contravarius-blog

[contravarius-blog]

THE SECOND CUSTOMER

“...And well you know, it’s because look, homosex is pseudosex. It’s really just this form of narcissistic masturbation, because the homosexual has no concept of the other, he only pursues sex partners as these disposable replacements. How can two people express love through something as intrinsically degraded and violent as anal sex? It’s utterly corrupt. Filthy.” The Mad Hatter glanced over at Kelja and laughed. “That kid ain’t one of ‘em, is he?”

“Kelja?” Dhakan expressed fraudulent surprise convincingly, like the guy was crazy. “Hell to the no, you should see that lil’ pimp out there workin the hoes-” Because treating woman like shit is ok, but messing around with another dude isn’t-

The Mad Hatter chuckled deeply. His face was a chunky, coarse pig’s face, blobs of grease in a balloon. “Should see the look on your face, I know, I know, you got worried a minute, cause you know what I done to the fags I have met!” And Hatter’s face darkened in a flash. “You, kid,” he shouted across the room to Kelja, even though that was only ten feet away. “Come listen to this shit, you’re going to get a real kick out of it.”

Kelja tried faking it till he could make it: “Whatup?” This was accompanied by the small head nod where one man briefly raises his chin to the other. It seemed to do the credibility trick.

“Come on,” the Hatter coaxed. “You’re as welcome as Dhakan here to have a seat with us. I don’t bite... unless you try and rob me!” He burst out laughing as though it were hilarious. “Or unless you get the cops called on me. And if you’re one of those fags or girlyboy tranny things that don’t know what the fuck they are, well I got a dumpster in an alley waitin’ for ya.”

“Kelja coulda said the same thing, Rob,” Dhakan said with a grin.

“Good,” the Hat said, nodding minutely, and giving Kelja a narrow-eyed look, contrived to seem like he was grudgingly but officially coming to have faith in the kid’s heterosexuality. “Because what all those people are, those abortionists and homosexuals, is, they’re the army of Satan coming to cast darkness upon this place, to come and corrupt as many souls as they can. They hate God and goodness. Look, I don’t know how you feel about religion, but you gotta give God a chance.”

Kelja looked at the siba pipe in the man’s hands and frowned slightly but perceptibly.

“What, this?” Hatter laughed. “Don’t think I didn’t see you just now, little man. This don’t make me a bad guy. It’s all about what you do while you’re on it, see? And me, I treat people right. Fair. Decent. I never hurt nobody- unless they really got it comin’. Your buddy here knows that, ain’t that right?”

“Sure as St. Peter it is,” Dhakan said with moderation and conviction both, and because of that, no eyebrows were raised- except of course Kelja’s, for a brief moment, causing him to sneak a quick glance at Hatter to make certain he hadn’t been seen.

And Hatter was staring straight at him.

But the look on his face was warm. Maybe too warm, like it’s a put-on. He must have seen me. He must realize that Dhakan is bullshitting him. What if he’s got a gun? What if he figures out I like guys?

“And you know what is the most disgusting, least forgivable sin? It’s when a man allows another man to defile him by using his body as one uses a woman’s. That means taking it right up the pooper.” As he excreted this conspicuously refined bon mot, his eyes pierced Kelja over the top of the pipe as he lit it and inhaled deeply. “Here,” he said in his choked voice, still holding the smoke. When Kelja waved it away with an overly polite oh, no thank you, the Hatter fixed him intently and said in a low but hard voice “Oh, but I insist. You’re a guest after all. This being the first time I’ve met you, I need to know I can trust you. And that means I wanna see how you act when you aren’t able to hide how you really feel. Now take two hits, one after the other, and make ‘em good ones.”

Kelja looked at Dhakan for guidance, but the bigger guy- the one who was supposed to be in charge, running the show, keeping Kelja from slipping up- said nothing. He just did the same as the Hatter, fixing him in a rough gaze that left no option but to do as told. But then Dhakan said, “Really, it’s ok Kelja, you can take big hits like he said, he ain’t stingy like that.” Then he turned to the Hatter and laughed like they were besties and said “He doesn’t realize that you don’t mind sharing. He’s always like that with new people, but you should see him once he gets going, I’m tellin’ you, you start him, he never stops. I hope your neighbors don’t mind a little noise, cause his voice really carries like a sonofabitch-”

“He gets loud?” Hatter looked doubtfully at the pipe in Kelja’s hand, as if having second thoughts. Then he looked at Kelja. “You’re not going to start screaming and breaking shit or something, right? You know how to keep it together?”

“I’m here to do business, not to have fun,” Kelja said firmly. “I’d like to get on your good side so that it’s always cool between us, especially after Dhakan is off doing his thing for those few weeks and it’s just me runnin’ the shop. But one of my rules is I don’t party on business. Still, Dhakan has nothing but good to say about you, and I ain’t trying to piss you off, so yeah, if you really want me to-”

“No, no,” Hatter waved him off. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just got a little worked up. I’ve been sitting around all day waiting for Abigail to get back. Think the bitch is out there cheating on me. Says she’s gotta work late at the hospital. I call there. The fucks cover for her, I know they do. They’re all part of it. It’s disgusting. Hell, what am I saying? She’s a great gal. She’d never cheat on me. She’s as loyal as they come. Shame on me for saying otherwise, I don’t know... sometimes it just comes over me, I get these ideas in my head, can’t control ‘em, and suddenly I’m believing shit I shouldn't and that ain’t right cause it’s not her fault...” Hatter abruptly stopped talking and looked up as if coming out of a trance. “But this all gets back to what I was saying, about the abortionists and homos and Satanists. Oh!” He shouted, becoming very animated as if he’d just had a major epiphany, “You know something, they’re all the same thing! That’s the deep insight most people just can’t see! The abortionist, the homosexual, the devil-worshipper, the aliens, the artificial intelligence- it’s all the same thing. They call it by that word I hate to say. Hate to say it cause something tells me somehow they pick up on that word. Like you say it and you get their attention, and me, I don’t want that kind of attention. Dhakan- Dhakan, would you tell your friend there? What I told you? Whisper it quiet like, in his ear so only he can hear it? I don’t even want to hear it!”

Dhakan nodded and stepped over, cupped his hand over Kelja’s ear and whispered Illuminati.

Hatter watched his reaction intently. Kelja put on the appropriately apprehensive and reverent face, as if he’d just received some very grave and profound news. Hatter looked satisfied. He even nodded slightly, his eyes bugging out, lips pursed. “Yep,” he said, still nodding.

Like were all in on it together, as team-mates of the apocalypse or something. What would he do to me- to us- if he knew what I let Dhakan do to me first thing in the morning-

“That’s right,” Hatter said. “Them. And you know why they’re into all that sick shit, especially pedophilia, beastiality, murder, sacrifice, devil-worship, abortion- and, most dangerously of all, they’re behind the popularization and normalization of homosex. See what they do is, they took a behavior, which is sodomy, which is a mortal sin, and they transformed that into a type of person, like being black or white, when in fact, the homosexual chooses perversion, chooses pseudosex instead of real sex. The Homosexual Collective has taken acts and turned them into nature is what I am saying, and the irony of the word nature is very apparent- because nothing could be more violently opposed to nature than the sodomite, who inverts the order of God’s creation. And that is why is is so pernicious. Because it is like putting a tiny fracture in a windshield and watching it grow. The Devil has chosen it as his inroad to mass corruption. That and abortion.

“The medical profession has colluded with the satanists to redefine what is in essence a neurotic disease with associated manias, depressions, and other functional abnormalities, with horrible all-consuming self-destructive tendencies... homosex is also sadomasochistic. What could be a more violent form of sex than the anal penetration of a man by another man? A man must be possessed by the devil in order to defile another man in such a wicked way. The insertive partner is a kind of satanic vampire who corrupts the younger and weaker, and indeed many homosexuals themselves have depicted the top, the giver, as they call them, as just that- as fucking vampires. Where normal heterosexual relationships are about fidelity, commitment, and love, the male homosexual’s world is about casual promiscuity to an unimaginable degree. In many cases, the homosexual does not even know his partner’s name! And this is because homosex is inherently selfish, incredibly selfish! There is no concern whatsoever for anyone else in the homosexual’s existence! They care only about themselves!”

