Verse XXIII: Christian Brothers

Guard number one has smoked some ketamine tonight for the first time, is frisky as a little puppy—-perhaps a Saint Bernard—-in the delicate rays of noon during Dutch summer reprieve The kevlar beneath his Gucci Prada whatever feels like one of those harness-collars that wrap around the dog’s chest, clip upon the sternum, while the semi-automatic has the air of a forgotten chew toy. “I wish Elliott Smith would have finished that last album before… you know.” A sniff. “I like loud and crunchy guitars.”

Guard number two keeps looking back and forth between you and his co-worker with incredulity. “I never met a gay guy who likes Elliott Smith before.”

“I pretend to like edgy music to seduce straight guys. Ha, ha, ha!” Just then, there are shouts from the next room. “Whoooo! Snuff film!” He plants a bullet into the forehead of guard number two and turns to enter the makeshift bondage dungeon.

It’s all violet and red neon lights that burst up like pillars from a chasm that appears in the floor during an earthquake; the musk of ancient embalming fluid wafts from nowhere in particular but is everywhere all of a sudden, and the pungent perfume is a reality all its own. The aural ambience in hell is a stark silence that the knowing among us refer to as the slow path to insanity, because what are thoughts without the sound of language to describe them, and what are you if your mind is not able to speak? Yes, it is true: The road to hell is painted with emo tenth grade philosophy that lacks a certain stylistic merit.

Atheism paints a cozy black nothingness to punctuate human life. Maybe all atheists go to hell when they die and make peace with that fact in this life.

Frederic is already distraught as he begins to materialize into your reality because he smells himself for the first time and, although he has never smelled anything ever before, he knows that this is not a scent he wants associated with himself. All his brothers had teased him, warning that it was the most humiliating experience, that it was like a shitty alternative rock music video from the nineties—-but he would know that it is apt homage, that the pathos would convert to hubris too quickly for him to change his mind and back out. Worse, this fanfare is the best that the humans can scrounge up with their paltry unconscious.

Guard number one had stripped on his way to the snuff alter. “Rape me and kill me with your unholy appendage!!”

Frederic looks down at his hands, which are furry and purple. Horns jut out from his abdomen; the dangling cock between his lower extemeties looks suspiciously animalistic; his lower extremities are…. actually…. hooves. “What have you done to me?” he screams, and his voice tears apart matter at the molecular level, causing sonic boom explosion without regularity across the room.

Guard number approaches the demon, falls to his knees, takes the slimy ruby red cock with his right hand and shoves it into his mouth, gagging immediately because it tastes foul—but he continues anyhow, pausing every second or two to emit incredible wretching sounds from deep inside his belly. Viscous streams of spit run like gallons of semen down his chin, connecting to the floor like moist spider webs.

Frederic weeps in despair.

Devon vomits.


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