Humanas Emeritus

Fiction

Casu­alty of Solipsism

As I paced around the room, I won­dered how much longer this fairy tale can keep up. How far can I take it? Can I mold the entire world; will the uni­verse bend to my whims? Has my solip­sis­tic world view defined my nar­cis­sis­tic exis­tence, or has my ego deter­mined my phi­los­o­phy? How can I trust myself?

Appar­ently, I can’t. The two dead hook­ers lying in a pud­dle of blood and feces is a grand tes­ta­ment to this. I’d have to take care of the other one soon, before she walks in the room with her saggy Mex­i­can tits and her col­lec­tion of dil­dos. She’d cause a scene, and I can’t have that. She’d wake up my red­neck, white trash neigh­bors and I’d be off to some max­i­mum secu­rity prison where’d I’d wake up each day to an ass full of semen and my resilience left for dead.

I took another line of cocaine and decided I’d stran­gle the bitch. Much less noise that way, although truth be told, not half as much fun as beat­ing her over the head with whichever blunt object of choice hap­pened to be on hand. Before set­ting off to increase my counts of homi­cide, I decide to lib­er­ate the oppressed urine from my tyran­ni­cal bow­els onto the life­less corpses of the low-class pros­ti­tutes that lit­tered my floor. Really, they shouldn’t have insulted me like that. I’m not some sort of depraved fuck­ing homo­sex­ual; they should have told me they weren’t really women.

It’s not like they had much to live for any­way. I was free­ing them of their flawed mate­r­ial exis­tence, and all things con­sid­ered, I should prob­a­bly be awarded a medal. Maybe in their next lives they’d be born cater­pil­lars or some­thing, although I’ve never seen a she-male cater­pil­lar. Shit, I’ve never even seen a cater­pil­lar in action, get­ting all hot and heavy and fin­ish­ing off with a money shot. Oh, but that’s right, cater­pil­lars undergo meta­mor­pho­sis into but­ter­flies. A bunch of fuck­ing pan­sies they are, I guess but­ter­flies are the GLBT of the insect world.

Not that this has any­thing to do with the prob­lem at hand. I stepped over the heap of dead bod­ies and flu­ids, exited my room and closed the door care­fully. The spic whore was in the bath­room, brush­ing her hair with all the atten­tion only a woman of the night could give to her strung out, dis­ease rid­den body. I stroked my cock until it was erect, strut­ted over to the bath­room, bent the har­lot over the sink and shoved my male fig­ure of dom­i­nance into her filthy cunt. She acted sur­prised, but I knew she could barely even feel it. Not that my prick was small, far from it, but this bitch was a clas­sic case of a “hot dog in the hall­way”. I’m pretty sure I could fit my foot inside of her. Either way, I wasn’t fuck­ing her for my plea­sure or hers, hell, the only rea­son I was hard was because all this killing had my blood pump­ing, regard­less of all the cocaine swirling through my veins. I just needed a distraction.

She was still preen­ing her­self as I began to choke her, stran­gling her with the gen­tle assured­ness that only a man with an ego the size of an ele­phant and a cock buried deep in a pussy could muster. It didn’t take her long to stop strug­gling and give way to my asphyx­i­a­tion, and as soon as we both went limp, I slammed her head into the mir­ror and let her body fall onto the sink, and then the floor. A job well done, I think. It wasn’t pos­si­ble to make her death any­more fit­ting, I’d wager. I’m sure she always knew she’d go out with a bang, or at least while get­ting banged and jacked up on blow and hash. Or maybe she was just try­ing to save up enough money until she could return to back her fam­ily in Mex­ico, marry some nice young man and share the gift of her­pes with him.

Fuck! I’ve prob­a­bly got it too, now. No mat­ter, I can take care of it; I can take care of anything.

Deprav­ity

Dark­ness.

Deprav­ity.