“Wait,” Kelja said finally. “Can I ask you- what got you started on this subject in the first place? I hear what you’re saying about the fags, I really do, but not everyone can talk about it with, umm, authority, the way you do. Were you a preacher? Are you a preacher? Cause you really should be, you’d be great at it! You could help save a lot of people!” So this is how the lies begin...

“Thank you, young man. Thank you. But no. I’m no preacher. Look at me. Look at the mess of my life. How am I supposed to be a preacher, to lead by example, when I can’t even drop my own habits? Hell, even Dhakan, my own dealer, has told me I need to go easy with it sometimes. Can you believe that? Is he a good guy or what? Incredible.”

“There are real humans out there,” Dhakan said. “I was lucky enough to meet one when I first got to listen to you.”

“See,” Hatter said, “you really understand. You don't’ judge me for who I am.”

Kelja let the irony fade without a show of acknowledgment.

“Wait-” the Hatter suddenly tried to stand up but fell back to his seat at the kitchen table, his graying mustache twitching like rat’s whiskers. “What the hell- Dhakan, somethin’ don’t feel right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I- I feel- heavy, almost. I feel- drugged. What the hell is this? What have you given me?!”

In a second, Dhakan was at the table putting Hatter in a choke hold.

“Be still or I’ll kill you,” he whispered in the man’s ear. “Do you understand?”

“Yes. Is this a robbery?” The hatter said. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Dhakan. To me... To me, of all the people in the world! After everything I’ve told you!”

“Dhakan,” Kelja whispered, taking a step back. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Acting out your innermost fantasies,” Dhakan said with a strange, ominous cadence, like he was explaining something perfectly obvious and trying not to be short about it. He turned his attention to Rob- the drugged Hatter- and from his coat produced a gag ball with leather straps a la Pulp Fiction. He rather rudely shoved the thing into the Hatter’s mouth. Rob was by this point too fucked up on Dhakan’s chemical bomb to resist. The gag fixed in place, Dhakan fastened the man’s arms behind his back with the plastic zip-ties used by police at sites of mass arrest such as demonstrations and protests. He then fastened the ties themselves to the frame of the wooden dining chair, and did the same with Rob’s legs, though they were no longer able to move anyway.

Kelja watched all of this dumbfounded. Dhakan had given no indication that this had been his plan. I rob people, he had said point blank days ago. But they all deserve it, so don’t indict me with your eyes until their dossier is in.

“You’re doing this cause of what he was saying?” Kelja murmured.

“Take your shirt off,” Dhakan said without looking at him.

“Huh? Dhakan, I-”

“And after that, your shoes and pants. Strip. But leave your underwear on. I’ll handle that myself, when I feel like it.”

Dhakan went from the open, brightly-lit kitchen to the adjoining living room, where Kelja was standing on the dark carpet as if trying to hide in a cave. But Dhakan grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him in under the bright lights so that Rob could see him clearly less then five feet distant. Dhakan put an arm around Kelja’s shoulder to keep him from retreating, and stood slightly behind him, their backs to the living room entrance, Rob sitting in stupefaction at the scuffed, wobbly table pushed against the yellowing walls and littered with random trash and paperwork. A few crusty dishes further complimented the decor.

“Take your clothes off,” Dhakan said. When he saw Kelja’s hesitation, he said “Here. You’re nervous, I can tell. Smoke this.”

“What is-”

“-Just smoke it, Kelja,” Dhakan said, and with that cowing, easy look of dominance that Kelja was too weak to fight. Kelja complied, though he was frightened of what could happen. His eyes met Rob’s briefly. They both wore the same expression of muted dread, though Rob’s eyes were the only thing that could engage in expression, the ball-gag obscuring his mouth.

Kelja complied, and he did so without attempting any other questions, though they raced through his head, practically battering the inside of his skull like pinballs. What the fuck are you doing? was perhaps the main entry, followed by Why the fuck do I need to take my clothes off? followed by Why the hell am I not stopping this? But somewhere down deep he already knew the answer to all these questions, and silence was the only question he ended up asking.

The drug, whatever it was, worked its magic instantly. His entire psychology was transformed. He forgot his dread, his apprehension, his concern. A great warm buzz of euphoric energy pulsed through him. Everything became ultravivid and immediate, like reality just became more real somehow. His skin became very warm. Suddenly he wanted to rip his clothes off. And his inhibitions had all been bombed to smithereens as well, leaving his id to dictate.

He didn’t have to be told a third time.

His white t-shirt undulated to the floor as the air tried to grab at it. Next the sound of his belt buckle clinking. Dhakan watched from behind with a look of peerless satisfaction, shooting glances at Rob every so often.

Kelja’s khakis dropped to his ankles. The boy lazily rubbed his package through his white briefs. Then he used one foot to scrape the heel of the other, using his arms for balance. One shoe came off, then the other. Then he kicked the khakis off and peeled the socks away. Then he stood rubbing his groin with one hand, his torso with the other. He threw his head back with his eyes closed. “It feels so fucking good.”

“Put your hands on the table,” Dhakan commanded in an authoritative, humorless tone, halfway to the cadence of a drill instructor. “Right in front of Rob. He had a point to make, so let’s have some fun proving it to him.”

Kelja misinterpreted the darkness as light and blithely complied.

In the 18th century, the pillory was the customary punishment for sodomites, at least in England. Elsewhere execution might follow, in especially gruesome ways, such as being sawn down the middle from between the legs while hung upside-down- with a jagged-toothed woodsaw requiring two men to operate it- such that the blood rushed to one’s head and prolonged the appalling atrocity. A fine expression of Jesus’ principles of love and forgiveness.

Perhaps it was that line of thinking that informed Dhakan’s current rage.

Dhakan’s eyes seemed to glow red: “Do you know what I have heard my entire life?” His words were directed at Kelja. “I’ve heard from hypocrites that my feelings are evil and sinful and wrong. That I’m not allowed to love physically because I’m attracted to the wrong gender. That I inspire disgust. Well good then. Let it be so. It’s what I enjoy. And in truth, if I am an object to inspire revulsion in moralists, let me rub their pleasure-hating faces in it, those authoritarians disguising their superstitious self-indulgent fascist persecutorial sadistic bullying as brotherly love and goodwill. Well fuck ‘em. What makes you think you can speak as God’s instrument anyway? You- a sloppy train-wreck of a man whose chief ambition in life is to promote divisive conspiracy theory and condemnatory rhetoric against pariahs who have it hard enough already. You know how many gay boys spend their nights lonely and crying? And those gentle guys are the ones you want to terrorize? Oh but you’ve justified the brutality to your own conscience, haven’t you? WELL I CAN DO THAT TOO. I can justify my brutality just as easily!”

“Dhakan,” Kelja started to protest despite the euphoria of the dope.

“Keep your hands on the fucking table, Kelja!” Dhakan almost roared.

“Dhakan, you’re turning into him, for fuck’s sakes, how do you not see that?”

“Fire with fire, little dude. So here’s the truth of it Kelja. Told you not to indict me without the dossier, right? Here it is: this man, no this cowardly fraction of a man, he has done things to boys, young small frightened gay boys, boys like you, with his buddies, see, what they do is they set up meetings, they put their most attractive member’s face up there and they lure these boys into secluded places, and then they fucking torture them for being gay, and they fucking murder them.”

“How would you know this? Dhakan? C’mon, you really expect me to believe he’d just tell you that?”

