Underneath the Draconian Sky

by Chatwin, Dale M.

  Patrick was at the centre of the ordeal, inside a cocoon of flesh and bodily fluids and when it was over the lumberjacks were dead. He clumsily pushed his way out of the mound of corpses and the halo glowed with savagery.

  He found a sudden urge to find a female prostitute. A fantasy ran through his mind; he unhinged the whore’s jaw and crawled inside her mouth, wearing her body. Where his head was, the woman’s legs dangled like limp dog’s tails.

  Patrick wanted to wander through alleyways, a maniacal beast of two bodies roaming and wailing. Dreadful hounds and sinful monks would play a part in his depraved fantasy, bizarre vaginal insertions using loaded shotguns and T-bone steaks throbbed in his imagination. Trip wires rigged with flesh eating bacteria and fiendish goblins moaning as God forsakes their everlasting suffering. Misery is what he has brought to the table, all things horrific and sexual will become a feast for elite cunts who will use mankind as a rubber dingy to float along the great rivers of the cosmos. Patrick’s world became a tangled mess of spiders spinning titanium webs from their bloated abdomens. Sheep brayed while an inbred farmer chewed on their tender parts, always asking if the number 18 bus slaughtered old aged pensioners. He was always questioning the existence of death, masturbating over his pretentious philosophy. A farmer who offered guidance that was chock full of misguiding information and rubber bones squealing for an innocent place to sleep.

  Legislation was passed by an imaginary court stating that knives were not a practical tool for self-servicing sex. Patrick’s thoughts were projected onto a TV screen in neon lights that flashed with subliminal splendour. Somewhere in the corner of a cage, a monkey masturbated itself into prolapsed asshole frenzy while its fellow brothers and sisters bashed its herpes ridden face into a pulp.

  Bubble gum toes morphed into stick fish bursting like popcorn in a microwave. Patrick clutched his head in horror and the world span, combining all the images into one obscene painting of chaos. The halo ejaculated amaranth light and his brain palpitated, he dropped to the floor but instead found himself falling through an unconscious world where teeth ruled over tongue slaves and eye ball peasants rallied against the ear drum kings. All he did was scream, and scream, and scream. A drum pounded somewhere in the deep; ba bum da bam, bum ba doo bum over and over and over. Tumbling through a vortex of cognitive dissonance, numbers slithered into his brain and the symbolism of the Old Gods flashed before his eyes. Information. Occultist information.

  Somewhere Patrick heard Hilstrom.

  You are a High Occultist, born from decadence like the Ancient Ones. Welcome Home.

  All too real.

  4

  Remer Blake knew it was strange from the moment he saw a peacock roosting inside the gaping mouth of a sperm whale. The great cetacean creature was half decomposed; seagulls swarmed and feasted on blubber while the peacock tore chunks of flesh from its tongue.

  “Why is there a whale corpse on top of a mountain?” he asked himself. As if to answer his question, the peafowl leapt out onto the snow and flourished its feathers and Remer beheld blossoming amaranth flowers. Within the core of the each plant there was an eyeball, their iris’ emitting a soft amaranth glow. The peacock began to let out a deafening call and began to shape shift, its body split open as if it were a moth cocoon, metallic green blood stained the perfect white snow as the creature was turned inside out, and became a man.

  “Patrick?” Remer asked the towering figure, he had to shield his eyes from the intense glow of the man’s halo.

  “There is some part of me that will always be Patrick Holness, but now I am something more: The High Occultist, born from the sexually desecrated corpses of men and filled with the knowledge of the cosmos. Remer, I wish to free you from Bachman Gardens, you and the rest of the sweet residents. The Island needs to drink the blood of the Aakmanu.”

  Beneath Remer’s feet the ground quaked, the mountain crumbled, the snow avalanched and the sperm whale melted into a puddle of plasma. They were in Lament’s Corner at night where the street lamps radiated a sweet emerald light. The High Occultist continued:

  “I have sensed the coming of another across the ocean of time and space, I know nothing of him yet, only that he is shrouded in emerald. Life is about to become very interesting here. We are at the forefront of great change. I have the power to control your unconscious mind, but because of our history I wish to ask you: will you be with me through this change, Remer Blake?”