Enter into the most sin­is­ter cor­ners of your deca­dent soul:

Here you lie. Not dead, but not really alive. A prod­uct of a sys­tem designed to con­sume every inch of imag­i­na­tion and cre­ativ­ity and squash it. In this sys­tem there is no food chain, there is no pro­gres­sion, you live in squalor, you are a dis­gust­ing insect. A cock­roach scat­ter­ing under the feet of those who seek to dom­i­nate and con­trol you, who rely on the mil­lions of cock­roaches that are just like you to keep them afloat.

Float­ing, float­ing in a sea of short-sighted irra­tional­ity, of sin­ful pride and stu­pid­ity. The air is heavy and brown, the water like­wise. Fac­to­ries spew out smoke that min­gles with the dense fog to cre­ate the lung-damaging gas known as smog. The wheels keep churn­ing, but every sin­gle energy source has now been exhausted. Com­plete anni­hi­la­tion of the cock­roaches and those that are doomed to become them is all that lies ahead.

When an ani­mal gets stuck in a trap it will bite its own limbs off to save itself; this is log­i­cal. But when a machine starts to con­sume itself to power its mean­ing­less expan­sion, when it loses as much as it gains, how can this be ratio­nal­ized? Imag­ine an ani­mal eat­ing its entire body so that it can sur­vive, or, rather, look around.

Yes, that’s right, lift your head up, your half-alive cock­roach. What do you see? Not much, that’s the smog’s fault I sup­pose. It doesn’t mat­ter much to you any­way, does it? All you are inter­ested in is gorg­ing your­self on food, leav­ing crumbs all over your res­i­dence, leav­ing stains on all your clothes, and leav­ing bits of meat stuck in your dirty, uncared for teeth. All you care for are emo­tion­ally vacant orgies with other grotesquely obese mon­sters, with so much use­less flesh flap­ping around, sticky and sweaty with the heat of copulating.

You dis­gust­ing slob, can you even see past the next meal? Can you use females for some­thing other than a depos­i­tory for your seed, for some­thing other than meat to grope? How can you jus­tify yourself?

Get up. I said get up, you lethar­gic igno­ra­mus. How far are you will­ing to let it go? Do you enjoy being a cock­roach? Do you think at all?

Of course you do. Per­haps I am too arro­gant, too quick to judge. This dark­ness that I see exists only in my mind, this sys­tem the spews insects is a prod­uct of my idle mind. The fac­to­ries are synapses fir­ing, the smog are chem­i­cal reac­tions. I am the cock­roach. I am the anni­hi­la­tor. I am dark­ness, I am deprav­ity, I am deca­dence. I am all this and more. I am noth­ing at all.

And you, yes you, my dear “friend”, now cease to exist.

The Eve of Ruina

The Gods called upon him, and to their every whim he must answer them. He is their cho­sen one, the lone prophet of the true Gods, the true seer of knowl­edge. His name is Azaziah, his mis­sion is the total con­ver­sion of all the peo­ples of this puny Earth. The world was to suc­cumb to the will of the Gods and their avatar, but first the rit­u­als must be preformed.

Enter­tain­ment for the night came in the form an act of Nature and the Gods so pow­er­ful and intense that it rocked the most materialistic-atheists and turned them into the Gods-Fearing mor­tals that they truly are. As Azaziah climbed the Great Hill of Babazola, he was bat­tered with the strong force of the winds, their howls rag­ing against him like a blood thirsty beast. It mat­tered not to him, he must reach the peak of this moun­tain before the cli­max of the storm, or every­thing would be ruined. Every­thing must go accord­ing to scrip­ture, accord­ing to plan, accord­ing to the Gods.

The plan that Azaziah had in mind and the plan that the Gods held, though, was to be illu­mi­nated as quite dif­fer­ent. The trek up the moun­tain was quickly tak­ing its toll on the weary mus­cles and ground up bones of Azaziah, and his breath was grow­ing heavy. Although his will for the most part stayed res­olute and true, there were a few thoughts in the back of his mind urg­ing him to just quit now, turn back, or even just lie down and die.