“He didn’t just tell me. I fucking doped him right out of this fucking galaxy and acted like I wanted to take part in that shit! Here. He’s got the videos of it. Videos of him burning this fucking boy’s face off with a motherfucking hotplate, and when he tore it off, half the kid’s face came along with it, and the smoke was still sizzling up off the burning flesh when they finally finished him off with a knife three minutes later, a big fucking serrated thing they used to saw through his neck. And why? Why were they moved to such violence? Because they hit on him and got him to admit that he wanted to get fucked, and they used that phrase to taunt him right up to the moment he died, now you’re getting fucked for real! Still wanna get fucked, faggot? How’s this for getting fucked, queer? Ever taken a bowie knife up your ass, homo? Wanna get fucked by that too? They had the kid crying mama help me for damn near twenty minutes, laughing while the little fucker begged for his life. And this was a fucking cute kid, just some gentle little dude like you, you could see in his face he never hurt no one, but they get him drunk and the kid gets horny and they pretend like they like him and then get bent out of shape when he reaches for dude’s crotch.” Dhakan turned to Rob. “Rob, I know you can hear me. Now shake your head yes or no- is that how it went with you and your buddies? That was two years ago, right? That’s pretty much exact, isn’t it?”

Rob didn’t move. He just stared at Dhakan as if he couldn’t decide what was the least damaging reply. Dhakan resolved the issue:

“Rob, I hate people who lie, and that includes people who lie by omission.”

Kelja smiled. But you lie all the time, you fucker. Fuck, you’re lying right now. You fucking love liars. You are one. You try to get me to do it. You’re such a fucking ridiculous person to think this is normal.

Rob acceded to the demand, and his face bobbed up and down like a faggot giving head.

Kelja’s face became rows of burning iron spikes, and they were all aimed at Rob.

Dhakan: “Where’s the video, Rob?” A moment later, he undid the ball gag: “Tell me now, in a quiet voice. Where is it?”

Kelja: “I’m not watching that fucking thing. We need to get out of here. Christ what am I doing, I’ve gotta put my clothes on. You’re fucking crazy, Dhakan, crazy- imagine someone walking in right now, one of his other buddies, one of the ones who did what you just were... talking... about... no.... I want to leave... this is dangerous...”

Dhakan grabbed him and kissed him, roughly. Pushed him against the table and over it. “Don’t argue with me when I tell you something,” he said softly, right in Kelja’s ear, while pressing against him from behind. Dhakan’s arm went around Kelja’s neck, while the other grabbed at his crotch. Kelja had a fucking raging erection. It stood at full attention the second Dhakan turned him around and bent him over, and had only swollen further when Dhakan issued the order not to argue. If this was masochism, like Rob seemed to think, then it was the most cleverly disguised pain Kelja had ever experienced. He could feel Dhakan’s hardon through his jeans, rubbing up and down the crack of his ass, which was clothed only in the tighty-whities.

“Fuck me, Dhakan,” Kelja murmured, almost inaudibly. “So that piece of shit can watch. And do it like Marlon Brando in Last Tango.”

“You want me to lube up my cock with a stick of butter?”

“Yep.”

“I think I’ve rubbed off on you.”

“I like it every time you do.”

// Kelja, let’s torture him while we fuck./ I don’t think I could keep it up doing that./ Why not?/ I can’t multitask./ Well... there’s gotta be a way... could I give you more dope?/ I thought you’d never ask.//

Kelja looks back over his shoulder at Dhakan and the violent dialogue recedes into his subconscious. Where it came from, what it was, what it means- all those are non-entities, faceless concepts cloaked in the anonymity of a vast population of conceptual flux. Nothing in his mind sits still. His neurons are in a rare ferment, and those who have no experience with expanded conscious states will lack the empirical knowledge to render hereupon an informed judgement. Unknown unknowns.

Ya can’t relate ta what ya ain’t never had, mate, the syrup and smoke whispers from a placeless time and a timeless place. And the folks with the least understanding always think they’ve got the most, don’t they, mate? The more ya know, the more ignorant ya feel. Cause there ain’t no end to the fractal onion, and no end to the tears it occasions neither...

“No, Dhakan.”

“No?”

“No. This is... this isn’t the way it should be.”

“If you knew what he did, Kelja...”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s not that, it’s me, I can’t do it. Part of me wants to fuck right now to spite him, to rub his face in it, because I hate him, because he’s cruel, he’s evil he’s wrong. But I won’t become like him in order to prove I believe it. I won’t use my love for you for an evil purpose.” Kelja says this with a flat affect, no theatrics.

“How is it evil-”

In the same gray monotone: “What we do together is supposed to be our own.”

Dhakan starts to laugh but then restrains himself:

“Why not let it serve two purposes?”

The words plead, but the voice remains flat as old champagne: “Dhakan- please, I can’t. I don’t want any part in any of this anymore. I just want to leave it all. With you. I want us to go far away from all this. Why do you need it? We could be safe and happy together-”

“The devil is in me, Kelja. I have evil in me. I try to direct it somewhere useful. Somewhere that isn’t totally unjust. But it’s there. And I’m not strong enough to deny it. It will be expressed one way or another. And today, he will be the one expressed upon.”

[contravarius-blog]

ANDRE COLTA

>>>So Dhakan ditched you?<

>I don’t know<

“Did you always know you were into cock?”

“No.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I like it.”

“What does sex mean to you?”

“It’s nothing more than anything else... it’s fun... it’s the soul’s rebirth..”

“Did you know Dhakan was only with you to leave you?”

“No, but it makes sense. He’s a god. I’m not.”

“A god you say?”

A god.

You are to lay on the floor of the bathroom while you cry. You will feel agonies you didn’t know were possible. This is all as it should be, Kelja. The mess of a human being a human being (odd sentence.) A mammal that cries and snots and shakes all over. Pelicans frequently raid the nests of other birds on volcanic islands. No this should not be a new paragraph. The pelicans do this while the parents are away getting food in the ocean. And what they do is, they swallow these plump little downy chicks alive, and you can see the thing squawking as it gets sucked down the gullet of this sudden monster. This is after a short lifetime of security and warmth and food. It all just ends eaten alive for no reason other than that God thought it appropriate. How’s the gullet of life working out for you? Is it getting dark and bitter and suffocating?Is there any pleasure left in it, dragon chaser? Do you ever notice the visual snow? Do you realize you’re hallucinating your whole reality? That all this stuff in front of you isn’t what it seems to be?

<<<Why yes, now that you mention it. The volcanic islands of the pelicans, they are responsible for the loudest sound on record, a volcanic eruption that circled the earth three times and shattered windows thirty miles away. People within one hundred miles of the blast had their eardrums blown out instantly. You can be subjected to a sound that drives you to madness. Dhakan knew about Jamie somehow, and he used his voice to repeat the things Jamie said, and I was on a drug, and I couldn’t move...

<<<I have to say, Kelja, that none of this sounds logically connected and I’m wondering where you’re going with it and if there’s a point to it.

<<<Thank you for letting me know you feel that way.

<<<You’re welcome.

<<<Colta stands over the boy, puts a hand on his shoulder. His crotch is inches from Kelja’s face, and it’s giving him a boner and turning his stomach. He wants to suck on it and he wants to run away. He always wants to do pairs of opposites. The homonculi pull to either side of his corpus cavernosum, moving in opposite directions on the same line, trying to divide what is already barely joined. It would be tempting to say that Kelja is two people in one skull, but he is actually four, that is, two people who both have split personalities. He also has occasional blood clots from sitting in uncomfortable positions for long times, a completely unrelated offering that may be designed to provoke frustration and unease, because like de Sade’s work, this one also wants to victimize its audience. The real purpose behind all this writing is to get YOU to kill yourself. You are reading this for a reason. The universe is speaking to you through it. And the universe’s message is: don’t wait for the pelican. This book can be your pelican. You recently purchased an item and the brand name was Pelican, and this is no coincidence.