  He dropped to his knees and looked upon the High Occultist with admiration.

  “Yes I will, Patrick, we will watch together as the sun rises upon an ocean of blood and there we will feast upon each other!”

  The High Occultist brought out his throbbing penis from within his robes.

  “Then join yourself to me, swallow my seed and we shall be as one.”

  Before Remer took him inside his mouth he saw that he was inside a luxurious hall, they were in the Mormon church, the place where the original Cult of Aakmanu opened the rift in time and brought about the fate of the Island. Once Remer had had his fill of the High Occultist’s seed, he stood and the amaranth glow faded, along with his new master. The dream was not over, however.

  At the centre of the hall, a group of naked men stood in a circle, they had all carved scales into the skin of their torsos, the wounds were still fresh and thus wept rouge. They chanted.

  “Halla mershum katak boso! Before the end, there is only insanity. Mahar katak krimpa anoto! Only through insanity can we find true freedom. Our realm is discontent with reality as we know it, there is a sanity that longs to be broken. Bring forth our new Draconian masters, bring forth their dominion upon this Island!”

  Remer saw a young boy at the centre of the circle, one of the men broke free and sliced open the boy’s throat, spilling his blood upon the floor. They all began to simultaneously masturbate over the corpse and all ejaculated in perfect synch, mixing their jizzum with the innocent maroon fluid. At the altar of the church, thick black tar flowed until covered the entire wall. Remer had taken a seat in a pew, watching the show.

  From the tar there emerged twisted creatures from some treacherous dimension, the men fled the building, screaming in horror at what they had done. He saw a beast with 7 heads and 11 tails, its arms were tentacles with beaks at their end. Its skin was orange and its eyes were tesseracts that glowed with a sickening white light. In its mouth there were humanoid people, all weeping and howling for help, Remer saw they were being digested, their skin dissolving and their organs being liquefied so the monster with no teeth could mush them up into a paste.

  Remer then saw the destruction of Lament’s Corner, the quiet town was ravaged by inter-dimensional horrors, and he saw the quarantine and the giant wall that kept the creatures from escaping. Then he was back inside the church facing the wall of tar: the rift in time, and there he saw the reptilian humanoids known as the Aakmanu, but not in their true form. He knew their reptilian form was the only way they could be perceived on this dimension. The High Occultist wanted him to see all of this, a history lesson that he enjoyed very much. Remer saw the monstrosities being vanquished and destroyed by huge Aakmanu air craft, he witnessed the rift being sealed shut and the rebuilding of Lament’s Corner. Remer then observed the Aakmanu establishing their headquarters in the City, what was once a beautiful city with an awe inspiring skyline was turned into a place of debauchery and filth.

  “Oh how things have changed, there is always a moment in time where chaos brings out the boogeymen. It is true what the Cult said; ‘in the end there is only insanity,’ although I’m not sure if we found true freedom. I believe in you Patrick, I believe the High Occultist is the path to true freedom.”

  All too real.

  Maybe truth wasn’t what Gerald Danmouth expected, the hospital was like a mineshaft; humid, claustrophobic and redolent of sour cabbage and Thai green curry. It was the 7th time the High Occultist had appeared to him. His dream was morbid and offensive to the eyes. He was fisting his cousi
n’s anus until it prolapsed, Gerald took the reversed wall of her rectum and shoved it all back inside, like someone crudely stuffing a chicken in preparation for an elitist feast. The blubber of flesh protruded from her mouth as she let out mumbled cries as he penetrated her ass deep, taking care to emphasize each inward thrust, so the reversed prolapse would spew further out of her mouth. She had metamorphosed into the High Occultist, the amaranth light flared with flamboyant magnificence.

