Underneath the Draconian Sky

by Chatwin, Dale M.

  6

  A street vendor selling artichokes flogged a box to an unsuspecting couple, as the sun rose high on the City the vendor stretched a smile across her radioactive face and spoke in arcane tongue. The Guy swaggered and mocked with vicious retorts in stream of consciousness thoughts. All around him were billboards that made empty promises; the promise of everlasting life, the promise of riches beyond your wildest fantasies and promises of undisputable beauty. The only catch was that you either needed vast quantities of money or would be willing to give up your children to serve in the Cult of Aakmanu. Unluckily for the Aakmanu many people still believed in blood being thicker than water, or gold. The Guy saw a street sign pointing out the direction of the City train station. Momentary freedom from that forsaken place.

  The steam train sat silent on the rails, there weren’t many people getting on it to leave the City, but many were entering that wretched metropolis. The Guy purchased a ticket from the booth and found a seat on the locomotive. The seats were mahogany leather, an image of human sized eggs flashed within his mind, he jerked slightly. The whistle was blown and the train began to chug into motion, steam pumped into the atmosphere.

  7

  “Halla mershum katak boso! Before the end there is only insanity. Mahar katak krimpa anoto! Only through insanity can we find true freedom. The ancient and the youthful, which one takes your fancy? Riding to your whoredom on your Mormon steed.”

  In the Corner demise is near, lamenting the cross you held so dear. “Halla mershum katak boso!” ringing in your ears, insanity rides with Death to consume your darkest fears.

  The marble ivory citadel imposes on the town, religious chants enhance the superstitions laid down by the foundations at the Corner’s hall. Innocents will drown askance in the mythological traditions, as preachers and Baptists ejaculate their verbal ammunition.

  Lament’s Corner it was once named, a town left in shame by indoctrinating Knaves, destroyed by Demons; ancient subterranean dwellers, because occultists inquired with greedy curiosity thus emancipating Lamassu’s banner.

  Twisted caricatures of obscure Chimeras and amorphous reptiles flood the streets in obscene orgies.

  The cult of Aakmanu sought a biblical truce, their best laid plan was malice induced.

  Within the towns borders blood curdling screams roared with clangourous squalls that would make the flesh crawl. To the outside world all was quiet, the locals came to call it; ‘The Silent Treatment.’

  World domination was not the Demon’s desire, instead they lay like spiders in an intrepid web waiting for the sickly flies to come and make their bed.

  QUARANTINE

  It was deemed by the hierarchical powers of this jaded country, Lament’s Corner walled off from civilisation because people were afraid to enter Lamassu’s dominion. By day the streets are empty, by night they squirm with monstrosities, remember now dear child; Stay away from the Corner’s boundaries.

  “The account of Carlin Burrow written 3 weeks after the incident at Lament’s Corner. The original Cult of Aakmanu were Human servants we used as vessels, they helped open the window. For a time there were only demons in the Corner, the town had to be walled off from the rest of the Island. Once we had found our way through, we began the Purge. Cleansing the town of its burden and claiming the Island as our own.”

  Ganeibyus had taken the Guy into a complex hall decorated with alien art and geometric trinkets.

  “I had heard stories before I came. Why doesn’t the outside world intervene?”

  “The outside world believe the Island was destroyed by a tsunami. We create illusions to manipulate the Human mind. Or maybe the mainland is an illusion created by us.”

  “Your lackey told me there was going to be some divulging of information involved about the High Occultist, the Guy smirked, almost giggled.

  “Indeed, 1107. It’s more of a tale than a briefing. Patrick Holness; the High Occultist. One and only member of the Halo Experiment.”

  8

  Remer Blake was the only person Patrick Holness liaised with at Bachman Gardens Institute for the Criminally Insane. They had both been admitted on the same day and were made to share a room with one another. Remer had been admitted on charges of public indecency, verbal and physical abuse and being intoxicated with Phencyclidine.

