The atmosphere was a blinding wall of bitter hatred; both men stared at each other, both with a lust for the hunt. Gerald Danmouth had his plans laid out on fine platters made of children’s bones, he planned to sodomise 1107, to slowly molest this enigma and torture him over the course of 1,107 hours. Very appropriate; Gerald knew things about the flesh that would make men cower in the sewers.
“The falling snows have malnourished your intellect Gerald Danmouth. It is you who is the cheater, the despicable liar casting malformed shadows with crooked gestures, while prancing on forests of corpses. The Koloxic Neuros has slowed your wits,” the Guy smiled.
“That’s why my pineapple decomposed in my hands,” said Gerald stroking his face, “trust those sneaky Aakmanu to have their experimental claws in this place. I’ll hand it to them there; the bastards know how to turn us into rats.”
“I’ve not come here to talk nonsensical prose to the likes of you,” the Guy spat, “the High Occultist. I want him and I know he’s out in the Moffatt Fields, but I want to know where in the Fields.”
“Wanting is different from needing, 1107. Everybody has heard of you, tales of your endeavours have reached the ears of many on the Island. Your newfound obsession with the High Occultist is well known among the ranks of insanity. The real question here is; how would I know where he is?” It was Gerald’s time to smile now, his face broke out into a grin that made him look like a hyena.
“You are not the only one who knows stories. I know you were close to the abomination after his transformation. I now know it was you who orchestrated the electrical fault at Bachman Gardens, thus releasing the vermin into my grasp.”
“Touché 1107, the tales are true about you, but how is it you can read my story but not the High Occultist’s?”
The Guy made no expression, neither did he make a move. He was like a wax model; life like, but empty. After a moment of intense silence the Guy spoke.
“I would like his location now,” his eyes focused and Gerald was not on the balcony. He could feel something gnawing the back of his brain, like termites gnawing into wood.
Mind control with phallic ornaments breeds a psychotic attitude.
His saliva bubbled, like he was inside a cherubic asshole filled with insect lava that writhed in putrid motion.
“You see 1107, there is always a contingency. Koloxic Neuros spreads like a molten infection and there is another tank. Breathe in, have your fill. Tastes good doesn’t it? Tastes like the sands of another world,” spoke Gerald from someplace within the walls.
The Guy held his breath, but it was folly. He made the choice to hunt Gerald Danmouth, so he must chug on the foul liquid of his mistake, a sickly brew sweetened with cinnamon and oriental spices.
“It is a depravity every man must face when forced into a subtle, yet shameful contract outlining torture and horrific mutilation. I faced that depravity years ago, now you must face yours. Ye damned Gods, they brushed us under the carpets of the universe, they left us to these manipulative reptiles that stalk the void in a state of cosmic malice. You 1107 are their toy, you will see.”
The Guy was hacking out thick strings of mucus; inhaling and exhaling deeply while turning his head this way and that to catch a glimpse of the fiend. Gerald’s voice was the only thing that showed itself.
“Oh how I wish to penetrate the orifice of that ghastly wench who served me fermented turnips. I had taken her from the arms of some insane sailor. Nautical cunt piece he was. Spreading his anus wide, high on poppers allowing his ship mates to climb aboard. He would then extravagantly urinate over their feet and water board his prisoners of war.”
Hysteria swirled and brayed like a burning donkey, there was nothing but debauchery and maniacal incantations. The Guy felt like Gerald would talk him to death.
This can’t be the end prophesised by Him.
There was no-one to state otherwise. The world around him metamorphosed into a market place full of Arabic dwellers. Wherever he went bleak skies followed and tales of woe passed through people’s salmon lips. Scarred memories, martyred spirits and grimacing physicality flocked from unknown lands to confide in him.
The Guy was a “meet and greet” agony aunt, sent forth to soak in the incessant bullshit of people’s dull lives. He had no sympathy for them or their culture. He could not bring himself to pity them. He could only loathe them.
