Only One god = 666 = All Eyes On Me
Only One god = 666 = All Eyes On Me
For so long I sauntered through this place, pleased by how its seemingly infinite putrescence had only grown filthier through black nights and darker days. Cadavers littered the streets—ruptured, decapitated, gutted, raped, shredded into a paste, masticated by rats and crows in an indulgent apocalyptic banquet. Life was no longer bound in antiseptic sheaths of skin, instead sitting in amorphous chunks like fragments of an unsolvable puzzle, spilling life from wounds larger than what little matter remained unwounded. Skin engulfed slivers of muscle which held jagged shards of bone in no particular sequence. Many were limbless while others were limbs alone, greased with their own innards. Rodents sat atop a sundered ribcage that had been ripped from one of the countless bodies, chewing on remnants of gore still adhering to bone.
The living lay among corpses like shit and garbage, indistinguishable from the dead if not for feeble twitches and groans. Many of these faces lacked features, and gore exploded from their throats with such immense pressure that any aperture was an outlet, whether it be vacant eye sockets or severed throats.
It seemed pestilence had slain his other three horsemen, their corpses rotten and bloated as he appointed himself the sole purveyor of the apocalypse.
I twisted my brain inward, folding its matter against a coal-black scab that had never quite dissolved into the rest of my grey matter. And in that scab was a man stumbling over his own feet as torrents of blood clouded his sight, nude flesh corrugated by a thousand enraged slashes. Yet the membrane dividing us was not material, as his tear-glossed angel eyes saw only the cruelty of suffering, blind to true sadism.
That self had since gone the way of all flesh by his own hand, rebirthed from a dying, scarred womb. His new eyes swiveled bloodshot—hell bent on drowning the world in its own blood, his shredded arms blackened by infections, encased in dark steel.
My impurity ran far deeper than the vessels in my brain, conceived not by love but suffering, agony forced into my ethos like knives into flesh. Pain twisted into the physical upon my conception, seizing raw ingredients from the earth and carving my skin out of torment, tethering it with stitches of sickness.
Your reign of blood
Clears away.
I will take you
By your bloody hand
Toward your nemesis.
With no lives left unchained by suffering, I considered my next actions for a trivial duration. This city was saturated with filth and pain to the point of spilling over, and any further violence would simply bring quietus to those already in supreme agony.
To die with sickness
Just as you have lived.
And so I acted on impulse—an animalistic thirst that crawled from my gut to my head—yet any amount of contemplation would have brought me towards the same fate.
I dropped Rape to the cobblestone, its steel flesh scuffing the ground, and yanked my armet from its perch. I arched my back so that the base of my chestplate would part from my abdomen, and ran my fingers across the skin. A bolt of pain flared up as my fingers came across the glass shard, and I pinched its tip before yanking it out.
I shoved my jaw upward to keep any convulsions from obstructing my final hour. The existing wounds opened like snakes’ jaws as another deluge of blood cascaded down my chest, and they screamed a horrible growl as though exhorting for mercy. I pressed the blade to my skin and sliced without mercy at my own throat, baring my teeth at the searing touch.
Hatred writhed in my thorax, snaking its tongue through the sweet aroma of impending death. It clawed maniacally at my ribcage, screeching in anticipation of finally transcending its host.
Hot blood drenched my hand, seeping between the segments of my gauntlet. My skull ascended as it lost conjunction with my body, the force of my hand stretching and tearing what little skin remained. I galvanized my senses to face the unknown—the dense carnivorous void that awaited me on the antipole of death.
As my consciousness shriveled into darkness, I felt a powerful surge through my torso and an explosive retch of my esophagus. The hatred excised itself from my throat—a massive, sticky web of darkness spewing from between the freshly opened jaws like a gout of emesis. The parasite splayed its tendrils across the sky as my armored carcass slammed into the ground, stagnant and analgesic at last.
My stint of carnage had found its conclusion, and my final bliss was that I’d died with a blade between my fingers—even if it was at my own throat.
Death had found her indestructible grip on my flesh, yet my consciousness remained ensnared, dangling just above eternal quietus. My mind swallowed infinite umbra as though scouring it for something beyond—something sewn into the edifice of reality that transcended the nature of emptiness. I retained perception yet lacked a reality to perceive—a whetted blade without a victim to pierce. And even in my plight I contemplated every possible fate—a rebirth from new flesh, my soul rotting in blackness for eternity, or perhaps nothing at all.
