They created God in all forms. They created Jesus as well. The Masters, they created the Devil……all of this as illusion to keep blood soaking into the dirt of the thirsty Earth. All to fuel wars, hatred, and the most delicious misery, poverty. The gluttony of the wealthy, the tears of Mothers over the graves of children who were forced into wars they never fully understood. Prison, lunatic asylums, fast food franchises that serve human flesh. Hopelessness, broken homes and broken dreams…
The entire planet has come to wear a stench not unlike the Masters’ excrement…that sweet erection inducing odour. Sweet sickness and misery that Master and Slave both are driven to orgasmic heights by. Spittle, disease riddled cum and vaginal fluid so filled with sickness and pathogens that it nearly takes on a life of its own, slithering down bruised thighs in lustful wet trails intent only on replication and death.
Trans-dimensional Marquis De Sades
every flesh rending bullet
from a lying cop’s gun
every frightened tear and wail from a child
stolen from a loving home for profit
by a festering money bloated
government agency and industry
every belly swollen by hunger
that a starving child wears
every man convicted wrongfully
of imaginary crimes in corrupt courts
every woman brutally raped
And shamed to silence
children fucked and sodomized
by those they trusted
parents, family, preachers, teachers
I feel sick now…
maybe all these words betray the reality
that I have the fetid breath of the Black Dog
burning and blistering me
filling my lungs and seeping from my every pore
despite the drugs
sanctioned, prescribed
condoned and discounted
the increased dosages
once my lifeline to coping
they can no longer fight back against the confusion…
I can barely type with this sticky red blood coating the keyboard
I can focus on nothing but the globules of fat
protruding from the wound in my chest
as I bend forward
insert my throbbing cock into the wound
just below my sternum
bending painfully
contorting
until my scabbed disease ridden prick
nudges my pumping heart
(fade to black)
Shell County Vodou
—Clive Tern
Charazon opened his mouth with a dry crack. He tried to lick the dryness away but his tongue was the texture of a scone from Mama Griff’s rib shack, thick and dry. He opened his eyes and looked around. The dorm was still dark and the only noise was snoring from the fat wing-grip, Theresa, who had arrived last week. If she didn’t get her adenoids under control quick, she’d be sleeping outside and fearing for chigga-beetles attempting to burrow into her thick legs. Charazon lay and tried to work out what had woken him. Not the thirst—they lived with thirst; sometimes they died from it. Not the snoring—that had been there all week.
Drumming started. Deep bass thrumming, an insistent tattoo that reverberated in the torpid air. It came from the direction of the salt marshes. Vodou incantation to summon whichever Loa was being venerated by the desperate.
Charazon swung over the edge of the bunk and dropped to the floor. The wooden boards retained warmth from the day’s heat, and the shuffling of countless bare feet had smoothed the rough surface to a slippery gloss. He padded to the toilet room and splashed water on his lips. The water was warm and tasted of metal from the pail. He scooped another handful to his mouth and slurped greedily. He knew it was just creek water, but the need to ease his thirst overrode the fear of intestinal parasites.
“You gonna drink all the crapper water?”
Charazon continued to lap moisture from his hand. His head bounced off the wall as his shoulder was shoved.
“I was talkin’ t’ya.”
“Dammit, Fashal, my horn’s stuck in the wall.”
Fashal grabbed and pulled. Charazon jerked free. He aimed a punch at her and she caught it with her fingers, wincing theatrically. They smiled at each other.
“Course I ain’t drinkin’ all the water,” Charazon said. “Why you up? Wing-grip girl snoring to loud?”
“She is loud. She needs to learn quick. Are you going to speak to her?”
Charazon nodded.
“Good. But it wasn’t what got me up. It’s time to feed ma’ armadillo.”
“Hell, Fashal. I thought your leprosy vector was dead.”
“I got another.”
“Well, keep it away from me.”
“Right. Thought demonspawn don’t worry about leprosy.”
“No. But it stinks like Mama Griff’s gumbo.”
Fashal laughed loud, then clamped a hand to her mouth. She headed towards the front of the dormitory. When she opened the door a gust of warm air wafted back, dry and sulphurous; the sound of drumming got louder. Charazon rubbed his skull, where the horn grew out, as he headed back to bed.
The morning bell clanged, pulling him out of a dream about his previous life; when he wielded power instead of submitting to it. The dorm dragged itself to life with ill humor. They all headed towards Mama Griff’s for breakfast. The food wasn’t good but it was cheap, and a big bowl of gristle’n’grits filled the stomach better than a small portion of egg and beans from the mine’s canteen.
Other dorms were also heading in the general direction of the mine. One dorm, one crew—that was the way. They worked together, they ate together, they slept together.
Charazon sat down opposite the new girl, Theresa.
“If you rub the tracker it burrows deeper and hurts more,” he said.
“What?”
He pointed at her neck. “You been rubbing where they put your tracker in. Keep doing it you’ll end with an open sore. That risks infection. Infection slows y’down. You’re our wing-grip. You slow down, we all slow down. Wing-grips who make their crew miss quota don’t last, nor do people who snore.”