  After a suffering with an insufferable hangover on a Saturday morning, Remer Blake thought ‘smoking an Angel’s Wings’ would put his head to rest. The morning had been warm but as it metamorphosed into afternoon the heat had risen. The sweltering abyss of his bedroom had become too much to bear. After stripping naked to cool down his head swirled in an uncomfortable manner, dusk became darkness and dawn became insane. He was surrounded by Mongolian chiefs rising to their feet to engage him tales of elder traditions. Confusion rattled like a poisonous snake that has been triggered by a territorial intruder. He felt the blood flood his head, skin burning bright red and eagles swooped in masked terror. Remer’s turned 360 degrees in paranoia, thinking family members would catch him masturbating to some sicko religion that binds its members in a tangled mess of wires and lies. Faulty wires that spark and blind.

  It is a man who knows what thoughts are bold and digress into puddles of plasmatic bile. Senseless rhythms and cork screwing jizzum, why oh why can’t I die?

  What were those thoughts? Remer knew, he knew all too well. Remer had been running from Him since he was 6 years old. The Devil had finally come to collect his dues from when Remer had sold his soul to kiss little Becky Faunter outside the back gates of his school.

  He bolted out of his house like some kind of steroid crazed Olympic sprinter into the incandescent afternoon sun.

  2 hours later the Folk of Bachman Gardens were called out after Remer was found strutting up and down a main road accusing bystanders of being Beelzebub. He was seen furiously masturbating with his right hand while seeking to mock any poor Joe who crossed his path. He was first taken to a treatment facility and given 3 days to recover, on the 2nd day he was found trying to chew out his wrists because he claimed to have seen a Djinni sitting at the foot of his bed offering him 3 wishes that must involve either incest or paedophilia. This had all been happening at around the same time Patrick’s neighbour reported the vile stench spewing from his apartment. Just as the Folk were carrying off a catatonic Patrick into their imposing red van, Remer was being sprayed with bleach and water. When that rigmarole had ended, he was pumped full of drugs and strapped to a bed. Ancient Greek philosophers gathered around his helpless body and pondered the state of his mind. There seemed to be a moral void in this metaphysical realm. Dragons morphed from innocent lizards into majestic dinosaurs stomping the land with beastly force. Roman gladiators flashed weapons in his face, taunting him, bullying him until he pissed his pants. Tears flooded Remer’s eyes, sobs of agony escaped his mouth and urine flowed like a golden waterfall. For a moment everything became silent, and dark. Out of nowhere came a flash of UV light and he felt an immense pressure on his skull, he was sure his life would end then and there at the hands of some mysterious entity. He was wrong, the pain was quick and merciless but it had ended suddenly. There was no one. He was alone. Painfully alone. He passed out.

  When Remer Blake opened his eyes he was no longer restrained. He was staring at a faded bubble gum blue ceiling wrapped in white sheets. When he turned his head he saw another man was in the room, lying in a separate bed; staring at the ceiling.

  “Hello friend,” the man said. Remer turned his head and smiled.

  9

  Bland. Dull. Uninspiring. Monotonous. Patrick could reel off a good number of synonyms to describe his room. Cell. Place of residence. It was the kind of clichéd psychiatric hospital room you saw in the movies when you were a child. A large window protected with a wire mesh in the centre that looked over an unclean lake. Two beds flanking the left and right of the window and a couple of shelves and bed side tables, and of course; the dirty white walls. A room like that was considered luxur
y; many of the inmates were locked in glass cages or iron boxes. Patrick and Remer were being groomed for something and they both had felt it from day one.

  The Aakmanu had always taken a fancy to insanity. Bachman Gardens was a way for them to quench their thirst. Prisons were humdrum places and putting criminals to death became tiresome after a while. The Gardens provided the Aakmanu a playground to ease their minds from inter-dimensional travel. The Halo Experiments were born.

  Patrick felt like an indigenous member of the Hyperborean landscapes, he shivered under his sheets and could feel his heart beating over time, to supply the body with enough warm blood to stay alive. He heard voices, familiar ones belonging to an orderly known as Kovic and a 66 year old resident named Hatley. Patrick heard the shuffle of flat sole shoes coming up the hallway and could picture these two beings surrounded by the burgundy walls, venturing to a room where Hatley would receive his midnight colonic.