In a blinding flash of clarity, vision returned to my eyes, squealing and crackling as luminiferous aether occluded the space left by its brief absence. The sharp gelidity of death bloomed beneath my skin, pain carved into my wounds by necrosis, flesh painted with suggilation. My throat poured a growing sea of blood that reached towards the horizon, its sanguine tongues licking the visor of my armet.
Just as I flickered my eyes across my morbid surroundings—still littered with corpses—an apparent spasm gripped my neck and coaxed a sputter of blood from its wounds. The seizure persistently tightened, imprinting an empty space in the shape of fingers. I writhed and clawed at the spectral grip yet felt only fingernails against my own sundered throat as its duress multiplied. Even through my perforations I could not inhale a single particle of air, my struggle producing only a flaccid wheeze.
Hot blood pooled in my head with such immense pressure that I felt my brain would explode and leave a soup of cerebral gore in its cavity. Fissures shot across my skull as the grapple forced me into the cobblestone, eyes fogged by streaks of crimson lightning that bled over their lenses until they ruptured.
Just as I expected my second death to be a torturous suffocation, my scalp grazed a spongy substance from below. Into this ductile matter the grip depressed my head, eventually eclipsing the surface as the earth opened its throat. With a terminal thrust I slid into a narrow tunnel—wet with a fetid lubricant—vermiculated tissues slithering across my face. I envisioned my fate upon reaching the earth’s womb—perhaps shattering my spine on impact or being condemned to suffocate as I desperately claw these repugnant walls of flesh.
The abrasive sound of tearing steel rang through my ears as my right pauldron fractured, disjointing the arm of my exoskeleton. A caustic pain seared the muscle before another laceration bisected my hand. Steel blades and shards of glass sat lodged in the walls—jagged teeth extending all the way down the earth’s throat. At imperceptible velocity they shot through my flesh, tearing away chunks of skin and muscle along with fingers and toes, leaving streaks of blood to mix with the viscid discharge that coated the tunnel. The propulsion accelerated, dragging me through torrid edges until the blunt force of each impact was more destructive than the slicing.
The air scalded with a heat never once attained by fire nor boiling pitch, my skin seemingly immolated by molten steel, blisters popping up where it remained. My bleeding eyes trembled and rolled back in their orbits, such immense and prolific agony withering my consciousness away. My flesh could no longer distinguish between the wet slicing of blades and the sizzling of chthonic air, all pain coalesced into a uniform sea of torment.
In a fleeting moment that breached the chasm of pain, I wondered if some divine entity had arisen to bring vengeance, or if I simply neared on the next chapter of my damnation. Regardless of the cause, the consequence was unmistakable—a brutal unbirth that would restore balance to the universe—the blood, phlegm, and bile that constituted my flesh violently sucked back to equilibrium. The noxious stench of offal suggested that its return would be far crueler than its removal.
I reached the channel’s anus, my remaining shreds sinking into a matrix of absolute darkness. The absence of sight, sound, and motion smothered me in a moment of total anesthetic silence as though I’d returned to my freshly deceased state.
A callous reminder of existence bludgeoned me from below, the impact throbbing in my skull as it smashed my already broken ribs. Even in my stupor I could feel the evil lurking in this place—entrails swirling unseen beneath an abyssal sea of blood. The nothingness was darker than black—impious beyond sin—its malevolence infinite magnitudes greater than even the atrocity I’d once drowned in.
This was a deoxygenated place, every pointless wheeze of my lungs intaking a vacuous edema—not air nor even dust. Total void became more palpable than anything between my own walls of skin—so viscid and nauseating that I could see darkness, touch absence, and taste emptiness on my tongue. This realm rejected all life—a corrosive matrix forcing entropy. I expectorated blood-tasting mucus with silent coughs, shivering in the chill that gnawed at my imperceptible flesh.
My own inaudible breathing became the last strand of sinew to hold amongst total sensory deprivation, my perception reduced to a monotonous binary—inhale or exhale. Yet this sweltering furnace of vacancy defiled even the gift of breathing as my throat burned with smoldering phlogiston in every wheeze.
Miasma festered—suspended in the void without host—and I was the unguarded virgin meat that it ravenously yearned to infect. Gaseous myonecrosis smeared my husk a morbid gray as the sickness gnawed at my tissues, stygian boils swelling across my skin. And in tattered strands of decaying gore my flesh peeled away from its bone, wafting into the nothingness. The metallic taste of disease lay solidified on my tongue, plunging me deeper into sickness until I remained only a breeding ground for suffering.