Theresa stopped shoveling food into her mouth and raised a hand to her neck. Charazon noticed the hand wasn’t fully scabbed over. She wasn’t just new to the crew, she was still new to slavery. Could probably still feel the scrape of dimension-transfer on her skin. Still, being an ingénue was no excuse for getting her crew punished.
“See me after shift,” said Charazon. “I’ll have something that will help your throat, stop you snoring. And don’t slow us down. Y’understand?”
She nodded, her eyes wide and fearful.
Shift klaxons sounded, calling crews to the mines. The day passed in a fury of drilling, exploding, and grinding. Eventually the klaxon sounded to end their shift and the slaves made their way back above ground, below quota. Half way across the courtyard speakers crackled to life.
“Crew Delta!”
They stopped mid-step.
“Contamination sweep. Holding Room C.”
Most of them groaned. They headed to the holding room and stripped off. The water was cold and the soap rough, encouraging brevity in the showers. Then they sat on the wooden benches and waited to be called. While no care was given to an individual slave’s health there was a fear of some virulent disease sweeping through the mines and laying hundreds of workers low. It happened occasionally. Mine bosses who allowed it to happen found themselves in a crew. Like Charazon.
Charazon stared at his hooves. Once they’d shone with lacquer that was buffed so the top layers appeared translucent. Now they were black and cracked, even after a scrub. He looked up, not wanting to spiral into the past. Fashal sat opposite, back towards him. Her dark skin was still beaded with water and a small rivulet ran down from her hair, it joined some of the beads together. It also crossed a patch of skin that was duller than the rest. Almost gray, instead
of brown. Very gently Charazon reached across and pressed it. She didn’t respond. He jabbed her and she span round, anger on her face. She stopped.
“What?” she asked.
“Show me your fingers,” Charazon said.
She curled her hands defensively, and he knew for sure. She was shaking her head. Trying to deny there was a problem.
Charazon leaned closer to her and whispered, “How long?”
“I noticed five months ago.”
“Five months? When were you going to say?
“I been fine. Got a little color stick for when this happens—”
He interrupted. “What about bits you can’t see? What about infection? You put all of us in danger. Either from the disease, or from The Bosses.”
She shook her head again. “No! I’ve been real careful.”
It was Charazon’s turn to shake his head. “Not careful enough.”
“Help me.”
Fashal palmed something to him. It was warm, and he tried not to think about where she kept it secreted. Glancing into his palm he saw a small stick of some colored amalgam. “Bark, or roots?” he asked.
“Both.”
“Turn round.”
He licked his thumb and moistened the stick, then rubbed the darkened compound over the greyed area. Smoothing it over took moments, and he passed the stick back.
“When we’re done,” he whispered, “you’re coming with me.”
She nodded.
The inspections took over an hour and light was fading from the sky when they finally exited the mine gates. Most of the crew headed for the canteen, or Mama Griff’s. Charazon and Fashal hung towards the rear and he tugged her sleeve as they passed one of the brick and clapperboard ruins that lined the street. Once this had been a wealthy district. The Slave State cleared the houses of valuables that fleeing residents left behind. The buildings were then left. Entropy took its natural course and over years the structures collapsed. They began to attract other inhabitants.
Charazon led Fashal round the back of the house and onto the remains of a veranda. A smell of fresh blood and rotting vegetation permeated the air.
A voice came from the dark gap where a door used to be.
“What you wanting, demonspawn, and stench-of-death?”
“We need a Sevis Tet for Fashal here.”
“Don’t come closer. The blood smells her death. No Sevis Tet can save her.”
Charazon’s knowledge of vodou was limited. Beyond the purification ritual he didn’t know what else to ask for. Even this was clutching at straws. He had no faith in the existence of Loa—spirits—but sometimes rituals and mumblings were layered over natural remedies. He could only hope. The leprosy was already manifesting its spread through Fashal’s system.
“There is one thing,” said the voice from the darkness.
“What?”
“Mariaj Loa.”
“What’s that?” Fashal asked.
There was no response.
“Answer us,” Charazon said. “Please.”
“We speak with you. No Loa wants to hear stench-of-death. Bring her back in one hour with a blood gift. When she is purified she will live, sacred and bound, with a Loa.”
“What—”
“Go. Return in one hour, and remember the blood gift.”
«Wait.»
A rat carcass landed at their feet.
“Go.”
“What’s a blood gift? What’s a Mariaj Loa?” Fashal asked as they turned back onto the main street.
“The blood gift has to be some creature, a sacrifice. I don’t know about the other. I hope it’s a cure.”
“What am I going to use for the blood gift? A rat?”
“Needs to be something bigger. I was reckoning on your armadillo.”
“I’m not sure I want to do vodou.”
“It’s the only chance you have. That or an escape into the salt marshes.”
They were passing Mama Griff’s. Theresa came out. She spotted them, waved, and jogged over.
“Hey, I wanted to ask about your leprosy,” she said to Fashal.
