30. Bowie & Oakley
You probably know by now what milk is. Noah does. Every time mommy sits on him. There's milk.
The bible speaks of the waters above and the waters below. Before the beginning, it was all just water. Then God slid a solid sheet of creation in the midst of this infinite liquid. In certain esoteric traditions, this water is the sexual release. Meaning, this is the default state before human affairs, before flora and fauna. Before the simulation. Transcendent Intelligence's job, always, is to ‘flood’ creation. It did it in 2030; it's doing it again to ‘Atlantis,’ our metaphor for the Northern Hells, Old Hellenna, Neo Hellenne and the Retarii mountains. One day, Plato is going to write about civilization sinking into the sea. Into water. Someone else is going to record it as a global event. The heavy clouds above crashing and the deep springs underneath gushing up as murderous geysers. There's an ark, pairs of animals and a hero accompanied by family. Variations to the theme.
Every time, it's the same. On repeat. There are survivors. Someone to continue the sapien story. In 2030 it was Commander Yuo's first ancestor who loved nudism amongst trees. This time it's supposedly Noah. But who truly knows? No one from the future was present to witness. And by the time it's documented from oral tradition, stories are exaggerated, changed and leveraged for propaganda. But the script is there, and TI and Azazel follow the plot, albeit with creative license and reinterpretation.
People cum, people die. They get resurrected. They cum again, die again. How often does it repeat till it becomes a zombie state? Crazy zombie state. That's the outcome of having a backup in the cloud. Just reset. Download a new body; an updated mind in a new body. Go at it again, kill or be killed. Sex became synonymous with violence in Hellenne. The arena was at the centre of the economy. People paid to watch erected gladiators battle. Now that you could die hard, dying became easier. Tastier. Anything involving an erection was naturally more pleasurable. It kinda flattened the status quo. In the past the victor would pronounce the final blow in ecstasy, playing to the boisterous, blood-lusting crowd. The vanquished generally welcomed death with trembling and trepidation. Now, the stadium couldn't tell the difference. The victor and the vanquished were one, both united by rigid orgasms. A single beast biting its own tail, a cock eating ouroboros. The giver of death gave in pleasure. The receiver received with equal tenacity. A cult of dying expanded. Taking a life can be euphoric, arousing and erotic even. Less can be said of the other side. Up till now, no one had returned to tell their tale. But now, imagine, the sword comes down, both hard penises ejaculate, and the dead awakes to report he had the ultimate climax. Being snuffed is hot! Warriors explored. Some rather lost. This upsetted the bookmakers. Favourites who had the most money bet on them gave the game away. They would rather die. At least try. And damn goodness! It was good. Most testified that there was no afterlife. Just a spectacular cum that blacked them out, and the next moment, conscious on the cloning table. A few said there was a dream between dying and waking of the walls of reality melting before solidifying again as they opened their eyes. Citizens betting on champions squandered away their moolah. Rigged matches were disrupted causing flabbergasted frustration in the upper echelon. Worse, bruised bloated egos. Anger brewed. Someone struck first. Someone else relished second. Sweet death. Confusion maximum. Since time immemorial, murdering was supposed to remove a person out of the picture, but for once, the deceased resurrects. Not as ghosts but flesh and blood. Yet there was such a sexual thrill to butchering and being butchered. Anarchy became a pastime. The psychotic trend. Everyone did what was right in their own eyes. And what was right was to kill and be killed. The most intense feeling and the highest available orgasms to humans.
Hellenne descended into demented decadence. Chaos. For anyone not perpetually aroused, it became dangerous meeting a stranger on the street. Heck, it was also dangerous with people you're familiar with. The only way to guarantee safety is if you are permanently sexed yourself. Which was a procedure most opted for. Hellenne became a homicidal suicide continent.
“Eventually I'm gonna pull the plug.”
Nyaamah, mistress seductress, had her hands full. As high priestess and sorceress of Azazel, the men of Hellenne came for her and her temple prostitutes. They demanded to be whipped, castrated or emasculated. She gelded them; but others wanted to rape her, and so she scourged and flayed their skins instead. Till they backed off, till they lost their dicks; then they begged to die.
