Update to the Word Virus page:
A book to read to all of the stray cats you strangle today so that they too might enter Kitten Heaven and leave this world of suffering.
Spent bullet casings rolled down the street picking up the detritus of city living (leaves, condoms, rattles, deconstructed windshields, bits of clay, a bloated squirrel corpse, sucked on suckers, and cat vomit by volume,) clogging the storm drains. It was raining. Had been for days, but that didn’t stop the dancing. It was spring witch season and their naked gyrations and drug-garbled tongue vibrations brought the clouds rolling in over the hills and up the river. The clouds had to take numbers and sit, puffy and silent, in windless boredom before being processed as Rain Makers.
The witches never tired thanks to the frog adrenaline I had synthesized over the winter to add to their midnight stew. They were used to merely imbibing the tongue remnants, which is great for maintaining throat health according to dubious wisdom, but the adrenal secretions worked with visible power. And they would never kill them all. For every witch the police fried with tasers in the streets, or beheaded with shotguns, or set fire to in an attempt at irony, three more would spring forth from the dying woman’s loins, already speaking in incantations.
It was looking like the whole town would be inhabited by witches by autumn, all except me. I would leave, however. I would leave because they would figure out my methods and I would be nothing but a useless alchemist in a land of witchcraft, always being pulled from my lab to attend moon dependent orgies and oversee the blessing of a new looking pool. As if I cared. I already have my bag packed.
I’m just waiting for the rain to stop.
You have to…
…have to what?
You know, you have to come look at it before we go.
I told you I don’t know if I can go and if I can’t I don’t want to waste time looking at nothing with you.
How can you know if you’re going to go or not when I don’t even know if I’m going…but you should look at it anyway. And it isn’t nothing, I don’t think.
Where is it?
In the room. Over there. At the house.
I just came from the house. I didn’t see anything.
Well, you probably didn’t look in the room.
You would have seen it if you looked in the room.
I didn’t look anywhere. I always close my eyes when I am out of the sun’s influence. I can’t stand artificial lighting.
I think the thing has natural lightning stored in its tongue and eyes, but I wouldn’t want to test it.
I said lighting.
I said lightning.
Are we going to look at it or just stand around drinking drugs and lying to each other?
Either way, we’ll get there.
The arc of blood blistered the air as it reached its terminal height and turned earthwards, separating and falling onto the hair-scrubbed steps of the Mighty Holy, One and Only, Great and Wonderful Tit-Phallus Ziggurat they had built just for occasions such as this. It had been hard work, breaking and hauling, hewing and sawing, stacking and whacking, all while the priests plucked peacocks and snorted psychoactive alien secretions in their steam huts and stroked their raw cocks once again.
Yet no one complained. They had never been taught such words as “Fuck off” or “Solidarity of the Proletariat”. And now that the work was done, they had the pleasure of sitting idly, starving and watching their young daughters become decapitated angels. If they were lucky, they would catch the head of their precious little one and, if they were clever, turn it into a bowl of blood-ink or a bucket for staging fruit arrangements.
Most were neither lucky nor clever. Most sat and watched the gods eat.