Demon Seed = 233 = messiah
Demon Seed = 233 = messiah
In the filthy street just outside the hospital lay a familiar scaffold of bone beneath skin—a capillary that had diverged and coalesced towards the same vein. The lack of pigment in its hide and the slenderness of its mandible fit without error into the shape lingering in memory.
Maggots squirmed around its cunt, swimming through a dribbling stream of thick, boiling hatred, roused by the deathly odor. The creature’s womb bulged and writhed, elasticity tested by a dozen immaterial cocks that splayed in all directions as they pierced it. Skin stretched with such forceful impetus that the underlying space appeared to warp, and the beast cradled its swollen abdomen, clinging to its final moments before reaching motherhood in a burst of pain and amniotic fluid.
My demon seed had developed with exceptional haste, evolving corrupted spermatozoa into functioning tissues within days. And in the fullness of time, it had satisfied its telos—conceiving a spawn of unending darkness, ready to surface from its sea of blood. I briefly recalled my savagery with this vessel—the sound of my blade cutting its flesh, the force of my palm against its skull, every wall and every ridge in its ambrosian cunt—musing on how I’d rape it again had it not been at the edge of birth.
My sickness feasts
And my cancer spreads—
Contagious—
Metastatic.
The mare twisted its head towards me, grimacing at the source of its unholy gravidity—the supreme god who had blighted it with the foulest semen of hell. And for the first time in my infestation I heard one of these beings speak. I’d been unsure of their capability, but the creature smeared away any trace of doubt as it sculpted a guttural resonance with flicks of its tongue, mimicking the words of a human. It spoke in wheezes through bared teeth—volatile and labored as though using its final traces of energy to expel semantic vomit.
The beast divulged to me that its womb did not contain a normal pregnancy—that I’d implanted something horrible—a festering chimera of sins and nightmares and perversions. Its thighs parted, knees upright as its feet sat in the growing pool of blood and hatred, and I knew these nightmares would not be internal for much longer.
The teeth in the back of my head gnashed impatiently and ground chunks of my brain between their incisors, begging me to tear the vermin into a thousand wet shreds. They compelled me to dissect its swollen belly and dredge my hands and my phallus into the misshapen gore within. Yet morbid curiosity stood resolute in the face of temptation, as I was certain that my hands would be slick with blood soon after witnessing the nativity.
Should a stillborn emerge,
No worlds would shift,
For the one I’ve carved
Needs no further spawn.
The female canted its head, jaw pained and rigid, driving its occipital bone into the ground. In a muted shriek its cunt gaped, abdominal tremors subsiding as the fetus turned its ambition outward, revealing a smooth red carcinoma that shoved maggots aside.
A varicose, skinless head emerged—the glans of a fungal infection peering between labia. Neotenic shoulders stretched the creature’s walls as it wailed in pain, followed by an abhorrently long, twisted body—clots of muscle and adipose tissue in the obscure silhouette of a fetus. The heavy amalgamation of menstrual gore finally slid from its mother’s cunt with a spurt of fluids, grotesque limbs snaking behind. A withered umbilical cord kept it shackled, peppered with keloids like flies on decomposing flesh.
The presence of gore and disease were far from alien to my gaze, yet some peculiarity of this infant bore a dormant evil beyond anything I’d witnessed. It did not belong among mortal fauna—a shape that should have never been occupied by flesh—a morbid sigil of all the world’s filth. Such grotesquely woven anatomy suggested a sort of chthonic intelligence behind its creation, its matter dissolved and recrystallized countless times, synthesizing a novel layer of complexity in every iteration. I must have laid my eyes on sickness incarnate, the depravity in my semen not diluted by even a single drop.
The beast lifted its woe-smeared face, fighting to increase the depth of its breathing to remain conscious. But sorrow became fear at the sight of my own appearance—subtly grinning—and the creature wrenched its torso as though attempting to sit upright without finding the strength to do so. Through gruesome sobs it begged me to be merciful to itself and to the infant, screaming that it was my child too and it would be of utmost perversion to sever my own lineage—even just a bastard.
“Perversion.” The word crawled into my ears and trickled down my throat, tasting of fresh blood.
I lifted the umbilical cord between Rape’s jagged teeth, spinning the blades and severing its frail matter with a vicious thrash that sent each split end snapping away from me. The mare wailed with all present and prospective anguish, too crippled by the labor of birth to shield its spawn from the growling leviathan in my hands.