“You’re an old man, Azaziah, but through the Gods will you shall have an Eter­nal life of bliss, with no weary mus­cles or bro­ken bones.” The prophet began speak­ing to him­self, becom­ing delu­sional and hal­lu­ci­nat­ing – or per­haps becom­ing incred­i­bly lucid and per­ceiv­ing real­ity through more facets than usu­ally avail­able to the human senses. In quite a short amount of time, the old man real­ized that the words came not from his mouth, but from the mouth of a prodi­gious Angel – or demon – mes­sen­ger of the Gods.

“What is it that the Gods desire, O Angel of the most high?” Azaziah man­aged to speak his words through raspy breaths and cough­ing fits, con­tin­u­ally plagued by the bur­den of the sand-mountain and the holy jihad of the wind.

“The Gods demand a sac­ri­fice. A blood sac­ri­fice.” There was no emo­tion in the strong voice of the appar­ent Angel.

“A blood sac­ri­fice? Where am I going to find an ani­mal in time for the climax?”

The Angel said noth­ing, and Azaziah grew wor­ried. As the grim real­iza­tion finally dawned over him, his jour­ney acquired a theme that was much more somber and stoic than the ecsta­tic, sen­su­ous excite­ment that usu­ally gripped his loins and his heart for this rit­ual. He knew that his body’s leash to phys­i­cal exis­tence sti­fled his soul, it damp­ened the Holy Fire that burned deep within his chest. His body, his brain, his emo­tions, they all betrayed his true inner nature. By all rights he should be glad to die for his Gods in such a glo­ri­ous man­ner, on the eve of destruction!

“Oh glo­ri­ous eve of Gods wag­ing war

The mid­night sky to rage and roar

Much blood to spill and incense to be burned

A prophet shall die and much will be learned.”

The Angel quoted from the most holy of Holy Scrip­tures, the Apoc­a­lypse of Babazola! Sud­denly, his heart was filled no more with doubt, his will solid­i­fied as much as any­thing can be called solid, and the fire burned within. An unex­pected gust of wind blew Azaziah over, caus­ing him momen­tar­ily lay in the sand, star­ing up at the sky. The image that burned straight through his reti­nas and into the very fibers of his being would be the most pro­found expe­ri­ence of his life time, which was to end shortly.

In the night sky, a mas­ter­piece of art­work was being crafted with utmost care and del­i­cate­ness. Con­trary to the sub­tle nature of the artist, the inher­ent spirit of the art was vio­lent, chaotic, pas­sion­ate, dan­ger­ous, deadly, and pow­er­ful. It was geo­met­ric, it was pre-historic post mod­ernist, it was an abstract still life, it was a land­scape painted as a por­trait. It was, in fact, the most beau­ti­ful piece of art ever known to man. The title of this piece was, “Nature”, the author of it, the Gods.

Dark, brood­ing clouds swirled around in a deca­dent dis­play of a Deity’s delight; a cacoph­o­nous orgy of the ele­ments hydro­gen and Oxy­gen frozen by the high sky and made beau­ti­ful in their unity. The pic­turesque orgy in the clouds revealed some of the nature of the prophet’s ordeal and the rit­ual of the Gods, the Eve of Ruina. Through the mar­riage of hydro­gen and oxy­gen and the divorce of life from this Earth, an ecsta­tic and sen­su­ous exhi­bi­tion took place.

At the com­mand of the mes­sen­ger, Azaziah picked him­self up off his feet and con­tin­ued his ascent to the top of the Great Hill of Babazola. Upon reach­ing the sum­mit, he checked his robes for his incense, but to his great dis­may he found noth­ing. The Gods, how­ever, pro­vide for the faithful.

