in sheer exhaustion. That is when they came. They came and killed everyone in Tiki-Bobo’s House. All the beautiful whores, all dead.

  I find Cheng on the first floor. They have crucified him, a bemused look on his purpled and bloated face. He’s been tortured badly and the variety and nature of his wounds are ingenious. Most importantly, his belly has been split open and his noodle removed. The empty sack of his body flaps like a piece of thick cloth or perhaps a husk of fruit. The noodle, a ropy and gelatinous mass, lies coiled in a glistening heap. One end of it leads to a jagged hole in the floor where a stinking vapor wafts up. It disappears into the depths, beckoning me to follow. But I recoil from the now-fouled thing and rush out of the place of death. I can’t find my dog, but I can’t find his body either. I burst into the street which is echoing with the urgent cries of sirens converging on this location. I leap into the Riv and peel out in a smoking arc, hurtling the car down the yawning canyons until I enter the old neighborhood. I dump the car a few blocks away and finally make it into my bunker, where I immediately blow my fucking head off.

  8

  ending it

  Beneath the earth of Poland, I hurtle along in the flesh-tube. I am encased in it now, traveling through hot rock. I feel my body being stabbed repeatedly with some sort of injection which soon renders me unconscious. In this way, I am brought to the flesh hive.

  When I am spat out they have again remade me. And this time I am wondrous to behold. I have been purged and healed. My skin is smooth and white, my hair fair and blond. My features are cool, stern and dignified, a face younger than its years yet betraying no sign of immaturity.

  I had inherited another man’s life. A man who had been a great hero of the Reich, whose name and picture were in every newsreel and magazine. A man who had received his Iron Cross from Adolf Hitler and had danced with Rommel’s wife. A man swathed in glory that was on the verge of his greatest assignment, one that supposedly stood a chance of knocking the Americans and British out of the fight.

  Unfortunately, I had murdered him. And thus his carefully constructed persona had been destroyed. That was an event that my Father had not prepared for and he saw a need to replace his useful tool.

  It took awhile, but he managed it. And thus I received my new being, the one I would retain until the day that Mossad blew Gabby and me to bloody bits. It was probably my favorite form, and it certainly was the one that I inhabited the longest.

  My mission was the great Ardennes offensive, and I would command a special Kampfgruppe of the finest machines and cruelest of men. My unit had been known in Russia as “The Blowtorch Brigade,” due to our propensity for reducing entire villages and all of their inhabitants to ashes. Now I had assumed command, and the unit was the armored spearhead of the attack. The mission was to break through the American lines, sowing terror and confusion in the rear areas. We would drive as far and as fast as we could, through the densely forested and under-defended center sector of the Allied lines. There were certain objectives that had to be taken, and of course I would try to do so. But I was much more excited with the sheer killing potential of the hulking death machine at which I sat at the head. My men could see my confidence—morale soared. Once again the German army was on the offensive from the mind of a fleshy construct animated by an alien mind. And the men just loved it, as they loved me.

  I was the Obersturmbannführer.

  The attack, code-named “Watch on the Rhine” so as to dupe Allied intelligence, was
scheduled to begin on Dec. 16, 1944. The barrage began at 5:30 a.m. and it was an impressive sight that I watched from the cupola of my command tank, a Pz V Rockets, 88’s, mortars, and every conceivable caliber of artillery began to saturate the American line. The ground shook with wrath and the trees lost their shrouds of snow. Even giant railway guns had been brought up, hurling their 14-inch projectiles at the enemy with rumbling hatred, tearing across the sky with the force of a runaway comet. The symphony of Mars played itself out to our unrivaled awe. My men cheered in raw exultation, as the Americans got plastered.

  The Americans. This was the closest I had ever been to them. I had never even killed one before. They had a reputation for being poor soldiers, not as tough as the Russians, not even in the same league as the Brits, lazy, drunk, and they were ready to break apart under our merciless onslaught. The only thing they really had going for them was their seemingly endless stock of raw materials which resulted in things like overwhelming air support. This hopefully would be negated by the crummy weather into which we would make our attack-“Hitler Weather,” they called it. I looked forward to killing them.

  Ahh, a flashback . . . the flesh hive, inflating me with stolen life as my tissue is stripped away and then re-made. And my Father’s bulbous eye, so vast, staring up from the depths like an unholy octopus. I shudder and look at my hands. Different hands than what I had had, but still working with the same intent. Mechanized death on the grandest of scales.

  The barrage continues as the men smoke their cigarettes and cheer. About 10 miles away, a 150-mm round falls to earth. It strikes a house which had stood for over a hundred years. This house has seen the armies of Napoleon, Frederic, the Kaiser, and many more. During this time many people, all generations from the same family, had lived in the building for various periods of their lives. People, precious people and all of their precious stuff. When some people died, the others would keep the best stuff and throw the rest away. Some things would get put into the attic, others things would end up on the walls. The family had produced artists, and their work filled up a lot of space. Some was good, some not so, but they put up their work anyway. The family had produced warriors, and their banners hung proudly. There were great forgotten boxes filled with their letters. All these people had clothes, books, kitchen utensils, and a myriad of other things. They had been packing this abode full of stuff for years! And of course, there were the people themselves. Remarkably complex beings made up of bones, organs, and electric impulses known as thoughts and feelings. So much careful planning, so many decisions on what to keep and what to chuck out, so much evolution, so many ideas, so much life, all blown to shit in the space of a heartbeat.

  The column winds back into the woods like a giant metal snake, ready to uncoil with its destructive purpose. Smoke begins to drift about us and I check my watch, engraved by a family I had never had.

  “On your graduation day. We are proud. Mother and Father.”

