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LXIX

                                                                                                                                   

THE PHARISEES’ SILENT BUTLER was purring and content. They were together and comfortable on the plush couch. The legs of the couch immediately broke and the springs popped. The butler really hadn’t noticed.

At the moment, the two of them were alone in the Pharisees’ nicely appointed sitting room, high atop the Lake Shore hi-rise. A crust of ice snuggled the butler’s smile.

Cold puffs of curious evil fingered its way throughout the penthouse apartment. The cold climbed up the walls and explored hallways. It found rooms left long unused and cracks no human can locate. It was sentient, this cold, and it quickly covered all forty-one hundred square feet. It sealed off the penthouse from the outside world, thereby making the interior a tight, no leak bubble.

The butler pressed himself against the Mighty One’s chest. He massaged the head of Lucifer’s penis. It was thickening; responding to his touch. The butler-pet could see and feel the barbs as they sprang up all along the devil’s grossly elongated shaft. The barbs were inwardly curving scorpion tail stingers and were sharp at the hollow tips. Poison oozed slow and fetid out of the hypodermic points of the barbs. The long veins of his cock throbbed and pulsed with intricate rhythms at times, other times, nothing at all. The rhythm did not require a heartbeat to drum.

The Diabolous was a void inside. The human image was merely window dressing for his flock. With this image the chest cavity was an empty drum. The lungs were not needed and a heart would only get in the way.

The devil was gently running his icy fingers through the butler’s thinning black hair. He used his lightest touch to pet and caress and love on his most favorite little imp. The butler’s countenance was smooth to the touch and undisturbed. The butler was not, nor had he ever been human. Therefore he was immune to the devil’s infectious fluids. The butler’s human visage was merely a shell, like his master’s. The butler was really a small demon who has been with Satan since before planet Earth did cool. This demon truly liked the butler costume. The Pharisees knew what he was; a gift from the Most Hated. They allowed the demon to use his powers which he did to keep the penthouse always clean and quiet and very comfortable.

Hell, on the other hand, was not as pleasant.

 

LXXII

 

THE HIDDEN DOOR SLID open. Both Pharisees stepped out and saw the devil waiting for them. They instantly made themselves prone before god. They had been summoned by the Mighty One and he insisted upon the purity of nakedness. They lay side by side upon the floor. Short rips of air entering and exiting their lungs were expelling a fog of cold vapor. It went forth from the decay and rot of what remained of their mouths. The odor of their breath was nearly visible. The stench; a chicken left out all weekend and erupts of stink upon your return. The Pharisees knew this not. The cold power gave them reign over the diseases the Diabolous had bestowed. They felt, in fact, fabulous. Annas and Caiaphas Pharisee still saw themselves as beautiful.

The Diabolous had the Pharisees arise and come over to the couch. Satan patted the butler-imp affectionately and tousled its hair. It was soon curled up in the dented spot his master vacated and it groaned with delight. Bliss for the butler-imp is to be in the presence of the Most Hated.

The Pharisees came to the devil. They each placed a sweet, full mouth kiss on the devil’s anus. The two of them then licked the master thorough and clean.

The Pharisees were leaned limp over the back of their destroyed couch and displayed themselves to the Diabolous. They were presenting and were to mate with the Mighty One.

Dozens of crawly, bug filled boils and carbuncles exploded ripe and ready from their torsos like a string of putrid firecrackers. Their master positioned himself behind Annas Pharisee. The more ancient of the two will be filled and blessed by the Diabolous first.

 

The Pharisees successfully brought about El Cristo’s crucifixion and sacrifice. It is time now for the full reward: The Final Rite. The Pharisees were good stewards and shall be blessed by the Morning Star. They were to be laid open and defiled by the Diabolous. Then they will be blessed with power from their lord and benefactor with a power that they, themselves, can control and use as they see fit.

Their rancid and crumbling human shells shall no longer be required. They will be able to exist in nearly any form they wish. The Pharisees will be free to roam the Earth, unfettered by human weaknesses. They could be solid or they could be vapor. Not a true deity, they will only be in one place at any given time. They will, however, be able to project themselves to wherever at will. The Pharisees were going to have a lot of fun.

