Infernus

Blood ran in ever-widening rivers down the man’s legs as he passively allowed the demon to pound him three million times from behind.

Red never tried to stop and the man never ceased feeling every fresh painful thrust as if it were the first. However, the inexplicable horror was knowing that it would never end.

To be the eternal victim was more than mere mortals could stand. But these were not mere mortals. They were shaped into supernatural beings, who were allowed to continue in a perpetual state of death with indestructible bodies.

They could withstand the combined torture of all (ex-) humanity for three billion infinities and yet reconstruct the body in moments.

The tearing sounds coming from his own body did not concern the man; it would go on being broken over and over.

That which never heals is this body, and yet cannot be destroyed.

* * *

“I must ram my massive arm down your throat, my son, and tear your esophagus to ribbons with my claws.”

As has been explained earlier, all mouths are permanently fixed open in a continual scream that is so loud that the flesh of all faces vibrates all the time. It is not horrible to those who are here — it is normal. Through disuse, the lips of all are long and flap nerveless like a flag of despair in an unholy burning wind.

Red thrust his forearm down the man’s bleeding throat and began ripping cords and arteries with his sharp, blood-crusted claws. The man could feel the hand’s thick matted hair brushing his gullet deep down. The man loved it and wanted it to continue forever. It only went on for [a third set of turns of time].

When Red slowly pulled his arm out of the man’s throat, it was dripping with yellow mucus. The demon slung it to the ground and rubbed the rest into the black fur below his belly button.

* * *

Green flame danced all over the man’s body, first one place, then another. He didn’t seem to notice. He stooped to walk through the archway, his path predetermined. He headed forward, for there was no way to go back. He knew what was back there. In the distance, he heard his father call him. He carefully chose his steps through the dark hall.

As he came out on the other side, he saw Red standing perfectly still, staring at a figure of a man, its feet crudely (one might say rudely) nailed to a pedestal. It was baked red as clay in a kiln. Red’s right shoulder was low from leaning on the burning floor with his fist, and it sizzled. The stance reminded the son of the way a gorilla might pose in a zoo. The father casually looked his way.

“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.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“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])

* * *

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