  “My dear Gerald, you fuck me like a virgin savouring the moment he becomes a man,” the voice came not from the High Occultist, but from his puckered asshole, each outward breath and soft fart. Giant maggots slinked along the halls of the hospital and Gerald ran for the paediatric unit, straight for the new born infant room. He elbowed the doors open and was greeted by the sight of babies hanging from the ceiling, faces blue from tight nooses and still naked and coated with placenta. From the corner came a gruff laugh;

  “My dear Gerald, I offer you liberty on a silver platter and you run to the death of liberation,” he said.

  “I don’t see what you would want from me, Patrick Holness never cared worth a damn about me, now your alter ego begs…” the light pierced his eyes and burrowed into his brain.

  “…the weather man says it is lovely this time of year in my realm, would you like to visit sometime maybe?”

  “They say you have the power to control the unconscious, why not just take me?”

  “I do love being the puppeteer, but I need willing participants. Sit, watch and behold the Dream Walker.”

  Piece by piece the hospital was dismantled like a jigsaw, by an invisible force.

  Mist obscured Gerald’s vision; he saw carts with no horses, clothes strewn here and there and street lights flickering. In a distant street there howled a creature from some nightmare city, and all the hills were gone from the uninspired world. Civilisation had deserted its true calling in favour of some higher purpose, but what, he couldn’t say. Maybe he already knew, but didn’t want to answer to himself in fear of facing the truth. The antithesis of deceit to unite infinite consciousness into one force. The world in which he walked was the truth. Polar bears stalked the alleyways scavenging for scraps of food while vultures lurked up high, spying for dead or dying flesh. Gerald saw a bridge up ahead and approached with caution, it was made from fine polished copper, and even in the mist it gleamed. Bats swooped and ravens squawked and on the bridge he saw a troll, 19 feet tall and hunched like a giant Quasimodo. Its teeth were blocks of ivory and its penis hung like an anaconda. When it saw him it froze and fixed Gerald with a stare as cold as a glacier.

  “What is your purpose in crossing this bridge?” it spoke in a voice that could bring churches crumbling to the ground.

  “I have no purpose, I only walk and let my feet carry me somewhere,” Gerald responded, slightly confused. The troll did not reply in kindness, it slammed its fist on the bridge that caused the concrete to crack. Panic wormed its way into his bones.

  “What is your purpose in crossing this bridge?” it asked again.

  “I explained, I have no purpose, unless you consider aimless walking to be a purpose?” he responded again, and like before the troll clobbered the bridge with its fists, creating more cracks.

  “What is your purpose in crossing this bridge?” it asked for the third, and possibly final (if the stories were true) time.

  Suddenly it became clear, and as the cobwebs in his mind were brushed away, so too had the mist been brushed away from the world.

  “My purpose is to seek the High Occultist so that I may serve him in his quest to defeat the Aakmanu vermin.”

  The troll smiled and leaped off the bridge into an unknown abyss.

  This is my world dear Gerald, you would take care to be smart. You’ve seen the sheer power of dream walking and the properties of the universe. Gilded nurse’s vaginas and lusty trollops bathe in one skin and wash with the same soap. The stomach cramps of the world should be quenched by amaranth fires, too long has the cosmos sat in an unbalance with reality. Bring forth the measuring radars and satellite mechanics and bring out the sacrificial tombs to bury those who die at the hands of the reptilian demons that spawn a lifetime of cold blooded malice upon humanity. Poison drips delicately through cotton but does not set like honey in a comb of wax, butchers would not cleave the meat unless it has some purpose to die, and whores belong where whores have always belonged; somewhere between a rock and a hard place. Complexity only vexes those who cannot understand the fundamental linguistics of life, we all speak one universal language, and that is insanity. There must be a culling and who better to help make this dream a reality than you. Underground foibles and scruples to ponder inside caverns of ancient wisdom, I’ll bring you wisdom in an hourglass and we’ll watch how long it takes for good advice to run out and become nothing but a faded memory, too insignificant to be logged inside the great book of life. Your aroma is strong with the memories of blood and smoke, your taste is capable of being something cannibal eunuchs would drool over if you were to serve it to them on fine bone china.

  All too real.