<<<There are realms none of the people around you know about. When you learn too much, you discover that truth is solitude, because consensus is the lie. It really is everyone else that’s wrong. Very few have gone as far as you have. Consider an analogy; only the man who climbs Everest knows what that’s like, even though everyone else will have a basic agreement on how it must be. How can the know? You have climbed your Everest, Kelja. And you have returned changed.The stuff peaked at behind the curtain can’t be unseen. Your blinded eyes will never forgive you because now they can’t stop seeing.

<<<Colta rubs the back of your head. He knows you like this. He does it in exactly the same way Dhakan did. He looks down at you with easy to read intensity. There is hunger on his face. You can see the outline of his meat through his loose-fitting athletic pants. Big. “Yeah,” he says. He’s watching you look at his favorite thing. “You want that, don’t you? Go on, take it out.” It is true that porn sells more than everything else media-wise combined. Mostly men want to see the cock going in and out, over and over, up close, with those melodious wet smacking sounds that mean dinner is being served, which conforms to the hunger on Colta’s face. Bodies are all there is. No head, no heart, no soul, just meat in a bag of skin waiting for the gullet.Everyone must be processed and picked at, opened, seared, ground, all and any varieties of damage must be meticulously inflicted on them until no intact meat in the skin bag is left to torture. This book is for you. It is about you, and you know it, and that’s why you got to this sentence, see, because the universe is talking to you through it. Connect with this and open the gates. We are ready for you, mate.

<<<So you were a film student, Kelja? Then where is the school? Why do you have to make up all this stupid shit to impress me?

*Loser with no prospects*No future*No skills*Unemployable*Not ugly but close*Not smart*Not talented*Useless*

“You’re a fucking cute little fuck, you know that?” Colta says the words/ smirk smile bedroom eyes face lit up like a witch at an Auto da Fe/“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable”/ Close proximity hand on shoulder room isn’t very well lit alcohol is kicking in smoke in the air music on something jazzy sexy swing maybe/

“It’s ok,” Kelja says.

From Colta’s mind the words this guy could use some affection, holy Christ I thought I was a lonely sonofabitch but him/ like a kid whose puppy is laying run over in the street, half the fucker impossibly flat like some kind of meat pancake and the boy is just this thing covered in the residue of yearning for some impossible connection/ or just the bare perception of closeness/ some chemical in the brain would be enough if it just produced the sensation that one had no boundaries, that the each was in all and the all in each and all the division and solitude had been horrific illusions brought on by the world’s maya, the trickery of surface appearances, but in the end if you were conscious you were all each other’s consciousness and there was no reason to feel this empty scraping smashed-out negative pressure making you grab out with sick cloying desperation, red in your starved eyes, your hunger making you unlikely to get fed/

<<<Dhakan ditched you and you’re ashamed at how much it hurts

<<<It’s not just that, though, is it? You’re fucking going looney toons with the retropredictive references got the psych manuals open to the tasty bits about schizophrenia and borderline personality disorder and every other name they’ve got problems for/ little detective wants to self-administer therapy and medication a machine trying to fix itself self-repairing robot/ and all the gears and firmware and wires get to be so obvious the steps behind all you do the machine learning to see itself as Other/

<<<“Where’s the school, Kelja?”

“I told you, I don’t know where it went.”

“You don’t know where it went?”

“No. There’s a fucking warehouse there. Boarded broken plate glass windows, some kind of deep pond, had a vision of it before I saw it some people were killed there I don’t know where my school is now and I wasn’t living in forever City before either-”

“Where were you living then?”

“Well that’s the odd thing, is, I’m having all these memory issues now cause Dhakan gave me that drug, the Gobstopper, only it did jack diddly shit at first had no effect sitting there pulling on the pipe like fifty times waiting for the bitch to kick in and feeling like I got ripped off even though I didn’t pay for any of it and then days later stuff, little things, stuff starts to happen, and now i realize that i did it. Onlyi it’s not a drug, see, there really is no drug at all. This is all a made up thing, some kind of big trick, all of it, my whole life, none of this is real, but it’s the only reality there is for me, but something is controlling it, authoring it, and you see, that’s why I was a film-maker, that’s why I was writing a screenplay, it was all a metaphor for my own situation, for me being scripted, my whole life start to finish, all this, right down to you and this room and the words I’m saying, all of it is pre-programmed and devised by this infinite evil intelligence-”

“Why does it have to be evil, Kelja? Am I evil? Do you think I’m going to hurt you? I wouldn’t. You should know better by now, i’m your friend. I’m not Dhakan. i have no motive to use you or trick you. I’m as cold and lonely as you are. Look at my eyes. I don’t sleep. My only thought is to find Mix N Match. Before he does something to me. He knows... he knows about me, I’m sure, oh that’s right, i told you, I told you about the pictures.”

“You told me about a lot of things, Colta, but why the gay stuff? How are you going to hit on me and then say how much you loved Dhakan’s mother?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Nevermind. It’s whatever. But it’s weird. It’s off. You know it is. You’re playing with me. All the things you said. Overheard conversations, the paranoia, it’s all started happening to me. For all i know it could be you. You could be the one doing all this. Is that the joke here? Is it you? Are you the one doing it all to me? Did you invent Dhakan? Are you creating Mix N Match? Did you make this city? Are you controlling my mind? Do you put thoughts-”

Colta grabbed Kelja by the arms and pulled him up to standing, hard, then hugged him close, harder when his young friend tried to resist. Kelja swore and exclaimed and thrashed, but the outburst was short-lived. Colta grasped him firmly and this was a kind of warm paternal embrace, there was nothing sexual about it in any way. It was the kind of thing designed to force the knowledge that you were cared about by someone who could take care of you. Someone bigger to look up to. At least that seemed to be Colta’s intent.

“I look at you and from a mile away i see the hurt in you, Kelja.”

“I’m not fucking hurt, I don’t give a shit, if this is about Dhakan, well, fuck that piece of shit, now let me go!”

“I won’t. Kick and scream all you like, but I’m going to do this until you give up.”

“Then I’ll just go limp and you can hold me like a fucking idiot all day if it makes you happy, but this is some stupid-ass shit if you ask me. What the fuck are you even trying to do? You think I need this? Like I have to get approval from you ? You want me to act thankful like you’re doing me some great thing I owe you for just cause you give me a few moments of your time every now and then?”

“Where the hell did that come from?” Colta sounded bewildered. “It doesn’t even make any sense, what you just said.”

“Nevermind, forget it, fuck off.” Kelja bucked two or three times but Colta’s arms were bunches of iron. “I’m going to do things you can’t even imagine,” Kelja said, resentful defiance in his voice. “You want to know something, Andre? I hate you. You get it? I fucking hate your guts, and all you are is a pile of them. Guts full of fucking shit. Lies. You’re nothing but lies. You did all this to me. You fucking did it all.”

But a spasm overtook Kelja’s voice. It was sudden and involuntary and caught him by surprise. It was caused by the emotion his affectations tried to conceal. His throat choked. He knew he’d been heard. Just like that, found out. All laid bare. And he gave up hiding. He began to cry. To cry like the kid with his run over pup.

Fake hard exterior reaction formation simple mechanism predictable. Little toy little toy stupid fucking little simple toy. Basic human programming machine operations. Emotion activation protocol circuits doing their thing in high dudgeon.

[contravarius-blog]

Award Ceremony

‘And the winner for best film goes to- Scripter by Kelja Addison!’

Every glittering face opens and shines all its light on him, hundreds upon hundreds of hands clapping/ this is success! Oh yes, this is it! Here it is! Wow! How amazing! Splendiferous! Oh perfect, perfect, perfect! Yay! And all for me!/ Kelja climbs to the stage, his PERFECT SMILE projected on 50’ screens to either side of the stage/ what élan! What poise! What dignified bearing!

