26. Twilight Twins: The Morning & Evening Star
Hades 20007-8. Jack O’Leery’s soul splintered from being. Spiralling upward is a black sordid tornado, an opened sewer, a jammed toilet flushed out of the bowl. Dirty, brown water bubbled from his mouth and nostrils like an art house horror, causing Mona to immediately recoil and jump off her seat. Willy’s vibrating being was also effervescing considerably. Squeals distracted the president of the society of the Bitches of Mercy, and when she spun it was as though she saw her own squeamish reflection mirrored by her peers.
The house of dead men was a rushing tributary of mephitic fluids. Soon the girls were clambering on furniture, but those little pole-dancing tables could not accommodate the lot of them, hence the unfortunate babes who fell were instantaneously washed off by the hot bitter choc rapids to god knows where. Cat fights ensued, skimpy costumes scratched and shredded off, chicks pushed off slippery surfaces; others lost their stiletto footing or were just too slow to haul their asses up the bar-top and were, thus, mercilessly swallowed by the ravenous torrent.
It was then I realized my disentanglement. Like a newborn baby in an operating room with unfocussed and misty eyes, I was perplexed by the sight of Mr. O’Leery lifeless and supine in muddy water. Why wasn’t I with him? Why wasn’t I in him? He was ten-feet below; and it hit me hard, my being now severed from his atavistic carcass. I was floating millimetres beneath an asbestos ceiling, and Jack O’Leery was now food for dogs, a memory-wraith stored in the vaults of my virtual self, incantations for future incarnations.
A voice bellowed behind. I faced a jagged wall. It was no more the Hound. At my peripheral vision, wailing saints kissed piercing tips with the flesh of their cheeks. Bloodied hands clawed and battered the bricks. The deep noise came again, and this time I turned. I was in a cave, gentle fires flaring from fissures, casting an evil glow. Shadows flickered, and I perceived more clearly. It was not a cavern, but rather, a room; a room which was decorated like a hole in a rock! Ornaments waved under the charade of light, and the visages of the bewailing souls appeared liquid, as if rocking in a boat sailing on a sea of mirrors.
Lucifer, according to a bible was an archangel wanting to be just like G.o.D. He was thrown out of heaven together with other fallen angels, one third of the heavenly hosts. Lucifer is a bitter man, a brother of man. Yet, through the endearing course of time, his disposition softened. His actual origins may not be that conspicuous, there are many renditions, and he’d often played naïve.
What I do know is that he resides with his twilight twin, Vesper, in Hades 20007-8. Let’s, for a moment, take a bird’s eye view of this southern isthmus of Syurga, a paradise cove fronting an artificial lake of fire – crystal as glass, hot as hell...and it melts like wax. This is where devils stay, lords of netherworlds. Business transactions are often signed over a game of golf, and the balls are human testicles still attached to the man and his scrotum, pinned excruciatingly high upon the dickhead acting as the tee. On the green of the grass the poor male is nailed to a pentagram, splayed open as a sacrifice. Two caddy-chicks, rotting purple and embalmed in aloes, myrrh, frankincense and spikenard, prepare the man for tee-off. In their icy hands, he is stiff. The dead hot babes made alive by sorcery have lactating nipples for horns on their foreheads, and the smells they emit under Nike Golf, putrid and sweet, festering yet aromatic, blends a mix that runs like a pungent river up the nasal passage to the brain, juddering the reflexes of the mind in a manner mortals react to a ladleful of wasabi. Satan stands over his crotch and swings the club. “Eeee…. yawww… yawww… yawww... yawww... yawww!!!” a shriek cuts the peace, and two objects are sent flying across the sky in widening trajectories. This is how the sport is played here – two courses simultaneously doubling with each condemned man, (a host of them jogging profusely behind the electric buggy, chained neck-to-neck with iron collared spikes, their manhood, or rather, spare balls and tee, swinging right-to-left like an absurd ensemble of extras), unless a hole-in-one is struck.
The voice belonged to my friend…Vesper the devil. “What am I doing here in your abode?” I asked, recognizing his living room in 20007-8.
He answered, “All lousy loser loners end up in hell.
“Especially perverted ones.” “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” he laughed out loud. The décor trembled, and the tortured in the corner quavered. Lolla Lollipop, lickin a semen-flavoured lolli, teased and petrified them.
Vesper wasn’t sick with warts no more like when he took leave from the Horny Hound. He was, rather, comical, a cartoon devil of traditional motifs – horned-head, tri-fork and tail. On second glance, it was just an animated ride, a chuckling, funny ghoul-face in an amusement park. His spirit was the poltergeist speaking through the machine.
I know why I am here. Jack O’Leery is just a shell, a hollow avatar my being possesses*. He is similar to a Kent Barbie doll on cheap sale, at most a ventriloquist’s dummy. And since Jack died, his heart had to be judged. His heart had to stand before the throne of god, to be doomed to either heaven or hell. Earlier I stated that Jack is my soul, and that this soul is evil – a wanker with only porn in mind. Evil needs to be judged. Hence I am sent to Hades 20007-8, to be punished for the soul of Jack O’Leery, that fucker who possesses* my soul.
(*Note the paradox)
Returning to the Morning Star, after his exile from G.o.D’s land, he became a rock star! Music was his thing. Swoons of screaming fans and a diva’s life was norm; but as with all successful poets, fame could never satiate nor exorcise that melancholic poison residing within. It was not simply about being rejected by G.o.D. In actual fact, he was a mutant of creation. In the fables, angels were programmed with mindless tasks in view. They carried out G.o.D’s whim without questioning. Lucifer, (or in some translations, Lucipher), was accidentally encoded with a dormant creative gene, an evolving cipher supposedly barred from celestial hosts, an assembly line defect escaping QC checks. Eventually the DNA kicked in. Even more bastardly, he was an archangel; one of twelve, and to have an error so serious at the pivotal echelon, the central command, meant G.o.D was inept. Lucifer’s problem was that he started to think. And he was influential. G.o.D chucked him out. And when I say G.o.D, I mean G, o and D; he was just one of the guys, like Jahr, or Leper and the Gunk. Genomes on Demand (G.o.D).
Had he forgiven his master? Had his master forgiven him? I dunno. Neither Vesper nor Lucifer ever spoke of it. Morning Star tried patching the holes of his being, but new ones spouted. Imagine him a soft-shell barrel with a puncture. Cork him up, but the pressure within is too intense that a second gash spurts. Worse still, the corked up aperture too succumbs to the stress, and soon the poor devil is spilling like a waterfall. For a while he tried materialism: so full of hype and foolish tits, there’s no disguise. The crater was excessively vast. No glorious city could be built above.
Later you learn just to accept the facts. This is your beginning, your history; and your everlasting life is based upon the scars of your past. Lucifer, and Vesper, too, quickly found home with similar fiends. And home is 20007-8.