The True god = 559 = Mutilation
The True god = 559 = Mutilation
In time the downpour grew scanty, the thunderous assault replaced by a near-silent murmur. The vortex had bled away most of its own matter, leaving only a translucent smear of crimson mist on the heavens that waned as its final particles descended, exposing a pale sunless sky. The roads were stained an opaque scarlet, splatters painted across the foot of every building. Liquid remained in barrels and buckets, slithering through depressions in the street as though the earth’s skin had been peeled away from its arteries. The ferric stench had not lost a trace of aggression—so pungent I could still taste its aqueous provenance on my tongue.
At my feet lay a strange mechanism, soaking in a pool of blood as though it had torn its way out of a womb—a broad saw blade protruding solid and erect from a body of cylindrical steel chambers. This device had such aberrant structure, untelling of its intent on function or simply intimidation. It seemed to be a weapon, with several perpendicular bars conveniently sized to fit a human grip, though its mass and complexity exceeded any sword I was familiar with.
Swimming in the same shallow puddle of gore was a suit of armor—cadaverous with limbs twisted in all directions. Despite its transference occurring only moments ago, it appeared darkened by age, its scales pitted and scraped like weathered stone.
The appearance of such a novel weapon eluded my understanding. The sharpness of its canines would label it “sword,” yet its irregular silhouette argued with such claims. I envisioned it to be a segment of a larger machine for a purpose too arcane to comprehend—a forbidden piece of technology meant to remain in its womb. Inscribed on the side of a cylinder in marks of dried blood was the word “RAPE”—presumably the weapon’s title.
I lifted its body by a handle laying square to the blade, blood trickling off its skinless metal organs. At its rear a tiny fragment rattled loosely—perhaps a severed piece of flesh still dangling by veins and nerves. I wrapped a finger around it and felt a trace of slack.
A thorny, caustic voice punched a hole through my skull. “PULL IT.” He vomited jagged shards of rage into the space between us, gripping my heart between pulses. A massive shadow painted itself across the stained houses before me, creeping down and sprawling backwards until my entire view was shaded. I turned my head to see his eldritch flesh looming overhead, his exaggerated hircine cock repulsing my eyes like a nest of spiders behind my retinas. I pulled the cord out an arm’s length and the device growled in pain as the demon roared again. “HARDER.”
I yanked with aggression, knowing this monster would not cooperate with gentle guidance, and Rape’s screaming settled into a continuous baritone roar. The machine cried deep, animalistic wails as it rumbled furiously in my hands—a primordial beast caged in steel.
Through its agonal bellows Rape spoke to me, subtly lacing its words between hostile pops and sputters. I narrowed my ears to decipher what the beast so desperately struggled to say. Its filthy jaws told me of a pained existence—how its suffering could only be cured through satiation—devouring gore and disseminating its curse. In a fetid blend of despair and lust it screamed, yearning to be shoved into the hot, wet flesh of the living.
With my free hand I lifted the chest plate by its throat, feeling the aggravated surface of cold steel beneath my fingers. This husk had seen nothing short of war at its most ferocious, its remembrance tangible in every dent—blades clashing, limbs splitting, arrow impaling flesh. The armet had no eyes with which to perceive the horror of existence, yet it would beg me to rip them out if it did.
By their heels I pulled the sabatons onto my feet—segmented and tapered at their ends like scorpions’ tails. And I strapped thick plates from my knees to my chest before fitting the gauntlets over my fingers. I raised the armet’s visor, sliding it over my head and clamping its jaws back down, confining my vision to a narrow slit and an array of puncture wounds.
Through the rifts I saw where the cobbled road ended no more than a dozen houses ahead, blending into a trail of dark crimson mud where the farmlands began. Flanking this path were walls of stone—hazy and formless until I realized their vertical striations were not stone but canes of wheat.
Some hungry pestilence had been propagated by the sky's wounds, masquerading as ordinary nutrients as the crops siphoned it, sickening them from the inside. And in spite of its unpalatable hue, a massive swarm of locusts ravaged the field, so populous they appeared dark invariant streaks twisting through the air.
As though botanical disease were not misfortune enough, an army of rats smeared their effluvium across every stem—plague bearers rendering the field just as deadly to humans as it was to crops. A thousand vermin canted their heads and gnawed each stalk down to its core as a thousand others darted across the ground, crawling over the rest of the horde with seemingly no destination.