But there were too many. She was tired, her hands sore from all that lashing motion. Sooner or later, one of those damned males would get close enough to grab her. And she wouldn't have the strength to fend him off. The horde would fall on her, ravish and tear her to pieces. They would run off and keep as a souvenir a piece of her flesh dipped in fragrant after-pussy-linger, which was the fate of all her gals.
But Yuo didn't allow that to happen to Nyaamah. For some reason, our three heroes didn't buy into the lust potion. Something about being ever erect didn't sit comfortable in their minds. Perhaps for commander Yuo, seeing his resurrected friend Iesu as a rabid fucker was just unappealing. Yes the Retarii and everyone else in the sausage party seemed extremely happy, but they were for certain no longer human. And for one like Yuo who carries the hefty cumbersome burden of guilt, regret and trauma, being homosapien was of utmost importance. He knew atonement for his sins were no longer in the cards, and a face off with mad Iesu was forebodingly real. As for Nyaamah, who is most familiar with Azazel's antics, she is sure the old Scapegoat will not allow what's happening to culminate on a positive note. Human suffering is trivial for him in his warp logic of love, joy and happiness. For Noah, the Blackstar warned him not to stay hard, though becoming hard was comically easy for his youthful biology.
The red-eyed, perpetual lust oriented zombie crowd pushed Yuo, Nyaamah and Noah into the dungeons of the Northern Hells. There was nowhere they could go, nowhere to escape; they were mostly on the backfoot. Any window of opportunity was immediately blocked by maniacs. In the dungeon Mr. Gun added to his son's post traumatic stress disorder. Senior, bug-eyed, snorting and unzipped, tried to violate Junior's ass. He was going on and on in rage about how Yuo, as a newborn and toddler, had stolen his milk from his wife. Yuo's mother! Not just milk, but affection, and how even as her regal husband, he was forced to sleep on the couch all those nursing years. Yuo was their only child. Mr. Gun could never get Mrs. Gun in the mood again. So, not being the cheating type, he was very much acquainted with the palm of his hand.
Back at the present, Mr. Gun’s gun is inches away from Yuo’s anus. The commander is held down by soldiers of Gun House. Suddenly, there was a whizz as air is sliced, and Mr. Gun’s deranged expression is on the ground staring at his son. His headless body ejaculated and fell backward. In his final moments he soiled Yuo’s rectum as the commander felt a squirt entering and clambering up his innards. Imagine, all the chances for a homosexual revelry as a gladiator and his first experience was with his crazy old man in his dying second. Yuo looked up; Nyaamah held a scimitar tight, reddened by the ancestral blood of the commander's assailant.
But now, it's over. They're trapped in a corner. Then a shout silenced and immobilized the agitated crowd. Iesu shoved his way to the front. All nine inches of his gorgeous beauty is showing like a peacock fanned out on display. In fact, he wore a feathery and colorful peafowl cock-ring that made his genitalia look as though they were wriggling to attract a mate.
“I want a rematch!” He shouted at Yuo. “Lock them up,” he followed up that sentence. “No one to touch them but me!”
In the deep corner of the cage they were thrown in was a wounded beast with one arm and half his shoulder bitten off. In his pulverized and mutilated condition, Tubal-Cain was not a threat. The single arm was practically motionless, half hanging off its sinews and almost dead in the nerves. The big man sat in the shadows, and when he found out Noah stopped the fight with the velociraptors, he, unexpectedly, thanked the boy.
“Thank you,” Tubal-Cain said, “thank you for not letting me die in the arena as a mortified spectacle to be jeered at by thousands.”
Noah was silent.
“Now do me a favour and give me a dignified death.”
The teenager looked at his mother, then to her lover. But more than anything else, he stared within, at his heart where the Blackstar dwelt.
“No fear,” Tubal-Cain encouraged. “Be brave.”
Without a word, Noah stepped behind the slackened giant to snap his neck. It was surprisingly easy. Noah saw Tubal-Cain's spirit rise toward the Transcendent Intelligence and his soul descend to Sakti and Ari. He had a gut feeling that the giant would one day reincarnate. Then he turned to the adults and said, “Trust me.”
AI generated art prompted by author
Any similarities to persons and events are coincidental. Use of names of public figures, places and events are purely fictional and are not representative of them.