“My what?”
“Leprosy. I saw the lesions when we were showering. I thought the rules on leprosy are real strict. When I was sent to Shell County we were told to be on the lookout. On pain of punishment mines.”
She looked from Fashal to Charazon, giving the appearance of a new girl trying to find her way, to fit in. She rubbed her neck, wincing at pain from both the raw flesh and the movement of the tracker as it burrowed farther into her.
Charazon looked round, seeing who was still on the street. A few people were milling about.
The entrance to Mama Griff’s always had someone coming or going but the delay caused by the crew’s contamination sweep meant there were few people. He leaned towards Theresa and spoke in a low tone.
“Listen, Theresa, we were just talking about Fashal’s condition. There’re remedies available in Shell County, old remedies that aren’t found in other dimensions.”
“Like the one you said you’d get for my snoring?”
“Ah. Yes. Sorry. I’ve not got it yet.”
“Will you be able to get it today? I really don’t want to keep the crew awake.” She looked from one to the other. “Can we meet up in a bit. I have to go see someone.”
“It might be tomorrow before I can get it. Sorry,” Charazon said.
“Oh. Right. That’ll be fine.” Theresa nodded and walked off in the direction of the mine compound.
“Where’s she going?” Fashal asked. “Who does a new wing-grip have to see?”
Charazon watched the woman’s thick, purposeful strides. The first flicker of suspicion occurred to him. It coalesced quickly.
“She’s going to a boss.” He started walking forward.
“Why?”
“To do what we would have done when we were new. Turn you in.”
He started sprinting and heard Fashal curse, and then start running. Both of them were light on their feet and, despite the starvation diet and punishing work, had taught wiry frames. They were less than fifteen feet behind Theresa when she finally heard their approach. She attempted to run. Proof enough for Charazon. He lowered his head and charged hard. The collision was solid and Theresa slammed to the ground. Her head bounced on the packed earth.
Fashal came to a halt and helped Charazon get up. Theresa lay inert.
“What now?”
“I think you have a blood gift.”
The sound of drums filled the air.
Interstate
—Preston Grassmann
At the edge of the overpass, a group huddles around a trash-fire, staring into it like blind witches over a cauldron.
I trip over an empty donation jar, a needle winking next to it the color of dusk, the sunset promise of sweet endings and darkness.
Seeing it flash makes the old ache spread through me again.
The ghost of fixes past hasn’t finished haunting me yet, and I could almost feel the old sensations returning.
Al’s cliché’s are still in my head:
It will take time to clear away the wreck. But remember, everything changes.
The Interstate might change, but other states never do.
Layers of graffiti are scrawled over card-board boxes and concrete walls. Some are garish and bright, covered with the iconography of a junkie religion. Others are covered with non-sense phrases, symbols or names. “Freedom is an illusion,” one of them says.
In the gaps between these walls, the space beneath the freeway is too dark for this time of day. Standing at the edge, I wait for my eyes to adjust.
And then I can see something dark moving inside.
The form is obsidian black, with a tapered body…but then it vanishes.
It’s called withdrawal, Al’s voice says.
Withdraw.
Al.
I walk fast along the line of the interstate, looking up at the holes and the painted sections of the bridge
, to keep some anchor on the world. Something follows me along the shadow-line. I hear a sound that is not from a human voice, a deep rustle of syllables that sounds like my name…
I try to remember the reason I came here. There is only one way across the border.
My heart is hammering nails through me, a self-crucifixion that has already begun.
I hear the sound of the creature again, its shells sliding against each other. It makes a long, drawn-out hiss. I am certain that there are other eyes now, watching me from the border, waiting for me to go inside.
Instead, I follow a path to an empty lot. It was a drive-in theatre many years ago, but now the poles rise from the lot like grave-markings, covered with graffiti epitaphs.
At the edge of the lot, the jagged shadow-line of warehouses and buildings are growing over the ruins.
Behind those distant windows, I am certain The Keepers are watching.
My brother’s car is the only one in the lot, but when I approach, I notice that the windows are jet-black, as if something is watching from inside.
On the other side of the lot, a man is slumped against one of the posts, a hypodermic needle hanging out of his arm. His thumb is resting above the needle, ready to push down. “One form of slavery for another,” he says, nodding at his arm. “What are you doing here?”
“I have someone to pull out of slavery,” I say.
“Even if you do take someone out, it’s only temporary. You’ll have to face them eventually. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that fears have a way of evolving,” he says, pointing at the car.
I look back across the lot to see those black shapes moving together, crawling over each other at the edge of the shadow-line. My eyes are beginning to adjust. I see broad, flattened bodies and mandibles and compound eyes and ocelli and antennae, swirling together in a mass. Membranous wings flickered and flexed while legs bristled with coxae and claws.
“What do you see?” I ask him.
“My father,” he says. “Waiting for me in that car with a baseball bat. What about you?”
“Kafka never wrote a fucking sequel, but if he did…it might look something like this,” I say. In this Metamorphosis, it’s the world that changes.
Slave Stories Page 8