A strong gust of wind had appar­ently blown the rem­nants of some odd plant up the hill, and not to be one to spit in the face of good for­tune, Azaziah quickly scam­pered over and gath­ered the brush. [to be continued!]

Dis­cus­sions With the Damned

There is no hope for the truly damned; in the Haunted Halls of Hell the only heresy that will land you in Heaven is to truly be happy.

How hilar­i­ous, hmm?

I was din­ing with his Luciferic Majesty him­self when the topic of plea­sure was broached. Lit­tle did I speak, for I find it quite base to alter­nate between the two oral func­tions. I did, how­ever, lis­ten quite attentively.

“Roasted pig in snake venom and virgin’s blood. My gen­i­tals always squirm in delight but my entrails flare up like the bon­fires of Baphomet,” The words were spo­ken com­pletely unhar­mon­i­cally, the green and pur­ple demon utter­ing them DaDaistically.

“I trust you find it pleas­ing, O’ Dis­gust­ing One?” The server oozed a cor­ro­sive ser­vil­ity that almost touched on sparkling sar­casm, but was reduced to a grat­ing submission.

“Ah yes, plea­sure, one of my great­est inven­tions. Were it not for plea­sure I would scarcely have the grand num­ber of souls that I do resid­ing in my infer­nal abode.” The suc­cu­lent voice of Lucifer slipped off of his tongue like snake’s venom.

“Do you speak truth in such mat­ters, Oh Prince of Lies? Surely one would assume that it is through pain that most of our num­bers have originated.”

“One might assume so, but one would be poorly mis­taken. You see, pain can harden the mind, the body; through inten­tional con­scious suf­fer­ing the will and resolve are strengthened.”

“Yes, but who would go through all that trou­ble? And you still haven’t explained plea­sure!” A great burly demon with three heads spo­ken through huge mouth­fuls of roast duck.

It was at this point that I felt the urge to speak up. Being nei­ther angel or demon I was wel­come at both camps for my clever con­ver­sa­tion and in their eyes, the hope of a care­fully con­sid­ered conversion.

“If you had brains enough as your glut­to­nous gut, you would under­stand it sim­ply and totally. Pro­vid­ing none other mind, I may pro­ceed with an expla­na­tion?” It was more of a state­ment than a ques­tion, but I do have my manners.

“Do con­tinue,” Lucifer smiled with a pol­ished grace that bespoke his years of clever corruption.

I nod­ded in thanks and con­tin­ued, “All those who seek to pass beyond the value of plea­sure and pain do so for the power & mas­tery of mind over body. Plea­sure can sink one by first pro­vid­ing a stim­u­lus of enjoy­ment, but attach­ment soon arises for as soon as said stim­u­lus is gone, so goes any joy found in said plea­sure. Pain can, obvi­ously, cause one to hate and despise life, thus seek­ing the sweet embrace of an eter­nal slum­ber. Which all of us here know to be more of a sad sigh than any sem­blance of sleep.”

“So accord­ing to your the­sis, pain and plea­sure are a kind of dis­crim­i­na­tory fea­ture of the mind to tran­scend phys­i­cal­ity?” One of the more astute and intel­lec­tual of the demons then spoke up.

“Non­sense! What can the mind do but enjoy the fruits of the mate­r­ial?” The beast-man known as Jazael gruffly and rudely inter­rupted with his pseudo-argument. Jazael was a par­tic­u­larly cruel and bes­tial demon who delighted in the delin­quency of a most degen­er­ate kind. Mur­der and rape were bread and water for this foul creature.

“There are, in fact, plea­sures that reside solely in the mind…” Con­tinue the intel­lec­tual demon.

“This is true. For exam­ple, pride does not exist as any thing phys­i­cal, nor does it truly arise or fall out of the mate­r­ial. Rather, it is based solely on men­tal pos­tu­lates and there-fores.” I explained.

Then came out the whores and all man­ner of sex­ual perversion.

[to be continued…or not.]