Mike Jones - Infernus

“Come here, my son.”

The animated figure was pointing in the distance with its left arm and tirelessly plunging a knife into its chest, over and over again.

“What’s this?” the man asked.

The massive demon drew him nearer with a thick forearm around his neck. He nuzzled his throat with his mouth, searching the man’s Adam’s apple and ear. The man could feel Red’s hot breath.

The demon whispered into his ear. “See the plaque on the base of the pedestal? Yes? Always answer me when I ask you a question, or you could be feasting on your own testicles soon. Or, worse yet, force-fed mine. Now, what does the plaque say?”

The man squinted as he approached the animated statue, and then looked at the plaque nailed there. “It says, ‘Man’s Best. Man’s Best…’ What? ‘Friend’?”

“No,” Red replied. “ This is the best that man can do.”

The figure opened its mouth and spoke. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.”

It kept its left arm locked outward, pointing toward its unseen enemy. It always plunged the knife, gripped tightly in its right hand, down into its chest, over and over again with malicious intent, and snickered. Red spray splattered them and they heard bone scraping beneath the knife. The son vomited onto the steaming floor; the smell was indescribable.

“This!” exclaimed the son. “ This is the best that man has to offer?”

“That’s right,” Red said, following it with a deep laugh.

The man sighed. “We’re screwed. Poor statue. Thanks for reminding us of how doomed we all are.”

“It’s not a statue,” the father replied calmly, then laughed at the shock on his son’s tormented face.

The giant demon took the man, coupling with him in a nearby, pitch-black corridor.

Most of the students, by now, were somewhat used to his gross narration, and sat quietly. One pupil asked to be let out of the class, permanently, and promptly reported the professor and the nude model to the dean of the university. But it came to nothing, for there really were laws in place that gave people the right to say anything they wished.

However, in the following week, when he returned to read chapter seven, the old man was challenged again, and quite unkindly.

“LEGS”

“Son, do you see the hair on my thighs?”

The man said that he did.

“Find the hair that puckers around my hole and moisten it with the tip of your tongue.” Red pulled the man’s hair until his head was between his legs. “Get under there and do your service to your father.”

The man searched through the endless blood-matted hair. He was sure that he found a bit of wet flesh (that did not belong to the demon) lingering among the copious volumes of strands. He found the leaking hole and lovingly daubed it with his tongue. In this warm nest, he lingered for a billion times.

“My son, take this pus cup I present to you and drink it.”

The man took the cup and drank the hot contents in one gulp. He licked his lips.

“My son,” Red said with love quivering in his voice, “approach me.”

The man drew near to his father.

“You will now become a part of me for exactly one million generations.” Red drew the man to his muscled chest, and continued to pull him closer. The man cracked and flattened until he was the thickness of paper. He faded as he was absorbed into the demon’s body.

“ Now … we will tour the park.”

The narrative must repeat itself concerning dialogue. No such thing happens at all. In a body that far outstrips human abilities, vocalization is unnecessary. The hundreds of things the body can communicate by the merest movement are astounding .

The only thing that can be done is scream (the base unit of existence). And since no one can die or grow older, it is the Eternal Base Unit. The demon could not express itself in an elegant manner, for such things require reflection and ruminating over matters, and no such thing can occur here. It is only my own narrative device. The thoughts are just there, hanging in space like raw wounds — pay attention or not; they will occur as he proclaimed them. Nothing can prevent this torment from one so high on the Order’s ladder. (And unless I am very much mistaken, my copyist, you must continue to write this until it is finished, bastardly task that it may be! [2] This concept of the book being dictated is also explained in the appendix. )

“We cannot proceed past the limits of my park. You must always remember this. I am the prince of this park.”

The man and demon (who were now one) came to a tree where two men writhed as one.

“See this, my son, and know what this scene is.”

The man looked out of the demon’s eyes. He saw a man bent over at the waist due to the weight on his back. A full-grown man was welded to him, joined back-to-stomach, and he was always in the penetration position. He never stopped pounding him from behind.

“In life, my son,” Red said, “the man had an uncanny fear of being raped.” The demon looked at the man lovingly and they both wept at the idea of anyone fearing such loving attention. Great red teardrops fell on the man’s uplifted face as he gazed adoringly at his father’s caring visage. “But, as usual, he was only remembering his future. For here it is the only thing that he will ever experience. It is the only place he has ever been.”

When the man looked again from the demon’s eyes, he saw the man beneath the tree, the one being pounded from behind. The eyes of this one were registering unnamable terror, and after seeing the man inside the demon, they widened further.

The thought splattered like acid in the man’s decaying brain. “Others see my humiliation, and they are much entertained!”

“Yes,” thought the man, his anger burning equally hot, “unless you are me in a thousand generations.”

“We are all one, my son,” the demon said. “When you learn that secret, thankfully, your threshold of pain will be awarded an increase of three greatness levels. Then, the Eternal Baptism will be yours: for your scream will widen and your skull will crack — and that is the baptism known as ‘The Mark of His Father.’

“My son, I must show you another dream. Even though you are deep inside me, I will lean over this precipice and you tell me what you see.”

When Red leaned over the edge, the son saw a barrel at the bottom. But what was most interesting about it was that it was not still…

“Inside the barrel is what looks like molasses or oil. I can barely see something brown and wet, churning and churning; never stopping.”

“See this woman being lowered into the barrel by a long chain, connected to a hook that is buried deep in her neck? Yes, above us. Well, let me tell you about a dream she has over and over in this place. Every few [times] here, she is pulled out and then she is lowered again to suffer [many million infinities]. When she is not in the barrel, she has a very foolish dream. Would you like me to tell you so you can laugh and laugh many times?”

“Yes, oh Father, I would love it.”

“Well, look in this churning barrel and despair, because when she has a respite from it, and she is burning in this fire, she dreams of another world, quite limp and unconscious; I assure you. A hideous world, but not as hideous as this world, of course. She dreams she is a young girl and has a child thing and puts it in a garbage dumpster, and that is the end of that. But sadly, in that world, the child thing was not alone, for the dumpster had a few permanent residents. Big, juicy rats. The mother did not know this, for she had left there, and went to meet a boyfriend, and they had a wonderful lunch at a restaurant. She did not know. She could not hear the screams, or know the terror of that baby as it was bitten to death and devoured by those sharp teeth. But now she continues to dream the same dream. Now do you know what churns in the barrel? That it is not molasses or oil, but the oily pelts of hundreds of rats as they gnaw and chew her repeatedly. How horrible it must be for her.”