How dare they whine about mundane matters while he stalked a metaphysical beast through warped realms. If only the Man with the Emerald Eyes could vomit, he would have loved to have cleansed his body of the toxic waste that was gathered around him.
Hack, splutter and heave bile, burning as it crept up his throat.
Those people were bile.
The scene changed and the Guy found himself in an oasis. There was a tree with glowing tangerines alongside a lake that had a refreshing appearance. His mouth was dry, choked with sand from the marketplace. He could feel the grains crunch between his teeth; the taste was bitter and full of indignity. As he dipped his head in the lake, taking in long gulps of water, he stopped caring about everything.
There was no more care for his journey than there was for any insects caught in the suction of his mouth. It wasn’t until he had drunk his fill that the Guy began to experience flashes. He peered at his reflection and locked his gaze with the image in the glassy water. Thousands of stories were buried in those pores, every bead of perspiration held mysteries that a sober mind could not comprehend.
For a brief moment he saw Sylvester Claproot, proprietor of the Rift Inn Time, now lost to the fire. The ghostly image tipped a wink and a pale light shimmered in the water, causing the image to change. Nancy gazed up at the Guy, smiling. He touched the water tenderly and her beautiful portrait dissipated.
Above him bats gathered, the demented, blind critters feasted on the tangerines, lapping up the juices and fluttered their wings in satisfaction. Behind him he could sense a presence, the lake glowed with a languid amaranth light.
“Not too far now, 1107. You’ll be as satisfied as those bats when you meet me. I feel as though we are long lost lovers, finally meeting again to share words and wisdom about the years we spent apart. I cannot wait to be entwined with you. The oasis you see is real, though not as grandeur as this. You will find me under the shade of the tangerine tree. Hurry Rift Walker.”
A sudden flare of pain lit up inside the Guy’s head and he found himself sprawled on the concrete floor of the Ivory factory.
He knows. The High Occultist has bored deep into my subconscious. I must not falter now.
Muscles ached and bones creaked as he got himself to his feet. Outside the storm had settled and the Guy hoped little Nancy and her companions had made it safe to the train.
Inside the office Gerald Danmouth was on his knees mumbling in a strange tongue the Guy had heard before. The scene harkened back to a moment that seemed so long ago.
“You found your answer in the Koloxic Neuros,” said Gerald, sounding like his mouth was full of cotton.
“Why not just tell me straight?”
“All my life I’ve had a taste for theatrics, just ask the Folk who caught me with my sister and cousin,” he chuckled.
“You should have disappeared when you had the opportunity.”
“I’m done with running, I had my fill of innocent flesh here and I suppose I would have been gluttonous had you not showed up.
It’s high time I met the Gods and ask them why they forsook us.” Gerald filled his mind with serenity, he thought the Guy would give him a clean, quick death. Instead he felt a fist connecting with his head. Gerald was out, cold.
Blurred vision, that feeling of being high on the hero’s drug; the one that needs to be injected into the blood stream. He tried to speak but only drooled, he tried to move but found he was stuck. What was he stuck to?
It must have been the desk in the office, for Gerald felt splinters boring under his skin. Tar was the adhesive, he remembered there being barrels of
it in the basements. Words were being spoken, but they were lost inside the cavern of his dreams. Sounds echoed and bounced off the granite walls of his subconscious. He faded into the void.
A sharp burst of pain flooded his face.
Now he was being drenched with cold water. Did he have to awaken? Couldn’t he just sleep for another hour to ease the hangover?
With great difficulty Gerald pried open his eyes, his vision was back to normal, a great throbbing had taken up residence in his head.
The Man with the Emerald Eyes stared down at him with a look somewhere between cold hate and orgasmic pleasure.
“Tell me, why help the man who has come to end your miserable life?” said the figure, his voice was a soothing, haunting and charming cocktail.