I forced a brittle twist out of my neck, struggling to burn a single image of my grave into my mind’s battered surface. In desperation I scraped my eyes against the black, yet I could not pierce its immense depth. The blood of causality had forsaken its scattered veins and trickled down to a single, irreparable fate. This dismal trench would stuff my throat with burning emptiness and rape my ears with silence until my soul disintegrated—a duration I hoped would not be eternal.
I rotted for days that laboriously unfurled into weeks, weeks that clawed at the ground to become months, and months that dragged their own corpses against the crushing viscosity of time to become years—dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. The immensity of total oblivion crushed my earthly span into a sliver, the exultation of killing and raping and breathing fresh air reduced to hollow abstraction. Time had been squeezed from reality’s pores, its influence no longer relevant. I’d lost my grasp on the distinction between yesterday and tomorrow—between last millennium and the next—as my only image of the future was a duplicate of the past.
I coveted fragments of existence—the color of blood, the ferric taste of flesh between my teeth, the cruel sting of pain—anything to remind me that parasites hadn’t yet eaten my brain. And when the prospect of existence faded into a vacuous dream, I coveted without object—an empty yearning with no purpose beyond yearning itself.
Even in my delirium I felt profoundly diseased—devoured by a merciless cancer that gnawed my sanity down to the bone. This ailment was among the most torturous—the kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t mend, the kind of unease that is not quelled by any movement, the kind of itch that nails can’t sate even as they grow stained with my own blood. And in spite of all turmoil I could only lay there and imagine I had the strength to scream, eternally awaiting a fate that would never arrive.
Through the black my eyes found a smear of color—a formless hallucination that would momentarily dissolve into darkness. But this smear instead lingered, its silhouette gaining an almost blinding clarity as though the shadows had only been a black mist. Against my adamant disbelief I’d encountered an authentic material presence, so alien to my eyes that it seemed I had opened them for the first time—the colossal figure of Dogskin.
Strips of gangrenous flesh hung in place of a forearm, crimson herpes still smeared across his muzzle. A ripple waded through his ashen fur as he sunk his weight on the remaining arm, the vibration palpable even from my distance. With bestial leaps and bounds he hastened nearer, reminding me of his monstrous scale.
His thick, vermiform tongue obscured my vision as he clamped his jaws around my head, drowning me in ferric halitosis. With a limber pivot of his neck he hitched my torso up, vertebrae snapping with a vicious bolt of agony and tenor through my spine. A sharp boulder of coiled bone and nerve gnawed at my throat as gravity finished the callous twisting.
The suture at my skull’s apex burst with a thunderous crack, its walls smashing my brain into sanguine pulp as they buckled. Lacerations in my scalp dribbled clots of cerebral mucus down his throat. Through gauzy flesh his blood-slick canines tore into reality, rending the aethyr like fabric. Blood slathered the darkness in crimson streaks, its silence broken by tinnitus.
No prior lust for sex nor mutilation amounted to that of annihilating my final traces of life, as in the last eternity I’d known only the gnawing silence of death without the slightest taste of her peace. Every orgasmic pulse banished all doubt that beneath the torment—beyond these lupine jaws—eclispsing the termites disposing of my remnants—her sultry lips were waiting. Had my lungs not be brimming with blood and pus, I would have moaned in lascivious ecstasy, letting the pain fuck me to heaven from hell.
Dogskin dropped me on my back and slammed his arm through my chest, ribs splintered in a single explosive crack. A surge of blood extruded my eyes from their shattered orbits, a torrent of blood sputtering through my trachea. Whetted claws punctured my lungs, nailing bronchioles to the ground like corpses beneath arrows.
His sordid canines shattered my humerus, jagged edges grating my flesh from both sides. And he dragged his bloody teeth across my skin until each puncture wound became a dripping incision. The bone snapped out of its socket, leaving skin and muscle to resist the tension alone until they tore with a wet burst. It came as no surprise that such a spiteful beast would return for vengeance.
I anticipated my death—a swift beheading, or perhaps Dogskin tearing my heart from its membrane, snapping arteries like cystic ropes. Yet I laid crippled and dissatisfied as I blinked away clots of blood, watching him leap back into the darkness with my amputated limb between his teeth. With every ruptured cell in my body I wished to reach my arms out and scream, begging him to slaughter me, though I knew his hate transcended even his gluttony. My own appearance was beyond the most abhorrent imagination, ravaged by more infections, lacerations, boils, fractures, and relentless decay than any mind could archive.
By immaterial fingers clutching my spine I began to levitate, suspended upright as my flaccid limbs dangled beneath, head rolling sideward like a dead infant. Screaming laughter ripped through the vacuum, the Antithesis summoning a parasite that tunneled through the auditory mist as though emerging from my own skull.