The faint clangor of metal accompanied my gait as though I’d impregnated a machine with my consciousness. And as I stepped in the mud my sabatons left droplet-shaped tracks, flattening the scant grass beneath me like stained papyrus. The atonal screech of locusts grew vexing as I drew upon the field, a thousand harsh rattles fighting each other for the noise’s melody.
Beside a small hovel stood a creature in peasant’s attire, a loose-fitting tunic draped over its shoulders as a scythe rested beside its collar. The farmer kept its head turned toward the fields beyond, leaving me to wonder if it gazed with aversion or curiosity or simply hollow observation. Hardly a single deliberation crossed my mind before my options collapsed onto murder, my body already primed for slaughter knowing that no piece of flesh was more attractive before being gutted.
I squeezed the grip, Rape’s discordance increasing, screaming in rage at the existence of life and begging to be fed. And just as the beast turned to meet my gaze I swung the saw at its neck, skull colliding with the ground as its throat spilled. I deepend the wound with another prolonged slice, spraying a bloody mist into the air and a puddle onto the ground as though Rape were cumming blood in carnal ecstasy, tremors gaining weight as I sliced through vertebrae. And with every cacophonous squelch the saw vocalized such joy, speaking of rapture as though every gnash of its teeth were a morpheme of an arcane tongue.
The Antithesis made his amusement known to all, ripping through my eardrums with the sound of unbridled cruelty. I continued to satiate my weapon, pulling the throttle again and shoving the blades into the creature’s hip, dismembering a leg, then an arm, then gutting its abdomen horizontally. Innards spilled in torrents of blood, bulging out like a harvest of fish in a net that was too small to contain them. But Rape did not halt its abrasive moans, seemingly unaware that its victim had already been slain ten times over.
The cadaver filled my nose with the alluring scent of gore—the sickly sweetness of its wine—yet scent alone wasn’t enough. I raised my visor and picked up a chunk of indistinct meat from this unholy eucharist, chewing through sinew. The metallic taste of blood coated my tongue with such potency that it seemed to creep up the walls of my mouth and spill into the back of my throat—bitter as death itself. And its hot crimson issue dripped down my chin as shreds of fascia clung to my teeth.
In the corpse’s hair I tangled my fingers—stained by the bloody grass—and I yanked its torso upright. Sanguine effluence ran from its eyes and nose as a pseudo-expression of lingering terror swirled in its pupils.
I let Rape strike the ground with metallic clangor, and my leg plating followed. As I dropped the chainmail beneath, my erect phallus drank in the aroma of death with its ophidian tongue. My lust strained against reality’s membrane—just short of breaking into existence—my cock swelling up like a cyst.
I pulled the corpse’s throat forward and leaned its skull back, tearing the laceration wider so that my cock may slide into its pharynx. The first stab filled me with incalculable rapture—a parasite of lust that crawled through my flesh and tightened every muscle from thighs to mandible. Sexual polarity was insignificant, as the love of gore transcended and subjugated any biology.
A trail of blood ran down my leg as I grunted in hellish euphoria, clenching my shoulders and back like a frightened cat. The creature squeaked and babbled, now speaking with my cock as its tongue, flicking the air with the rhythm of ferocious lust.
I accelerated my thrusts as tendrils of pleasure flailed through my pelvis, before cumming freely into the bloody gash. My face contorted beyond my control—scleras trembling, jaw clenched—yet my pain this time was instead pleasure distilled. It cut with ferocious depth, releasing a part of me that had been embroiled since my moment of creation—perhaps a blood embolism or a renal calculus, though in the back of my mind I knew it was something much darker.
The tension finally released and I felt a joy that man would never feel in the presence of a god. I hadn’t cum so hard ostensible eons—hadn’t truly felt the bliss of unrestrained brutality. Hot, black sludge disgorged from the wound—a mixture of hatred and semen, along with a clot of the vermin’s own blood. Euphoria voided itself, leaving only satisfaction, and I let my fingers slip out of its hair. The corpse fell limp once again and slammed its occipital bone into the ground.
Through the infected air I heard the Antithesis erupt with abrasive cachinnation—so distorted that I could only imagine his blackened trachea riven and bleeding. The corpse abruptly regained an apparent vital scintilla, clawing its way out of death’s jaws without knowledge of its brutal fate. A scalding, chthonic abscess burst in its celiac plexus with greater potency than its flesh could accommodate, oozing kinetic pus.
The carcass writhed with a familiar portent, thrashing in ferocious orgasm. This quaking grew in haste and savagery, persisting even beyond when I expected every muscle to be torn or exhausted of all stamina. Joints shattered in succession, forcefully inverting themselves with plangent cracks.