“The Aakmanu aren’t the only enemies the High Occultist has. For a time I would have dreams, but not the kind I normally had. They would be so vivid, I would wake up with short term memory loss with no sense of anything. I would feel like I had been transported to another world. A world where incest and cold blooded murder were tolerated. A world where I could spread my wings and hunt my prey in the wilderness.
At the centre of this world was Him. He would be in the same dream every night speaking tales of escape and freedom, that I was the key needed to unlock the doors.”
He shifted his head slightly and spat.
“After he used me to break out of the asylum, the High Occultist used me in other ways. Sexual ways. If I were to tell you the things he did to me you’d likely be paralyzed with horror. Perhaps not. Once you began to worm your way into his equations he lost interest in me, so I fled. So far I have been lucky, but now you’re here and I’ll never be safe. End it for me and end it for Him.” Gerald closed his eyes and began to inhale deep and exhale long.
“I see your world, I see your dark realms. I’ve witnessed your emancipation from the belly of one vile beast and into another; yourself.” The Man with the Emerald Eyes had something in his right hand, an implement. It wasn’t until Gerald felt the ghastly pain that he found out what it was. The pineapple cutter plunged into Gerald’s crotch, sending out spatters of warm blood. There was the peaceful sound of a gut wrenching scream, the wails of a tortured man.
The Guy twisted and the cutter bore deep into his victim’s flesh creating pineapple rings of Human skin. Once he reached a certain point, the Guy pulled the implement out, a cylinder of flesh and blood. Gerald looked upon it with wide eyed terror and screamed until this voice began to break. The implement was placed on the concrete floor with a dull metallic clunk.
The Guy poured cold water onto Gerald’s face so he wouldn’t lose consciousness.
Both penis and scrotum were mangled, a gaping hole spewed urine and plasma and the office was awash with the curdled screams of Gerald Danmouth. He tried to speak but could only manage horrified gasps and guttural moans.
The Guy tore the thick chunk of skin from the pineapple cutter and stared coldly at the dripping rouge fluid coating his hand, his eyes turned to the man lying helpless on the desk.
Gerald fixed the Man with the Emerald Eyes with a stare, behind those green opals he saw a man in agonising ecstasy. A creature locked in a constant battle between instinct and empathy. His mouth was being forced open.
The chunk of flesh slipped inside the helpless man’s scream hole with ease. The Guy stuffed Gerald’s mouth like he would stuff a courtesan full of strawberries before an evening of sexual intercourse.
Copper, his blood tasted like he was sucking on a copper pipe. He was expecting a quick death, or at least to die in a sure way. To be tortured in such a sickening manner never occurred to him.
I’m paying my debt to Kallisto and Glykeria. Hell will be a picnic basket of sweet breads compared to this.
Silence descended and lingered like dead skin particles in the atmosphere. The Guy decided to finish his work by cutting off Gerald’s air supply. He died with a gaping hole in his crotch and his mouth full of Human pineapple flesh.
10
The sun was setting over the horizon when the Guy exited the factory. The sky was a lurid oil painting of maroon, apricot and streaks of turquoise. There was an omen etched into the heavens; an aurora borealis was approaching. He found Gerald’s horse in a squalid barn next to some portable toilets, the aromas of Human and Horse excrement created a potent cocktail. The creature was a gelding and was the colour of honeycomb that had been sprayed finely with ink. The animal was anxious, rearing its head and sensing a possible threat. No doubt Gerald had given it a reason to be anxious. The Guy took the reins and caressed the gelding’s head, whispering the words of desert tribes into its ear. Slowly it settled and began to nuzzle him, an encouraging display of affection.
He mounted and urged his new found friend onwards into the sunset. The Guy wanted to put some distance between him and the industrial complex before setting up camp. After 3 hours of riding he began to smell salt in the air and realised he was approaching the ocean.
The Guy could hear the sound of the waves thundering in the night, the salt air was a refreshing change for him. He built a small camp fire consisting of chunks of wood and hay he scavenged from the derelict barn and lit it with a match. The Guy rolled a cigarette and smoked while listening to the sounds of the ocean, he didn’t know how much time had passed since he was taken into the Aakmanu’s care.