I grabbed the child by an ambiguous limb that seemed to envelop several contorted joints, dangling it at head height as a slick layer of hatred dribbled from its membrane. Its irregular skull hung limp from a twisted neck, studded with so many eyes and teeth and amorphous bony structures that I was unsure if I faced its front or its rear. Such repugnant aura betrayed the size of its nucleus, pumping disgust through my veins even as it sat within my own hand.
I released the fetus, letting it strike the tarry puddle with a splatter. Rape howled as I shot an influx of energy through its steel heart, its fury smothering the beast’s lamentation, and with the saw’s apex I dissected the skinless wad at my feet. Oceans of blood spilled as though it were not contained within vessels but instead saturated into the matter like a fleshy sponge. With an overhand swing I flung what appeared to be the upper half at its mother’s face, a crimson plume trailing in wake of the projectile as it struck the creature’s hands.
I figured if I could not savor such a loose hole with my cock, I’d do it with my saw, and I knocked the creature’s arms away with a blunt crack of my sabaton. I dug the furious blades between its legs, coaxing out a final, guttural screech as I drew a river of blood and torn flesh up to its navel. I allowed Rape to finish in the mare’s throat, shredding through arteries and airways, dissolving its once perpetual squall into a gargle before a sudden, deathly silence took hold.
The Antithesis squandered not a single moment, his immaterial fingers gripping the carcass and viciously slamming it against the ground as a dog slaughters a rat. Its head cracked like a stone as it clung to the torn remnants of a neck, brightly aerated blood trickling from its scalp.
Joints snapped under the force of vehement twisting, their ligaments like straw against the blade of a scythe. Fragments of splintered bone impaled the skin and sank back to their turbulent depths, tearing through flesh as they struggled to rectify themselves. The creature’s skeleton seemed to thirst for its own blood—and by the hellfire coiling and refracting through its marrow—transfigured into the teeth of a gluttonous demon that masticated the flesh between.
The thrashing abruptly halted, violent pulses of energy coalesced towards a boiling, swollen mass within its peritoneum. And as quickly as it had formed, the nucleus ruptured, fissuring the beast’s abdomen into radially symmetric petals with a fibrous burst of entrails. They curled outward as though dragged by meat hooks, stretching skin, tearing muscle and veins with capricious snaps as the sinew weakened. The sheath of its torso remained only strips of hot red flesh, blood trickling from their tattered edges like rain from a canopy of leaves. Its ribcage lay exposed—the scaffolding of its biotic machinery—bones tainted crimson.
The demon slithered his perverse blackened fingers into the creature’s womb, quivering and clenching the aperture in a mimicked orgasm. Its perineum soon burst into bloody strands under tension, cunt dragged aloft by some imperative influence like a shark’s fin through a sea of entrails, uterus left upturned beneath the sternum.
Epithelium grew erect, squelching against its own stiffness as the vile monolith extended skyward—a stigma waiting to be impregnated with more seed. A bead of hatred bulged from its apex like a clot of blackened semen, creeping down the shaft where it mixed with the blood of torn skin.
The scent of rust permeated around this intricate wellspring as it ejaculated blood and hatred from all over. Twitches of rigor mortis seized the torn musculature in hostility towards its own grotesque splendor. Swirls of black and scarlet vibrated as an eruption of hellish laughter impaled my ears, reminding me of who was behind this macabre image.
Perhaps this was his own aesthetic paragon—a carcass sculpted towards profound elegance without regard for the mess left by gore. Blood was more matrix than medium—the negative space that defined the edges of a sculpture. Yet his labyrinth of cognition seemed beyond concepts like art, pumping much darker, more complex fluids than any human mind. Perversion and bloodlust impregnated his skull too deeply for creation to enter the stream—or perhaps he just had a sick sense of humor.
As the dark stomach of death had metabolized its mother into demonic sigilism, each half of the fetus began to ejaculate an impossible quantity of thick crimson haze. I’d awoken something irreparably destructive, aware that the child’s sinister appearance was never purely symbolic.
The mist tasted the air with sapience, creating a veil that whisked and expanded like a bulging cyst. And even as I stepped away from the haze it only grew faster, enveloping me in its scarlet womb, spilling down streets and alleys like a tsunami of blood, rising into the air so that sickness may eclipse the sun. The air assumed a red tinge, permeating the sickening odor of rust and gore.