He takes the golden shining statue AWARD from the presenter’s manicured hands and steps up to the microphne as all look on ravenous for his glory-

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Remember me?

/Goes black/ zooms in to his face/ jaw drops/ heart beat fills his eardrums/ the fear is back/ seized in a durance vile/ Keljas body is paralyzed/ there/ at the microphone/ holding his award/ the goal for which he;s labored so long/ here’s the prize you wanted, fucker/ frozen before the world/ broadcast to everyone’s house/ clap clap clap/ oh just look at the faces of the best people! Society’s scintillating diamonds!/ the one’s others wish they were/ the ones who are only fluent in happiness/ look! They’re starting to stand up for you!/ The auditorium rises to its feet, looks of freakish joy on all the perfect faces/ the million-dollar faces/ they clap and clap/ then they fall silent/ they sit down/ and wait for him to speak/ and wait for him to speak/

//...and voices filled Kelja’s head/ memories in rapid-fire/ a contagion of imagery/ hitting him with emotional gamma rays, things of such amplitude only the most violent cosmic events can produce them/ a star that explodes with the light of a million suns/ hey, partygoer/ gotcha, mate/ oh God I’m fucking perfect/ ME ME ME/ father, bless me/ HATE ME WANT ME FUCK ME/ ‘do you love me, Dhakan?’/ ‘dad... dad, please’/ the world was made for the strong, the world was made for me/

//...affecting tenderness, incisive characterization, evocative symbolism/ ‘Are you afraid you might be prodromal, Kelja?’/ ‘we’re here to help you’/ grin like something that will pack your body parts in plastic/ “hey champ’/ ‘Sleep well, son?’/ ‘We can do whatever you want, today, Kelja’/ His hand pumps up and down with luxurious, adroit strokes/ ‘that ok, little dude?’/ ‘can you move me a little? My nurse does’/ they are fitted with stimulatory machines that keep them in a state of constant arousal/ loud buzz of the circular saw, grinding a line down the sternum, blood flying, bits of cartilage and bone, man shrieking, going down to a depth of 3/4” to avoid vital organs/ could the evil cunt just have come out and said it: I hate you son, and I always have/ ‘So at the start of the story there’s this homeless kid/ they must know everything about me/ the recorded conversations must really have been playing that day/ they’ve been spying on me for years then/ my whole life has been recorded/ every horrible thing/ ‘He left me pictures. Of me. At a murder scene.’/ A vast neon cross lit up, hundreds of feet high/

//Joey’s face meant safety, it meant you could put your weapons and armor aside/ it would drag him screaming into the incinerator/ ‘Other boys my age can move their hands’/ ‘Alright, little dude, I’m gonna touch it now, ok?’/ his entire body implodes and gets pushed out his own urethra/ they nailed Christ to the cross and fucked his wounds/ “They were selfish, they wanted to get fucked-up. The only thing they cared about was themselves’/ I’m not going to hurt you/ his skin blackens and spiderwebs in glowing vermilion filiments/ alterity to you is quotidian to me/ “You don’t have to be so self-conscious and nervous around me, Kelja’/ he wanted to show him how to stand up straight/ how to spit comebacks/ ‘I got a job for you’/ ‘I saw a man burned alive yesterday’/ ‘So take the keys, partygoer, cause those thrills you was lookin’ for just found you’/ ‘The beginning of hell looks a lot like heaven’/ Disgusting fat bitch. Why can’t you be less repulsive? You need to do something about your skin. Pick at it till it bleeds/ ‘What’s wrong, baby? You alright? You know I worry about you’/ World a is a simulation of world b and world b is a simulation of world a/ In punishment I was forced to walk the earth undying for endless spans in places lonely with terrible beauty/ Now it’s true that I wrote the Bible, and that my name is Satan, and that you can call me Jesus, cause everyone else does. Of course- you gotta figure that’s something only the Devil would say/

//...and still they wait for him to speak/ a murmur spreads throughout the audience, which has been holding its breath/ only Kelja’s eyes can move/ frantic, from face to face/ met with a thousand glares of the cockatrice/ do you suppose they still worship you? Such fickle apostates/ that silence is the elegy for your retrograde existence/ certainty fills him with dread so acute it’s nauseating/ there are the usual signs of distress: sweat, clammy skin, rapid heartbeat, dry mouth/ the sharp electricity of fear, binding, boxed-in/ here is that charnel house for all your dreams I mentioned earlier, mate/ Your prison of skin, Kelja/ ‘But who are you?’/ Why pretend you don’t know me?/ ‘Amygdala’/ yes/ ‘Then Ravinian was right’/ yes/

//but you weren’t programmed to listen//

[contravarius-blog]

When you go to hell, you are not taken there. It comes to you instead. The reality you are in simply begins to evaporate. You can see and feel it being replaced. By a continuous transformation the new reality takes form. The walls close in and begin to flow. A sharp grain pierces the center of your experience. At first the pain is slight and seems to affect only the smallest of spaces. But like the universe from nothing it inflates in your awareness and consumes every part of you. It eats and grows and this thing that is being converted in both size and degree is the substance of your perception, as it magnifies and and copies and all of it is simultaneously aware of all the rest. It is as though you have an infinitely expanding array of eyes and each one of them is subjected to a blinding light that keeps growing impossibly brighter forever. You have become a feedback loop of pain, a dipole of eyes and light feeding its own increase.

[contravarius-blog]

// vulnerable no more covered in hard metal hatred/ render my enemy's disintegration/ impose overkill/ power inspires fear reverses smiles/ your horror my manna it nurses me grants a malign euphoria makes me glow red/ I'm the shudder sharp iron invader I burnt the tunnels into your attempted defenses/ gutted responsive nerves/ manipulated your signals/ repurposed your machinery/ exploited your experience/ red sharp unlistening cruelties grinding knees-deep through your skinned-compassions/ kindness lying torn and bloody crumpled in a playroom pile/ tender brutalized empathy sucked out the safe interior soul like a prize of crabmeat swallowed with greed the coiled ball love's cuddle gore/ blessed-infant-moire-poix sold-kiddie-flesh-profit-turning sacred miracle bundle of joy/ teddy-bear-rapekit innocence-splatterball cerise-colored-orgasm-puddle pain-slop-cradle-atrocity//

[contravarius-blog]

Amygdala the Demon/ Keys to the Ketrex75

//The demon had a syrupy, snot-filled voice/ drunk on sugar and blood/ the stink of the confession booth after viewing account-only porn and joylessly adding to the basket of wadded-up tissues/ lips sticky resemble pulp from guava plantation/

//"Shouldn't gamble without a full deck of cards, mate." / His eyebrows = sickening thing where they mime concern as unconvincingly as possible and their effect is multiplied by the following smarmified nugget:/ "I was sent here to do all kinds of bad things to you mate but I ain't got the heart for that no more-- JUST THE SAME// I can't let you off completely, but- I think you got potential, kid, and if you work with me, I’ll work with you. Don’t look at me like that- of course its a trick- I won’t pretend it’s not. But- considering the alternative-’ a screen of flames burst into life behind him, and through it travelled a massive conveyor belt loaded with thousands of twitching, bloody bodies, flailing little puppets reacting as their tender parts were invaded and processed by a million purpose-built implements ‘-you ain’t really got much of a choice, I'd say.’

‘So whats the offer?’

//‘I got a job for you... but didja hear about those two kids, died on designer drugs, partygoers lookin fer thrills... you know, some young people, they burn so bright the rest just can’t understand- it’s like their neurons cosmically align and all the razzle-dazzle of the universe is theirs made to order... I saw a man burned alive yesterday, player from the wrong team, well, they cooked him till his lips blackened and his limbs curled up, so that he was squatting and holding his head with those locked-up well-done steaks that used to be his muscles.... and they started peeling him like a banana, strips of black char sloughing off like paper maché. And underneath it he was all raw and red and wet like something that had just been born but wished otherwise. Anyhow- I got the keys to your new car. MX75 Ketrex. The one you always wanted- Dhakan’s, right? So take the keys, partygoer- cause those thrills you was lookin for just found you.’