As I ascended, my vision scaled his blackened tendrils of flesh, writhing with phallic twinges. His swollen cock protruded invasively close to my body, throbbing as though taunting me with his virility. Leviathan wings lunged out into oceans of nothingness, leathery flesh pulled taut between each phalanx. Horizontal pupils analyzed my limp carcass—varicose with malevolent fury.
I’d not yet gazed upon him with such intimacy, his light branding a grotesque, invasive image into my retinas. And even my scourged nostrils endured his blighted aura—fetid vapor irradiating in thick waves. Before his imperceptible shadow was flesh never meant to breed with the terrestrial, begetting a septic miscarriage of matter—a substance far more esoteric than the mundane elements.
A bout of tremors broke his ominous levitation—angular and epileptic as though the space he occupied were collapsing, leaving me slack-jawed with morbid shock. Through my own eyes I’d seen demonic forces sunder, mutate, and defile the earthly, initiating with identical movements. And I could only speculate what inconceivable horror would arise from the infernal colliding with its own flesh.
With a gelatinous snap his torso and limbs split through their medians—so rapidly he seemed to burst under pressure—becoming fractionally hircine and arachnoid. Beneath his husk was the flesh that I’d once speculated the presence of—strips of humid crimson gore hanging amongst dark scaffolding, affixed by a web of tendon. These innards suggested mortality—the same scarlet pulp as a butchered animal—yet their writhing shattered the facade as though he’d been bloated with a million parasites.
Even as his flesh sundered it did not grow thin, but instead diverged into bones encased by muscle wrapped in new skin—some resembling limbs while others remained disfigured branches of tissue. Misshapen heads breached the surface, tearing savagely out of their membrane with pestilent horns. A vicious cancer exuded bloodshot eyes from every crevice as a thousand vascular cocks erected themselves in between.
To make violence a gift
Or a curse
The resulting structure could not be abstracted into discrete tissues, bearing venous networks of skin, muscles tempered by ossification, and horns made twisted cocks. No biology could explain such an infernal being—not pangenesis nor gene flow nor even creationism—his flesh carved by pure entropy. His true proportions could not be observed in euclidean space, throbbing between reality’s faces like a tumor on the surface of my eye.
Is in the hands of the sick.
He spun my body away from him and a monstrous hircine cock prodded at my rectum, shattering my pelvis into a halo of bony fragments before his glans could breach the surface. My entrails stretched to the point of rupture, new pain bursting in places never once afflicted.
Fractured ribs pierced my thoracic cavity, squeezing a fountain of blood from the yawning slits in my throat. His hostile slamming shattered my bones and tore through my omentum, dislodging offal for it to be crushed by his cock.
With every thrust his phallus bifurcated, each generation regressing in mass yet blooming in precision down to a microscopic scale. He fucked every vein, every capillary, every nerve, every visceral cavity, every aperture in my skeleton and every wound torn into my flesh, dragging his abhorrent erection through my elementary substance.
His penetration accelerated, phallic prongs sending tremors through my body as they throbbed. As semen gushed in, phlogiston surged out, siphoned from my flesh by the torrid seed like moisture from a sun-dried carcass. The weight of my innards sloshed around—their mesentery abruptly torn—and a furious, acrid heat branded my integrated cavities. The pregnancy pooled against my abdomen, pulling my skin taut against its mass.
Semen clung to my integuments—a glutinous membrane of seed diffusing across tissues, digesting me as though my own gastric fluids had surrendered to gluttony. Necrosis bubbled through my flesh, leaving me a blackened shred of foreskin hanging from the demon’s cock.
I reached parturition and the mass instantly ripped a fissure from sternum to groin. A heavy shower of black sludge fell with a sputtering, aqueous deluge as strips of ingurgitated flesh hung freely from the tear. Gravity caught hold of me and I slammed into the ground without sensation, nerves rotted beyond feeling.
I remained a fetid mass of gore, sizzling idly in my own festering, liquefied innards.
I was not beast, nor insect, nor bacterium, nor sperm, nor clump of pond scum, nor even a creature of the puppet, descending so far beneath all strata that I held not a trace of substance.
I’d abandoned all ego, all desires, all love, all hatred, all pain, and all pleasure.
My effluvium-smeared presence across space and time began—and ended—with gore.
Nonetheless, my final moments were marked by the narcotic euphoria of knives against my wrist. I’d been impaled on a fate no less grievous than the wounds I’d torn—immortalized as a paragon that was fundamentally my own, gifted where no execration could taint it—a symbol of total sickness forever.