Mike Jones: Infernus

A large squelching sound came from the two ebony orbs, like gallons of liquid whistling through metal pipes.

Large swellings appeared on the throat of the baked bodybuilder as he tearfully swallowed gallon after gallon of liquid. He could not breathe.

Finally, the demon pulled the dripping member slowly from his throat and shook off the last drops. They hissed on the shimmering yellowed floor.

The scene bled black and began to dim in the man’s consciousness. Was he passing out?

“…2… 3… Now, awaken!”

The man opened his tear-filled eyes. He was lying on his back, covered with a linen sheet, in a spare lab he recognized. No comforts here. He was a large man; his biceps were as thick as the thighs of the only other man in the room.

“You see, Dr. Mountfountain, you can be hypnotized. I told you.” The speaking one was an ugly, smallish man with a goatee and a bitter, pocked face.

“No.” The man’s eyes blinked with terror. “It was real! I am actually able to live the thoughts of a man in Hell.”

He sat up on the metal table. The linen cloth fell to his waist, the other noted, unveiling the expansive hairy chest and flat slab abdomen. The other man, a doctor as well, ran his hand over the thick thatch of brown fur on Dr. Mountfountain’s chest, pretending to search for a heartbeat… somewhere.

“Oh my,” the other doctor gasped. With feral speed, the little man withdrew a syringe from his lab coat and plunged it into his upper thigh. “I expected you to enter imaginary worlds, and wholeheartedly believe in them, but now you have gone too far, Doctor — and you actually believe in their existence. We’ll have to put you into a straightjacket and give you shock treatments. You poor fool.”

Dr. Mountfountain was far too trusting. It would be the last time.

The demon lovingly drew his oozing, swollen purple head to the lips of the man.

“Kiss it,” the demon did not say, but the man felt it penetrate his forehead like a hot poker.

He kissed the enormous purple beast that seemed to have a mind of its own. It slithered quickly over his lips, its head seeking entry.

The demon, Red, let the member fall between his legs, all interest for the moment gone. The man heard it make a hissing sound as it fell in a puddle of liquefied sand. Red grabbed the man’s hand and drew it to his blistered lips.

The demon covered the top of the man’s hand with kisses, and then released it. “I love you, my son.”

The man felt this was also a complete fabrication. There must be many primal layers all being affected at once. It would probably fill many encyclopedias to speak of every incident, what was really happening, and what was intended.

The man came to understand, in no time, that what you want is given to you, but without the hope of ever enjoying it. In utter pain you realize no such thing can occur as someone kissing your hand (for there can be no love here — it is an expression of derision and mockery), because everyone is hopeless. And few people have lips. The mouths of all are permanently open in an ultimate eternal scream. The eyes of all are glazed over with the simultaneous experience of every toothache, every dismemberment, every slashed face, and the flames billions of degrees hot, and every other pain that ever happened all wrapped up in one never-ending moment. Nothing can get better; hope is not the end product of any suffering here. You must always realize that the torture will continue (creatively) until the end of three trillion infinities (to the billionth power). Then you say, “Ah, the hallucination was more torture!” But that itself gives no hope, either. Nothing does. And so despair continues to grow at a geometric rate.

What had actually happened when the man tried to force his reality to conform to his dreams was unendurable, but he had to face it nonetheless. So, right now, inside this moment, the demon was covering the man with what looked like yellow, molten metal. He aimed the member higher until the man’s mouth was filled and the liquid flame ran out of his mouth, and shredded his chest.

A yellow demon approached the red one that was abusing the man. Yellow was twice the size, and seemed twice as muscular. His pale topaz hands were covered with caked and bloated blisters. Yellow bent at the knees and reached under Red, then thrust up into his rectum. He let his other hand join the one inside.

Yellow braced himself with legs spread wide and pulled the red buttocks apart. The man stood, in shock and horror, and heard a tremendous cracking and snapping, and then Yellow stopped. He drew up from below his belly a member even more swollen and rotten — looking like Red’s — and allowed it to squirm through the wide pulsating anus. Yellow closed Red’s ass around his wet member and began pounding it into him.

Yellow reached around Red’s middle with both arms and ripped open his belly. Ecstasy followed as Yellow pounded Red from behind while running his hands through the steamy, spilling bowels.

In a moment (he had known the whole time, really), the man realized, in profound sadness, there was no Yellow demon, only Red.

And Red was providing this nightmare to the man.

Later (when time seemed to pass, but that is illusion as well), a wooden-looking dwarf came to Red and jumped up on his heavily-muscled leg.

The demon grunted as he punched his hand liquidly into the dwarf’s spine. He played his fingers in and out among the stringy tissue (the man felt it tear through his soul and was not puzzled). Red found the right nerves. The puppet’s right eye twitched uncontrollably and his teeth chattered. Apparently Red was shredding a few nerves in the process. The dwarf’s mouth clicked out of time with the words; Red’s voice sounded from within.

“Oh, foolish thing that once was a man, look at me , and lose the last vestige of hope you might have kept. I am ever-present.” The dwarf’s mouth, smeared with red liquid, opened and closed, but the voice was still not his. “I am ever-present in your existence, because I am you. In one thousand generations, you will regret seeing your younger self, and despair of a path I cannot exit. Know that, and despair! Your sense of identity is on trial here. Never anything else.”

A thin, angular burning man came to stand before the demon. Red’s words shimmered like blades in the sun. “Fall to the ground, thin man. Shrivel up and leave us.”

The man fell as a skeleton and instantly became like paper, then blew away in a breeze.

“Come here,” spoke no one. Red presented his armpit to the man. “There is no time here, my beloved, but for one thousand centuries I command you to lick this sweat-filled armpit. You may begin now, my son.”

As the man licked the vast armpit, his penis rose straight into the air in humble gratitude. The man felt Red’s fingers break the surface of his back with gentle insistence.

Shivering nerve-shatterings that might have resembled orgasms racked both their bodies as Red’s hands snapped nerve and muscle. Enduring this moment, over and over again, for a thousand centuries.

Not even The Encyclopedias of Madness could remotely describe the pleasure of being united with your own personal demon. As a gift, like a starburst in the brain, Red gave the man the knowledge that he had been the demon sent to keep him on his lifelong path. His own father/lover to share for all eternity.

And this, too, he came to find out in the end, was a lie.

“Yes, my beloved.” When his black empty slits smiled down on the man, red tears fell and sizzled down his cheeks like running sores. “I coveted you many millions of years ago. When I knew that you were going to be ‘in flesh,’ I watched and ached and loved you from a distance.