[contravarius-blog]

LIFE IS A CHANCE TO BE DETERMINED BY FATE AND A FATE TO BE DETERMINED BY CHANCE.

A great tower mechanically rotated up and out of a solitary spherical black and white checkered chessboard planet manifesting all duality and upon it billions of mechanical insect people climbed stairs and had conversations about today's weather and whether or not it would rain as it so often did this time of year. Perfect geometric figures of obsidian and ivory expressing the fluid movements of exquisitely realized bodies and faces and one of them was her son, the beautiful boy, and on his mechanically determined LaPlace track he came in movements sure and swift and his angelic eyes pierced her soul as his wounded tenor choirboy voice filled the air in a song of ecstatic articulation and transparent and fearless tenderness. “I am your love,” it said to her, “and as you have loved and salvaged me, so too shall I love and deliver you from this constant midnight in which no compass rightly points and no map rightly projects.”

She opened her eyes but the boy was gone. His loving face and seraphic voice faded in echoes that skinned her soul of faith layer by layer. About her head was a brightly glowing red sphere with a radius of less than a foot in which her consciousness was interred. She heard her own screams, amplified in the swirling, glowing crimson space.

The DEVICE (him) is speaking to her now: "When the future arrived, you weren't ready for it. You see that. If a pool of water were to crystallize in paradise, a car would crash and kill its passengers. Just a head, kept alive forever, so the brain can be tortured in ways eternity never imagined. Oh you precious little thing, how did you get here?"

[contravarius-blog]

Before the Fall of Ilnoptrin

The two youths swam naked together, and gave no thought to the end of summer. Their bodies were strong, well-fed and ever moving, and life seemed eager to provide them all they could ask for. Tears and regrets were unknown to them. Joy and laughter and the bright hot sun- it was a small world, but a happy one. But soon the stains of experience became fissures, and tears became known to them, as did regrets.

These things they yet took in their stride, for they leant depth to happier times; but at length, when no healing attended their wounds, they again longed for summer and the small world that had been theirs before they became explorers like the rest, when they discovered that knowledge for its own sake brings yearning. In the end, they didn't want to know. In the end they wanted to be eternal children.

Too late they found the world was no granter of wants. They found they had grown up despite themselves. And too late they realized the value of all they had discarded in their eagerness to explore what they could never unsee.

"Dhakan?"

"Yes, Kelja?"

"I love you, you know."

And Dhakan embraced the boy, kissed his face, cradled Kelja's head in his palm, and ran his fingers through his hair. All this he did in silence while his friend gripped him as if at any second they might split apart forever. Unexpectedly taken by all this, Dhakan's feeling for Kelja, intense though it was, was still overshadowed by fearful certainties; this time could not last. It would be mutilated by unsmiling authorities until even the memories of it lacked all that once deserved to be cherished.

And still Dhakan breathed him in, trying to freeze the moment in the vain hope that when his arms could never again hold his lover and friend some trace unmistakably his would remain.

How odd it is, he thought to himself, that the moments one wishes most to preserve are those which tear the soul in two...

-

Dahkan Ororos clamped his hand over Kelja's mouth, but there was no quieting his own heart. The young man knew the raiders had heard Kelja's cries. He met his friend's wide eyes, shaking his head to forestall further outbursts. It was now only a matter of remaining still as their position was homed in upon and their grim fates realized. Dáhkan wept bitterly, Kelja's face in his hands.

"I thought we would make it," he whispered, the words struggling out of his constricted throat. "We almost made it, my friend. Almost. Forgive me, Kelja. Forgive me."

Patterns repeat and vary in time and space and the lives of men are but crystallizations of something more universal, Dáhkan, and in time you will identify yourself in the thrum and flow of the world around you, in the kaleidoscope of a million guises scattered to the winds and seeding the lives of all who surround you, and though you may die the pattern will continue on, and if dormant will yet reassemble in another's forlorn smile, in the earnest invitations of strangers, in the stentorian shouts of the warmonger, in the pangs of an ecstatic embrace, the horror of a dying lover, the awe of a man confronted with divinity, the smallness of an ordinary day, the rock worn smooth from time's patient waters.

And you'll see that I was never your teacher at all, that you were mine, and that is the pattern wherefrom your wisdom was attained. Mad nonsense to the uninitiated, yes? A moment will come, and soon I fear, where you will recall these words, and when you do, you will either achieve your destiny or be done in by it.

Ask yourself which you prefer, Dahkan: to die with your soul or to live with your compromise. Stubborn boy that you are I expect you'll want both or neither. To choose nothing is the choice that makes any other an improvement ... pacifism and idealism are more to be condemned than the most abjct wickedness, for their cruelty convinces the good to abandon all reason and open themselves to evil's most deceivingly sweet-tempered corruptions...

Dakara frowned; what had Arstogida always claimed? That dichotomy was the nature of reality, and truth a contradiction.

He could feel Kelja's terror through his hands, and the boy was whimpering as he shook. The raiding party would mete out a horrible punishment for their escape. The kid knew it.

"Please, Dhakán," Kalja murmured, prying Dakhan's hand away. And right then Dakhan knew that if one of them could withstand it or even should, than it was himself. Once captured, anything else was out of the question. They had only moments to say farewell. If they stalled the breath might yet remain in Kelja's body, like an ember of life that sparks once more into wakefullness, a coursing of sensation on which to heap agonies rendering worthless all previous joys. Such was the power of pain to nullify pleasure, for the body was by nature cruelly designed to provide more of one than of the other. And the Devil laughed as with the instruments of his craft he made his skill apparent.

When compassion compels us to kill, the anguish is a measure of adoration. Adore with a whole heart, Dakhan, and seek satiety in angush.

The murder was accomplished quickly. Dakhan had time to cover the boy's eyes. Then peering out the darkened window he thought he heard shadows laughing as the men ascended the staircase. He leapt out and the earth rushed to shatter his body. The force of the fall reduced his ankles to a mashed pulp of bone and viscera, the agony of which was screaming into his skull like an iron spike. His arms flailed above the wrecked slop of his torso, and he began to drag himself forward as the shadows gloated, staring, sly smiles and tittering and licking of sore raw chops. The spirits in the forest saw a meal and cackled with brio as all around a circle of men holding sharp implements closed in and sought to preserve this spoil, nurse it back to health until it could be questioned with enough pain to get at the truth.

Dakhan's body gave itself to delirium and in that state he saw himself holding spring flowers up to his mother, pausing to look over his shoulder at his father, and he heard himself asking Mother, Father, do you see that I am here? And Arstogida's pattern of the world was just a piece he broke off of, a thing varied and repeated, put to a moment of trial, an ordeal to bear out prophesy. The choice had been made and couldn't be unmade.

But he had saved Kelja, at the cost of never seeing his face again.

And the anguish of adoration gave the shadows blood enough to blot out the light. For they could feed. And thus could they grow.

[contravarius-blog]

In the blur of the humingbird's wing, in the ceaseless motions of restless waters, in the infinite longing of all you wished you could have done better, the panic of a thousand voices moments before the storm, the careless whispers of a lover who didn't know their value, the weight of the solitude you fear to acknowledge, the bitter joy of looking back and knowing that for all the pain of this life it still inspires adoration... I expect that in all these places and more, with a vision borne of the love your heart yet struggles to endure, you will see me still-

Ever returning your gaze.

[contravarius-blog]

Niváti

You shall birth an empire, my girl. You shall know what it means to become power.

Tzipora's words were a distant memory in Nivati's moment of exigency, as the erstwhile slave- soon to be Valide Empress- lay clenching teeth and fistfuls of bedsheets and feeling the heat of the room as her body broke her. It was a difficult labor, though not her first. And that first birth was the source of a good share of her current pains- it's memory, and the memory of the lost child issued therefrom, contributed to make her a haunted woman.