They were still both excited and frightened of The Final Rite. They were scared of the pain; they knew it would be enormous. The devil was going to rip their shit open, but that was the price of admission to this carousel. Their souls were the remainder and the Diabolous held the Note.

The Diabolous forced the head of his penis into Annas Pharisee. The first pair of weeping scorpion stinger barbs tore through his rectum. The old man screamed. Gurgling and spewing, the pain was sharp and wet.

Caiaphas saw his lover stiffen and contort. He knew it would be the same for him.

“Mercy!” a panicked Caiaphas implored, begged, “Have mercy on us, oh Lord!” he cried out.

The Diabolous merely looked across at Caiaphas and the Pharisee turned away in fear.

“Mercy,” the devil replied, derisively and with a scoff. He answered the request for mercy by shoving his bull of a cock to the hilt. Annas passed out, but you do not deprive the devil of his audience. The Diabolous slapped the bitch repeatedly until he revived and was full awake.

Annas came to as blood and whole sections of his gastrointestinal tract fell wet and lumpy out of his ass like spongy confetti.

Mercy, the Diabolous thought as Annas began screaming again. Mercy. Funny.

When the Rite has been settled Satan shall allow the Pharisees a few hundred years of respite and enjoyment of their newly rewarded powers. Then Satan will have them delivered, like Judas, to the bowels of his Hell. The Pharisees will then spend the remainder of Time skimming the floating slick of waste in the fetid, cold sewers of filth and despair. They will learn to wail and gnash their teeth in regret and agony. In time, they will come to believe that Hell is where they have always been as the memories of life elsewhere fades away.

The Pharisees will cease to accept the very notion of existence outside of their eternal prison. They shall shiver and heave in the thick frozen darkness, every moment cursing their fate. The one they bit into, whole and unyielding.

Welcome home.

The Devil’s correct. Humans are funny.

 

THE END.

For All The MORBID-RAGE that's fit to print (MbS Catalogue)

For All The MORBID-RAGE that’s fit to print (MbS Catalogue)

 

MOST OF ALL

By The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

 

Right Now:

        Scarecrow was on his way home from his weekly PTSD group therapy session when he saw the lights flashing and the siren sound.

The cop that pulled him over was the homeliest female Scarecrow had ever seen. She looked like she’d have 5 o’clock shadow at noon. Her eyes were both the same shape (round) and color (brown), but only the one eyeball seemed to track Scarecrow. And the police officer did not say anything. She just stood there with her hand on the butt of her Gloch and stared hard.

“Did I do something wrong, officer?” he asked her. She responded by tugging the gun free from its hip holster with one fluid motion and shooting Scarecrow between his shirt-button eyes.

A mushroom cloud of wet straw erupted from the right side of Scarecrow’s stuffed head and splattered the passenger door window, sticking there.

With a wicked smirk she insisted to the deader n dog-dirt Scarecrow: “There is no God but Allah…”

 

A Few Years Back:

The Apache swooped down to the Afghani poppy fields. Scarecrow saw women and children scraping ooze from the round orbs.

Scarecrow considered his Lt. with a sneer. They both knew the score. But following orders is the soul of soldiering, so they finished the sweep of the adjacent valley. Finding nothing of interest the Apache banked a turn, heading back from whence they came. The soldiers inside began to lock n load as the bird evened out.

The pilot waited for the Lt. to give the go ahead. She hit ‘play’, getting low enough to finger a gopher’s asshole. Their war-song, ‘Drowning Pool’s”: ‘Bodies’ filled the valley, loud enough to rattle Scarecrow’s popcorn kernel dental work. The music was supposed to stop the enemy with a demon’s dread, but mostly it was just good mood-music for combat.