  And I didn’t even know what they looked like. I’d never been to school, though I had destroyed more than a few, sometimes with the students still in them.

  “Herr Ober—there is a message from OKW,” says my radio operator from the depths of the tank.

  “Thank you, Hans,” I say as I put on my radio set. For a moment there is nothing but silence, then slobbering sounds come across the wire. This is followed by an increasingly louder series of grunts and moans, set against a backdrop of continual squishing. I listen and occasionally nod, my crew staring at my impassive face with looks of gleeful anticipation. The message ends with what sounds like a long and painful fart. Then the line goes dead.

  I receive no more orders from the high command. My men’s eyes are still glued to my face, but none of them dare to speak. I look from face to face, noting weakness and strength, imagining how they would look with the stamp of terror, exhaustion and bloodlust, emotions they would be feeling soon.

  “Hans—put me on the radio net.” He does so and soon my voice is being relayed to the entire unit.

  “It is time for the attack. Time to let slip the dogs of war, and hold the reins loosely. All elements forward. Heil Hitler!”

  We move.

  But our breakthrough does not come easily. For much of the first day we get caught in giant traffic jams. The winding and snow-covered roads of the Ardennes continually hamper my column’s attempts to move. Finally, I abandon my command tank and transfer to a Kubelwagon, roving up and down the column, exhorting my men and machines to move. I shoot horses, blow up trees, beat people. I am possessed of an inhuman energy to get to the killing. I need to feed badly. At one point we encounter a stretch of road that has not been cleared of the German mines which litter its length. I have no patience in waiting for the mine detectors that would divine the lurking canisters of death—instead I order my tanks into the minefield to set them off. I lose several machines and a few men but precious time is saved. Finally, around midnight, my exhausted men reach the village of Lanzerath. They rest the night as I prowl naked through the woods, searching for my first American. But I can’t find any. I return to town, put my uniform back on and allow my men to sleep for one more hour, and then mount up. We move onto our next objective—the town of Honsfeld. Straggler American units have been pouring into it from other shattered sectors and I anticipate a great killing. We have been attacking for over 24 hours and have met no real resistance other than our own troops clogging up the roads. The only Americans I have seen are dead ones. Aside from the uniforms they look like most other corpses.

  We approach the tangle of buildings under cover of darkness, meeting no resistance. Feeling no trace of hesitance, I order my units into the town. I have never commanded a group of men bigger than a squad, which is usually no bigger than 12 men. Now I have thousands of men and hundreds of machines under my command, and because of the imprinting into my mind of the Obersturmbannführer’s experience I can command them just as capably as he could. We assault the village and the sounds of small-arms fire begins to crackle ahead of me. I leap back into my tank and drive to the front of the attack, my adrenaline surging, smashing through houses and scattering personal effects across the bloody snow. A couple bazooka rounds bounce off our hull as we smush our way into the village square. But once again we are disappointed—the Americans are surrendering en masse. But they are . . . the enemy.

  And they look terrified, surrounded by my SS men who have guns trained on them as they loot their rivals of interesting possessions. I walk up to the mass of men. The Americans, while alive, look better fed than my own troops. Though white faced in the glow of the burning buildings, they do not have that hollow-cheeked look that so many men of the Wehrmacht have; I guess somebody feeds them.

  “Who is the commander here?” I bark, speaking (perfect) English.

  “I am, sir,” says a stocky American in his early thirties, stepping forward with his hands in the air.

  “Captain. I am Obersturmbannführer Pieper of the 1st SS Division. I need information regarding the disposition of U.S. forces in this area, especially in the vicinity of Bullingen. I expect your full cooperation. In a moment we will adjourn to the comfort of that church over there. I will have your men placed in that barn. If you do not tell me everything that I need to know, then I will burn your men alive.”

  His men gasp, my men snicker. He stares back at me, his face livid with hate and fear.

  “I’ll talk. Just don’t hurt my men.”

  “DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” I scream, slapping him across the face with a blow that sends a shower of blood and teeth from his ruined mouth.

  “Move him to the church. Get these men in that barn. Then form up for assault.”

  We take the senseless Captain to the basement of the barn and strap him into an ancient chair. I have the protesting priest taken out back and shot, even as he offers to suck off the entire company. Then I order my men from the room. Quickly stripping, I again slap the Captain, but this time with my limp dick, which by the way
is not as large as it used to be. It feels good so I massage it until it’s big and fat. Outside I hear a light American barrage striking the town as slowly the Captain regains his senses.

  “Captain Huggins,” I say, reading from his dog tags. “Wake up and smell the mold crusted upon my ancient penis.”

  He does wake and the sight of me, naked before him, immediately sends him wild with terror. He surges against his bonds, but only succeeds in crashing sideways to the floor. His head impacts with a hollow thud but he does not lose consciousness.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he gasps.

  But I am far too involved with myself to respond, as I jack my cock into a state of twitching ecstasy, feeling my love blob slowly and exquisitely drip its way down my aching penile shaft. I work it quickly, flooding my nub and releasing a torrent of molten goo squarely into his incredulous face. Bucking and moaning, I encase his head in my seminal excretion as he tries to breathe through the cum-bubble. Leaving him to shake the slop off his face, I remove a cat o’ nine tails from a black leather bag. The handle is shaped like a dildo; I got it from Goering. He was a stinkin’-ass Prussian faggot who loved to ram pieces of expensive art up his ass. I sit the chair upright again and face the terrified American.

  “If you promise to speak the truth, I will wipe that cum off your face.” Being far from normal cum, it’s starting to eat into his flesh.

  He does and I do. I don’t need to go into elaborate details as it doesn’t require much to get him to open up as wide as a whale’s vagina. He is a sentimentalist and all it takes for me to get what I need is to threaten his men with a hateful death.