  “Come, Hatter. I hate making this journey as much as you but it’s midnight, and that means you have a date with Tony Tube and Betty Broth,” said Kovic.

  “I am afraid I’m going to have to decline dear sir, for the necessity of my birth has led me to believe I’m no longer fit for my duty,” Hatley said with a soothing, yet noticeably aged accent.

  “Okay, that may be so but you don’t really have a choice in the matter. So stop delaying me with your cryptic nonsense and get a move on,” Kovic was always firm.

  Patrick could imagine him squeezing Hatley’s frail arm listening to the grinding of brittle bone and crumbling cartilage. His face contorted in an insane smirk. Patrick turned his gaze away from the door, he stood up and stared out the window admiring nature’s art; the moon cast silver rays upon the lake and made the ripples look like tar.

  “He’d rather be seen in the temples cinching a noose around his neck while supple hounds lick his juicy parts,” he whispered to the lake.

  For a while he gazed, sleeping with his eyes open, standing erect like Michelangelo’s David. Eventually, at the Devil’s hour, he slid back into bed and dreamt of obscenities. He dreamt of molesting 4 mature women, as he smiled in that depraved realm, so did he smile in reality. Patrick Holness had suffered from vivid dreams ever since Hilstrom departed all those years ago. While he was brutalising the women with his member, Patrick could hear himself whispering 3 words under his grunts and moans: Embittered old cunt. The face of his concubine was that of his Mother’s. When he woke the room was flooded with sunlight and Remer Blake was perched on the edge of his bed, staring with wide eyes.

  The falling leaves of autumn breathed a sudden seasonal change. Colours of orange, yellow and brown littered the recreational yard as patients dragged their feet hither and thither. They drooled and mocked imps under their breath. A patient aptly named Halitosis Hez lay on the floor staring at polluted clouds. Hezekiah Larson suffered from chronic halitosis and was admitted to the Gardens for suffocating a young, single father with his dead daughter, who he had killed previously. He only spoke in short bursts, but sometimes his actions spoke loud and clear. Patrick approached the solitary man and lay down next to him.

  “Drugs. I need some. Can’t sleep,” Hezekiah said, never taking his eyes off the sky above.

  “Hold out your hand, I’ll take it in mine for a few seconds.” Patrick clasped his hand with Hezekiah’s and placed 4 white pills with blue centres onto his palm.

  “These will help you sleep, with no dreams. I’m meant to take them for my dreams but, well, I love my dreams,” Patrick got up and strolled off, kicking leaves knowing he was causing some slight chaos in the world. Hezekiah would not be waking up from his sleep; instead he would be plunged into an endless coma filled with appalling dreams.

  Hezekiah was the kind of insect that repulsed Patrick. He had a penchant for lady boys. Women with Male sex organs. To Patrick Holness, shemales were an abomination, freaks, weak minded people who couldn’t decide where they belong in the world. Hezekiah was one himself. He was considered to be a girly man, instead of lady boy. A man with Female genitalia, minus the breasts. It was said that he had come from the City and that he had worked in a tower brothel with other lady boys and girly men.

  Halitosis Hez had sexually abused Remer in the institute’s dance hall whilst doing their daily round of yoga.

  “To cleanse the mind of impure thoughts, one must cleanse the soul of its impurities,” said the orderly. A slender woman of about 40 with long, curly blond hair and thighs that could make a man melt.

  “Cleanse me Remer,” is all Hez spoke in a soft whisper. He cupped Remer’s crotch and felt the stiffness. No words were exchanged but Patrick could see. He used his eyes well enough to perceive the uncomfortable shuffling of Remer’s feet.

  The perspiration glistening on his brow. The dead look behind his glassy eyes. Patrick felt a rage burn like acid through his heart. He did not romantically love the man being sexually assaulted, but he loved him as if he were kin. Eventually Hezekiah got the message and withdrew, not before giving Remer’s member one last tug, making him shudder in a hollow orgasm. Patrick did nothing. He would do nothing, until the time was right.