The creature behaved more as a disjointed set of flesh and bones than a coherent organism—a being with function piercing the bounds of its form. A spider nested at its center, dwelling on an amorphous white loom of webbing between slick, bloody walls of serous membrane. The arachnid forced its haggard appendages through every limb, attempting to control a human-shaped marionette.
The quaking subsided with unnatural rigidity, a final ardent thrash falling into stillness. Its flesh began to sunder across an enormous array of fault lines—a vermiculated lattice of arteries with more sapience and structure than those that siphoned blood—dissected into ribbons and strands and layered polygons. Each segment braided and accumulated with its analogues, skin weaving around ligaments, muscle dancing with its tendons.
The Antithesis pulled each fragment with microscopic precision, a different thread of consciousness in each monstrous phalanx. And reality obeyed without question, twisting to his will as though its obedience were out of fear. No human cognition could absorb a shred of the involution that unfolded—the unholy geometric calculations spinning through his infernal mind—nor the mechanisms behind such cosmic dexterity.
The embryo
That I’ve begotten
Is no child
Nor beast of any sort.
Blood spilled from every division, forcefully ejaculating where major arteries were torn. Crimson ichor spilled in heavy gouts, irreverently smeared as though profuse hemorrhaging was a negligible consequence of sculpture. But the smears coagulated on impulse and their viscous clots divided, arranging themselves into sanguine constellations with even stricter detail, a layer of mathematical cosmos spiraling between voids in the other.
The septic issue
From within my cock
Is a festering blight—
A rancid infection.
The remaining blood sat in a pool that slid its rigid tendrils between flagstones. I unhanded Rape and watched it crawl nearer, eventually sniffing out my sabatons, licking their cold steel with its viscid scarlet tongue. I knew the moisture would lead their already tarnished skin to burst with tumors of rust.
And its unholy form—
Its absolute phase—
Is a venereal sickness
Walking in false skin.
I removed my armet and one of my gauntlets, tossing them to the ground with hollow crashes. I placed my knee guard against the stone and left a fingerprint in the pool—quickly swallowed again by jaws of blood. In that moment my hand became the hand of the puppet, and my flesh became his flesh as did bread and wine before devourment.
I placed the wet finger against my frontal bone, anointing myself as any sick person would endure. Blood trickled down my forehead and the side of my nose—a diagnosis, not a remedy.
Even in a civilized world we cannot ignore fundamental human nature—our suffering and our rage and our primal urge to quell them. No matter how much we sob and bleed in pursuit of sating our hemophilia, no superficial pain can eclipse a joy as profound as violence.
Why squander our lives with righteousness when cruelty is such a vital nutrient? Beings flay themselves and stuff their gaping wounds with virtue, foolishly believing that some deity will guerdon them. They beg for paradise like abused animals, forcing themselves ever farther down an erroneous orifice until they cum with pure void. Only when one inverts himself—breaching the veil between mercy and hunger—will he know the pleasure of letting hell seize him by the cock, ejaculating thick surges of arterial blood.
Yet, his mind and body have grown worlds apart, one wandering absently while the other remains chained and skeletonized. His flesh yearns to wreak suffering in a language alien to even his tempered cognition—to the abstractions he’s been infected with through worthless prayer.
The corpse I’d just eviscerated assured me that being sick was my pinnacle, my greatest gain being that which others had lost, my most gripping pleasure being the induction of pain. Yet I am not just sick—I am the sickness itself—the premier and terminal sigil of all possible meanings. I’ve tread through carnage with open arms, letting it scorch my nose and crawl into my ears and brand its unholy mark on my eyes. I’ve soaked in blood until my body disintegrated beneath the crimson ichor, peeling away flesh and leaving my demonic nucleus bare, reborn as a malevolent god of death.
Show me the hungry, and into their mouths I will vomit blood. Show me the sick and I will bathe in their disease. Show me the weak and into their cunts I will thrust myself, before slitting their throats and carving them into disfigured masses of offal. Perversion radiates from my flesh, its solar discharge throwing off arcs of vaporized pestilence—so potent that the world begins to burn in my light.
I gazed into the pool beneath my sabatons and saw a faint image of my own face in its glossy surface—gaunt and unkempt—caked with dirt, sweat, and gore. Viscous fluids clung to the stubble that had grown under my jaw from a lack of grooming. The bloodshot luster of my eyes seemed to betray their own biology, lacking the classical distinctions of the human, conveying not spirit nor empathy nor even consciousness.