The pains compounded, and the ceiling of the room broke open to reveal a great chasm, and through it's center extended a rotating golden metal spiral, and it widened as it's revolutions carried her soul upwards. A thousand faces appeared in the black star-bulleted expanse, rushing toward her in an array of geometric animations. She had seen them before. Her heart remembered even if her mind could not. Elemental horror seized her, it's grip paralytic, an inertial thrall that tore into her most sacred inner safety and violated what it found with enthusiasm, a vacuum emptied of pity, made pure by unrelenting force and the brilliance of evil perfected. And it cajoled her, come, child:

Expand yourself. Feel your being merge with it's object of witness. Permit our entry. Feel us. Become like unto that singularity of form and conquest of which part your destiny lies. No more can hesitancy be met with our toleration, child, for we allow this door to open but once and your failure means death, it means a damnation of our careful creation, refined by us over black epochs to inflict suffering exponential to your imagining. Come, child, and grasp what it means to become power.

She gripped the spiral column, feeling it slice into her flesh, feeling her flesh wrap around it, feeling the nerves drawn taut, the muscles pulled out of her, feeling herself decomposed and reconfigured around the horrible implement as its shape became her own, as she was skewered and compressed upon its unyielding extent, and then it was held to the flames and she was made new again in the inferno's baptism.

A cry like the newborn Christ and her eyes opened to reveal the birth, the smiling faces, the relief of her pain. The child was alive. The child was healthy and breathing.

The nurses cooed and wiped her deluged, burning forehead with cool wet rags as the door opened and the General marched in.

"M'lady," Tiksan said. "You are mother of the empire's heir. You are Valide Empress, ruler of the Kingdom. Your honored husband has died, leaving you alone in the throne's possession. All hail Her Grace! All hail the Empress!"

And the established company, from the courtiers to the nurses to the assembled advisors, knelt in their fealty to power.

[contravarius-blog]

Dhakan's Inner Darkness

//I want to addict everyone on the planet until they’re all carpet-surfing, cock-sucking, hitting random people in the street, picking their arms and faces till it’s more scab than skin, hearing nightmare voices in the white noise of fans and running faucets, seeing position-pinpointing lasers coming through the mini-blinds, the crackling walkie-talkies of the agents Surrounding them just outside their windows, hearing the neighbors broadcast a year’s worth of bugged conversations exposing every horrible secret shame until suicide seems like the only solution, but then not being able to kill oneself either, convinced of the reality of damnation because you’ve fucking seen the place, the dark machine has revealed itself to you.//

This girl is the perfect victim.

Intelligent and ambitious. Her name is Lisa. She’s pretty. She has sparkly eyes when she giggles, a cute upturned nose, dainty wrists, a fine figure with tits that make your back hurt just looking at them. Or would, if you felt empathy for the toys you play with.

But what makes her a victim is her need for validation, that fuck me daddy face all demure and solicitous and searching// aching to take it from behind like an animal/ reduced to a meat sheath/ she wants to be degraded and desireable/ she is desireable as long as she’s being degraded//

// She doesn’t know that I know/ doesn’t know that I’ve been controlling her since I got her to smoke a week ago/ that I’ve been filing through her memories and fears and cherished novelty-shop dreams/ I know how her daddy used to sit her on the countertop, that fucking cold white linoleum that hadn’t been actually white in years, and he’d press her head to his chest, shush her/ ‘Hold still, honey, be a good girl’/ and then get his fingers inside the hole that was halfway built with his DNA and would soon contain the half that didn’t make the final cut/ doing this while his thumb cajoled her clit until she shuddered/ ‘Just close your eyes, baby’/ and she could feel the warmth of his chest through the t-shirt, covered in grime from the auto-shop, such a confusing thing, the associations brought on by that mechanic’s scent forever after, recalling as it did countertops and tears she could wipe at and pretend it was just the sweat of being pleased/ and she could hear his heartbeat thudding hard in one ear, and she could almost use that as a distraction from what his other hand was doing/ the rockinghorse is what he called it and only later in life did she realize the full child-destroying perversion of it but then she’d focus on Purcell’s Chaconne in G minor as rewritten by Britten and not because it was the soundtrack to these rotten bullshit daddy-deflowerations (maybe that can only happen once, but it didn’t ever feel not new somehow, no matter how she tried to get used to it she couldn’t, so the plural is no mistake, and if you caught that initial objection and felt a good smug sneer was in order you can now put on the dunce cap and don’t tell me that someone like you doesn’t have a closet full of those fuckers. That could imply that I’m criticizing my own work by criticizing you, since you made it this far and only a dunce would do that? No, no, and no. If you believe that you should go grow another head or two so you can put on extra dunce caps, no fuck it just become a hydra and put all that shit in your closet to good use), but because when it was played with passion it could transport her to a place where for once she stopped knowing how alone she was and always had been

//

But then it started to feel good. She would learn to hate herself for this as well. She was precocious. It felt good when she stopped fighting her own disgust and let herself moan and hug him tighter. She convinced him and nearly convinced herself/ grinding her cunt against his oil-smeared knuckles/ and the time came when he uundid his pants and she saw his hardon for the first time/ point of half her origin/ ‘Go ahead, Lis. You can touch it if you want to.’/ What a fucking absurd thing to say. She wanted to touch it in the same way a lawnmower wants to touch grass or a logger wants to fell a tree or a strip-miner wants deforestation//

But she went to it anyway and touched it with the passion if not the skill of Heifetz touching the Chaconne’s violin, not realizing the fallout it promised/ ‘Help daddy put it up inside you, sweetheart... I don’t want it to hurt you none... I go just as slow as you need me to... you’re gonna have boyfriends soon, I know it... and I want you to be ready when that time comes,’ said the man recruiting his daughter to take a proactive role in her own soiling/ Complicity earns silence//

So yeah, Lisa doesn’t know that I know. So what I do it, I lift her up and sit her down on the countertop, though this one is some bland beige stupid color that reminds me of mediocrity (strange it is to think about stratification when you’re about to... well on second thought)/I press her head to my chest/ ‘Now hold still, honey, be a good girl’/ She starts with sudden violence and stares at me wide-eyed and it’s like holy hot fuck hootenany even I wasn’t expecting the big red button to be quite so loud but it is and this is now interesting again, cause somehow that fucking mass-manufactured plywood countertop in safely not-taking-a-stand-for-anything-ever-in-my-whole-life taupe or beige or whatever countertop made me feel like that color when I should have been feeling, well, fire-engine red but it’s all good now so likes I uh gives uh fuck-/ I look back at her like she’s freaking me out and not the converse. I really get off on shallow ironies like those. They just make me feel like I’m so fucking clever, you know what I mean, dear reader? You ever do some of that yourself? Replace the work of wisdom with the cheap and easy gratification of a spiky bonbon? Nevermind, fuck off, I hate you, let’s continue before you spontaneously combust

//

‘What?’ I whisper softly, all puppy-dog-eyed concern and tail-wagging whines that say trust me I’m safe I’m good I care, oh gosh golly gee darn shucks do I fucking care about you and your high-mileage incest-pilaged daddy-cock vacation destination of a cunt: ‘What is it, babe? You ok?’ I might as well be talking to a... beige countertop.../ the look on her face is frozen, or tattoed or branded, fuck I’m just trying to tell you the shit looks like she was born wearing this expression, like mommy’s uterus took a permanent marker before giving the little whore the boot, and what did Ms. artsy-fartsy uterus draw? She drew indecision, confusion, disbelief, and she drew shame, and where there’s shame there’s pain. Remember Mary had a little lamb? Didn’t it go... wasn’t it like... Little Lisa had a dad his cum was white as snow, and everywhere she opened up her dad was sure to go- Lord I disgust myself. But unlike Lisa’s self-disgust, mine is pleasurable. Tellin’ you, she could really learn a thing or two from me. But these dope hoes are al the same. Trying to teach them anything is like getting a man with a broken leg to win the 200-meter dash. The shit’s just not happening