  That day beneath the autumn clouds had seemed like the perfect opportunity. The next day Hezekiah was found in his cell dead, his face had looked like a wicker basket weaved from monstrous loathing and distress. When the news reached cell number 553.5, Patrick composed a smile. A smile that told Remer the truth without saying words. From that moment onwards, Remer owed a life debt, something he welcomed with open arms.

  The night before he was taken, Patrick had more depraved dreams of sodomy and semen.

  “Be that as it may, I would still live as a man bloated with semen and urine. Too many technicalities in this life that bring about a depressed disposition. Live life and be content with condoms filled with body waste and sexual fluids.”

  A queer sentence that appeared to fall from his mouth, yet with a different voice. He saw a man – quite possibly himself – take 16 large penises in his anal cavity. Patrick felt pain in his tender area. He wept tears of salty syrup. His frown lines formed into stone that crumbled in the perspiration leaking from his brow. The man that could have been him was now a bloated mass filled with all kinds of disgusting fluids. Patrick heard a pin drop onto aluminium. In slow motion he turned his head to scream violent words only the savages of old would have dared say.

  A contorted clown picked up the pin and smiled in horrific merriment. There was a time in three dimensional space when Patrick Holness could swear he heard a nuclear explosion as the pin pierced the rubbery flesh of this horrific twin. Like a burst dam, the liquid that poured forth looked like crème fraiche, smelling of toxic haddock.

  The sheer orgasmic pleasure caused him to rise from his bed like Dracula. His crotch was damp and sticky, infecting the bed with its thick tendrils. Patrick could not place his finger on the last time he’d had a wet dream. Especially one as foul and brutal as this.

  The rest of that day had passed him by like bland cars on a repetitive road. The auburn hair of Travis Stamshaw failed to turn his eye. He had become somewhat a nuisance in Patrick’s eyes. Travis had always been whispering plots to escape the institute, but none of those plots seemed feasible. There would be talks of dynamite, C4 explosive and such other unattainable weapons.

  Delusional.

  That was how Patrick would describe Travis.

  Manically delusional, hence why he has taken up residence at the Gardens.

  Patrick Holness most of all disliked the laugh. The titter.

  “He, he!” or “Te, he!” was how it went.

  It made his skin palpitate in repugnance. The skies had been enfolded in an iron blanket; the autumn sun had disappeared behind dense clouds that threatened rain, or possible hail. He decided to return to his room/cell, and read out of date magazines about Cambodian Creativity and how to catch Asian Sheepshead Wrasse.

  Remer returned from the wash room, radiating sickly aromas of olive oil and soap.<
br />
  “You smell like something from the dark ages, Remer,” said Patrick, still staring at the pictures in the magazine about Cambodian transportation.

  “I smell like a man born again. Weren’t you aware of the bi-monthly deep cleansing? The yoga instructor recommends it, I recommend it.”

  “I’m not interested in the hapless bullshit of some married woman who never sees her children because she’s too busy fucking the inmates of Bachman Gardens,” Patrick closed the magazine and looked at Remer’s glistening, half naked body.

  “You can’t be sure of that,” Remer lay on his bed and wrapped himself in the white duvet. Deep down it made Patrick happy to see Remer in a good mood. Their conversation was different from previous ones.

  It felt like he was free, before he came to the Gardens. Before Hilstrom had left him like an unwanted dog.

  “I can smell criminally insane semen a mile off, and she is drenched in it,” Patrick continued with his magazine, while Remer knocked back his daily course of pills.

  Movement. He could feel movement. He was moving, gliding. He could hear the squeal of wheels. When Patrick opened his eyes there was still darkness, something queer was afoot. His breathing had become shallow; he was trapped in some kind of cocoon.

  Dreams, they never fail to surprise me. Just when you have them figured out, they come at you with something unique.

  Something didn’t feel right though, the clarity of his mind was, too real. Too awake.

  He felt the zip being pulled back, air, he could breathe easier. He was in a room that was a sickly purple and had the odour of decaying oranges. The walls were migraine inducing and sense numbing. 7 figures came in to view, surrounding him. Patrick’s body was paralyzed, or maybe dead, he couldn’t be sure. He sensed that they could sense the confusion and terror seeping from his eyes.