Keep track of time…
How can one keep track of time
In a space so destitute,
So devoid of procreation?
I know not the answer;
I don’t even wear a watch.
At some point he slept and there were no dreams.
Just after dawn he awoke and approached the sea. It was a Jurassic coast laden with slate that dated back millions of years. Crustacean sediment washed ashore on creamy, frothing waves that had the temperament of a rabid hound. Hermit crabs busied themselves searching for new homes in plastic bottles that were strewn across the beach, like cheap whores cast aside for their unfulfilled and barren souls. He crushed one between a rock and his leather boot, the delicious crunch and squelch made his stomach rumble with hunger. There were too many crustaceans on the beach, but that didn’t bother him, instead he looked out beyond the sea to the distant mainland. He pondered on the riches of freedom and existence, and then shifted his mind set to tyrannical glory and death. His impending death, or so it was prophesised, by a dream walker. An abomination.
The fire was rebuilt and the Guy broke his fast on small crabs boiled in sea water, he had found a rusted pot washed up on the shore and thought it too good an opportunity to be passed up. The meal was dissatisfying and tasteless but provided him with enough energy to press on. He mounted his gelding, which he now named Heliodorus, it meant ‘Gift of the Sun,’ and spurred on to the Moffatt Fields.
“The ideals have fallen into an empty abyss; I’ve been a witness to all time and space gone amiss. Looking at the stars I gazed and wondered whether I should travel through that vast gulf. I dreamed of a craft so beautiful in its metallic wonderment and of the people who communicate in oneness. There are worlds with vegetation that turn one’s brain to sludge; altering the state of conscious thought. In the beginning there was me and in the end there will only be me.”
From the Journal of 1107:
Same old strip, same old road
different boxes
and sexual modes of desire.
I must be delirious.
How long have I been without water?
Keep track keep time...
How can one keep track of time in a space so destitute
so devoid of procreation?
I know not the answer;
I don't even wear a watch,
Just a compass on my wrist,
And with the right kind of vision
this could be a time keeper.
But alas, that stage has not set in the part
where your brain has thirst for moisture
And shrivels
like an elderly penis.
No trace of hallucinogen in
a forest of secrets.
Act IV
Beneath the Quantum Aurora.
1
He saw the turquoise streaks of the Aurora Borealis gliding across the sky like snakes on water. His attention then turned to the landscape laid out before him; desert meeting countryside. Tufts of grass sprouting from the ground, the Moffatt Fields were a few miles ahead. That wasn’t important right now, what was important was the pain in his right arm and the immense weakness in his legs; they felt like melting rubber. Colin Shesi was a drifter; he had left the City with the dream of owning a quiet place in the Moffatt Fields. Always the loner was Colin, so a cottage in the hills would have made the perfect settlement for him. Instead he messed up, he went and got himself into trouble with the proprietor of the Tainted Ransom; a saloon that served as a resting point for travellers crossing the border to the Moffatt Fields, or to the City depending on which way you’re travelling.
The proprietor was a hard boiled man named Vincent Claproot, the day before he found a weedy young man flaying the skin from one of his whores. He grabbed Colin by his long, hay coloured hair and dragged him outside, naked. Rage pulsed through Vincent and he had no choice but to act upon that emotion. Colin’s hands were bound in front of him, he was stood up on a narrow oak table, and a noose was tied around his neck and roped to a wooden beam outside the saloons entrance. Colin cried and pleaded, saying he blacked out, saying that he was being controlled by dark forces. Vincent heard the words, but never listened, instead he hammered the boy’s feet to the table with thick iron nails, securing him in position. He produced a large hunting knife from a leather sheath attached to his leg and thought about the times he used to hunt wild boar with his Pa and brother. Vincent began to flay the skin from Colin’s right arm, taking his time and using the knife with careful precision. Wild boar.
Underneath the Draconian Sky Page 8