Scarecrow primed himself at the edge of the copter, leaning out a touch, surveying the fast moving ground for Bad Guy. The Apache’s gas-propelled Harvester armaments were hot and trained for a strafing run. They flew over the poppy fields and all the dead women and children. They lay broken upon the rocks, their red life blackening and caking beneath a quiet, careless sun.

Scarecrow regarded the Lt. “Your turn, ‘Crow,” he ordered, “Time for harvest.”

Scarecrow nodded. His strong bull’s heart hammered soundly in his straw-filled chest. His hands steadied, his vision narrowed and he saw Bad Guy.

The Apache, still low, came quickly upon three running for the hills. Suddenly, the cheekiest of the three monkeys turned. He hurled religious insults, racial slurs and a sturdy stream of bullets from his garage-sale AK-47.

The Harvester launched a chewing thresher at him. It shredded Bad Guy like so much newsprint. The kibbles & bits & bits blew out and up and floated in the hot, still air. It hung there for a moment before becoming a fleshy, soggy wet ticker-tape parade.

They dropped their weapons and raised hands high in surrender. Scarecrow stepped off the lander. His palms were forward in a ‘no harm’ gesture. Scarecrow smiled his most charming smile. A rusty chain slinked out behind him. The two captives smiled nervously as the straw-man neared. He unsheathed a miniature sickle. It had a wicked concaved curve. Strong, multi-folded layers of steel enabled the sickle to puncture a car door and skin grapes. There was a hole in the center of the handle.

Scarecrow freed it from the scabbard on his back. It whistled in a sharp upward arc, stopping only when it bit and stuck in the hard boned ribcage. Bad Guy’s countenance turned to alabaster.

Scarecrow clipped the chain’s hooked end securely to the eye-hole of the sickle. The man toppled to the dirt.

The Apache rose, dragging him. He seemed to be re-animated as he was borne up until there was an inch or two of air below his tippy-toes. The Apache hovered there as the soldiers had them a spate of crossbow practice.

The remaining prisoner was shaking uncontrollably as Scarecrow approached him.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Indicating his arrow bestrewn comrade twisting as each arrow hit him. “Some fun, right?”

The prisoner turned to Scarecrow and replied, “Huh?”

“Fuckn knew it, bro,” smiled Scarecrow, “Where you really from?”

The prisoner shook his head in denial. But Scarecrow knew that wasn’t just English, but in fact, American English so he grabbed the prisoner’s scrotum and tugged.

“Fuck!” spat the faux Afghani in perfect American.

“Try again,” encouraged Scarecrow.

“Liberty,” he stammered, “Kansas.”

“A very long way from Auntie Em’s farm,” noted Scarecrow. “So, what’s a corn-fed Midwesterner doing in this god-forsaken pile of rubble?”

“There is no God but Allah,” the prisoner began.

Scarecrow finished: “And Mohammed is His prophet. Yeah, I got it, I got it. But did either give you leave to slaughter those innocents?”

“Th- th-“

Scarecrow stuck his sidearm into the prisoner’s eyeball, popping the lens out. Bad Guy began to scream, so Scarecrow simply grunted a quick tug and the prisoner’s reproductive system came free as a whole. Just like scooped-out catfish guts.

The prisoner was unconscious as Scarecrow rifled his pockets and found an expired driver’s license. The prisoner was actually a Dorie Gale, from Liberal, Kansas. The photo beheld a cleaner cut version of the dying man.

Scarecrow unhooked the human piñata. He was left to rest in peace and fuck bloody all those promised virgins waiting anxiously in the Virgin Promised Land.

Scare crow rode the chain back up to the awaiting Apache.

 

Return To Now:

The cop finished the mantra: “And Muhammed is His prophet, peace be unto him.” She holstered her weapon and retrieved the spent shell which had skittered and spun to a stop nearby.

Sgt. Dorothy Gail absently scratched at where her reproductive organs used to be. She leaned down into Scarecrow’s car window, staring at his dead face. Mice began evacuating the driver’s body, pulling some straw stuffing out as they egressed.

And in a mock whimpering pout, Dorothy told Scarecrow: “And I think I’ll miss you most of all.”

 

END

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