  In his dream, Gerald mutated into a moose and he could not escape the shackles of the antlers that brought great weight upon his head. He saw his drunk Father and drug addled Mother fight over who gets to pleasure the teenage girl they kidnapped. Finally they made a decision; they would both do the deed, but young Gerald could have the first round to finally pop his cherry.

  “We are all stuck in the machine of the past,” he whispered.

  The mouth must be fed lies and inconsolable lectures about petrified bones. Done, and done. Lost beneath a waterfall listening to the crashing water and beholding a magnificent rainbow within the wall of transparent liquid. His touch screen device beamed images of children being born from their Mother’s vagina directly into his head; Gerald could not close the eyes of his mind. He could only watch and believe that even in life, we are covered in death’s blanket.

  Nurses dressed in leather garments came in and stole the new born away and carried it off to a stainless steel chamber containing green, plastic tubes. A schizophrenic dog wandered the wastelands of the Industrial Complex, sniffing at dead crows and wading in the slagheaps.

  No man should have felt so awake at such an ungodly hour; the moon was still full like a bloated cow’s udder. A collection of porcelain dolls danced around a park scaring young children to tears, and police stood by and laughed until their bellies burst, releasing a cloud of potent methane gas. Angels cried when they saw what Humanity had become, the Gods stood by in apathy musing over their unholy tapestry, Gerald felt abandoned; all his life he had been abandoned, by his father, by his mother, then eventually by Glykeria and Kallisto. Were those things of his making? Yes, but the Gods never once intervened and their lack of presence only encouraged him to maim and murder those he loved. The amber street lamps bled their light in pools on the pavement, cars stood motionless and the vibes of desolation bounced off the walls of empty houses. His dream was decaying. A train flowed into a station like a stream of liquid copper, all the passengers wore gas masks equipped with iron snouts, and they stared at his exposed face, heads askew, through questioning ebony onyx eyes. Like a swan on a lake, he glided along the waters of his subconscious, memories riding in tandem with fantasies. The sun rose over the horizon, he felt chains wrap around his bones.

  “Somebody please throw me down, like a ragdoll!” he said to the mist.

  5

  It was an abattoir full of hermit crabs screaming for a free meal while free loading in brine. A beef brisket crackled over a scarlet fire and Archibald Galbrieth watched the flames spit fat and whisper tales of succulent success. In the waking world he was part of the Folk at Bachman Gardens Institute for the Criminally Insane but in his dreams he was a travelling man who ate rich meals and married virgins whom he divorced after consuming the sweet fruit of their loins. Soon the fire began to fade and lotus flowers bloomed from the ashes as Archibald prepared
a bed for him and his tender bride. Before laying her down he performed a fairy tale puppet show using hand crafted models made from the finest maple and made them speak in schizoid babble about elves residing in the constellations. Around them contortionist jesters danced as if their bones had turned into jelly. Archibald was never aware that he was dreaming, to him it was a second life playing out on some distant world. He entered his virgin bride gently and felt her first blood flow over his cock, he taught her things a young lady should never learn, and there, beneath a sky of blazing emotions they consummated their heinous marriage. The moon turned pink like candy floss and the stars were like sugar that had been scattered over ebony marble. Camera lights flashed and strobe lights sliced through his perception, the noise was an unbearable cocktail of sounds and in the crowd there were people having monstrous relations with grizzly bears.

  His climax brought about a change of fate, the eyes of his bride began to radiate a dizzy amaranth light and she smiled, and spoke in a gruff voice that made him leap off her, naked and vulnerable.

  “Oh sweet Archy, how I love it when you fill me with your warm spunk,” she sat up, dipped her finger inside her pussy and licked off the contents, then she metamorphosed in a cloaked man wearing a halo on his head.

  No, he thought, it’s inside his head.

  “Who are you?” asked Archibald, fearing the answer and sensing his time was at hand.

  “I am your subconscious, the part of you that stays hidden through your waking life, and I flourish like a peacock in heat during your dreams,” said the man, holding out his arms in a welcoming fashion.

  “I don’t understand”