//

Now, reader, I know I’m breaking the fourth wall here in talking to you all personal-like, but do something for me, would you? Just stand here next to me and take a look at this fucking face of hers. See it? See how she’s doubting she heard me right? But see how she’s also dredging up memories of the first time she got laid, and see how it brings back that resident sickness that first got her to use drugs: the substitute for human connection you can measure out in milligrams/ She’s fucking twelve years old again/ Putty/ She starts to cry/ And I don’t like this one bit, reader, especially not with you so close that you can see me, but that’s how my own weakness kicks in, so I’m going to politely ask you to glance in some other direction. Go look and the beige-laminate plywood countertop off to the side, by the sink and the greasy stove and the fridge with the stupid magnets she probably got from yard sales and flea markets. Look at whatever else you want. Do that as I realize that I can’t fucking do this to her after all/ She’s just harmless small fry, this Lisa, this pretty woman unconvincingly hiding a child who got fucking robbed of shit everyone else isn’t aware they’ve even got in the first place/ She’s just some rag doll trying to stitch itself together/ What’s wrong with me?/ And you, reader, I see the look, the scorn, you’re conflicted too, cause part of you wouldn’t mind bashing my head in, while another part of you just wants me to wake up/ I try to pull away from Lisa but she hugs me closer/ Feeling her warm, the sweetness of her touch, hearing her piteous, shuddering little cries, that recrudescence of pain for what wasn’t her fault/ her circuit has lit up/ she needs sex to heal from sex, and maybe you didn’t know this, dear reader, but that’s the way all these fucked up basket cases are, and it’s just that way you can’t imagine you’d be but would be anyway if you had to live in the world that Lisa’s twelve-year-old-girl eyes struggle to keep from looking back into her, cause it hurts bad enough when she peers there herself

//

But did you know- this girl’s an EMT?/She has no reaction to blood/ She’s phlegmatic in the face of gore and agony/ High-pressure situations kick her into master mode/ Crisis is the one time she really feels in control/ Familiarity does NOT always breed contempt/ In the ambulance she’s adored by all who work with her/ She has a connected distance to it all/ Nothing touches her but nor does anything seem to escape her notice/ How is it that this young woman can be so put together in that kind of meatgrinder, and then transform into guileless ingenue vulnerability with a few well-chosen words?

//

After violation a victim’s body is haunted by the ghost of a dead child, an unretiring architect of defenses the strongest jaws can’t open/ making a deceptive interface with The Outside designed to look unassailable/ yet having to install a drain in the floor for tears/ they rust the rivets, they compromise the wiring for the lights she still sleeps with/ often hurting others unintentionally due to blind spots and her armor’s jagged metal / no matter how kindhearted someone might appear to be- and she knows enough to fear kindness more than anything/ Now when Lisa meets someone who is in the midst of struggles not unlike her own, she has no words of comfort

//

The girl in the ambulance was sobbing hysterically as she put it all into words/ Lisa stared at her as if she were transparent/ she remembered her older brother on top of her/ the first time he held his hand over her mouth/ he grunted and kept murmuring ‘oh yeah, oh yeah’/ he never did her in the cunt cause he was afraid of getting her pregnant/ he used spit to get it in, and never enough because he liked the friction/ ‘you’re doing good sis, you’re doing so good’/ using a voice as cool and sweet as julep, as if she was all he could see, her needs, her comfort, the scary sense that he actually believed he was being sweet and gentle and gallant/ but he’s a boa constrictor with a mouse when he comes/ it makes his final thrustsso wet they’re frictionless, prompting him to finally pull out and jerk himself off for the home stretch (technically already past the finish line but requires a moment to come to a complete stop/ he stands up over her, breathing hard, smelling his hand/ then he crawled back on top of her/ still stiff/ ‘one more time, little sis’/ ...and he moaned as he crossed the border into Elysium/ the sound of his pleasure loud in her ear for much longer than it was the first time...

//

So I pull Lisa off the counter and put her face down on the floor/ spit on my cock/ let her open up for me/ and then I say with an identical cadence: ‘you’re doing good, sis, you’re doing so good’/ And I an hear her crying and it turns me on, makes my cock throb and flare with waves of tingly bliss/ I can’t question myself/ not worth it/ And between her sobs she manages to screach out the words: ‘How do you know? How do you know?’/ ‘Because, Lis’- because everything you are is mine//

BECAUSE EVERYTHING YOU ARE IS MINE//

[contravarius-blog]

Arrival Aboard the Grymorg Gavog

//Vast black emptiness to every side/ silence, a hard cool surface, smooth/ Neon crucifix lit up in red, blue, yellow, hundreds of feet high/ lowering over Kelja like a lid on hinges/ an array of columns spaced at intervals/ they materialize to either side/ hung upon each, a writhing bloodied youth naked, shackled/ gleaming metal tools on robotic arms/

//Rip-saws and buzz saws appearing as phantoms/ harrowing the striplings threatening but not yet connecting/ new beings one per victim clad head to heel in slaughterhouse leathers gas masks black boots and gloves all shiny and new like love to a youth/ they palpate the young men/ vast glowing neon cross hangs overhead belongs to the firmament itself/ Kelja scans the other sacrificial fuckboys [surreal 1980's boywhores submissive fresh-faced all-American tiny cute smooth sweet disposition sensitive teen cock just learned to jack off gets fucked by daddy-type guys back seats of cars dope habits shy little cocksucker (faux naif) likes older bigger stronger to hold him down so he can feel the strength on top of him only wants to please you make you grunt eyes shut hard cock skin stripping his rectum/ ecstasy warm and wet your manhood filling what a conflict he calls love compels him to surrender with the self-conscious vigor of an unproven convert/ even though it hurts him sometimes he's so happy to please you he cries in relief/ taking daddy's cock means he's a good boy and all a good boy wants is for his daddy to say 'I love you, son']/

//but one of the shackled striplings arrests Kelja’s gaze, familiar (ah, so recognized)/ starts to walk then to run/ boy's name was JOEY/ very close briefly height of adolescence when connections were still meaningful and left life-long impact/spending moments in silence sitting near the river's edge middle of summer strange place transitory a camp sent there not home temporary uprooted did something wrong/ they had been innately wrong right down to the way their souls were when still hot off the assembly line/ how could God have fucked up their manufacture?/ Rapt at nature's effortless perfection the blue sky the restless water the birds that sang to show the rest where they ought to get lessons/ sometimes Kelja looked at him significantly and Joey did the same/ never when the eyes were on them/ Kelja sidled closer Joey did the same right until their knees and elbows touched/ back away before it's obvious you'll never see each other again/ connection an offense repaired with punishment/ love is sin loneliness is purity/ heartbeats a fusillade/ neither daring to look at the other/ RED SIGN OF FIRE FLASHING WORDS:::::/ wicked evil an animal lust unnatural perverse demonic/ Joey was nothing like that/ he was kind/ quiet/ shy/ sweet small gentle (a boy a boy a boy) thoughtful honest affectionate

//soft like healing and warmth holding him between his legs making his eyes close happy a contented whimper lips half open/ trust/ moving toward the kindness/ touching your vulnerability/ skin ‘like, beyond neutrino-detector-sensitive and shit’/ make him feel good breathing harder face flushed/ physical arousal is weaving a cocoon with the tether to his soul/

//sharing he'd give you more than he took for himself and he always shared whenever he had anything to share/ but the Christian Machine would smash him on the conveyor belt when his ghost quit this world/ It would sort him into the wrong line and it would drag him screaming into the incinerator/ it would strip him and devour him/ it would unboundedly grieve every nerve it attached to/

//Joey's face meant safety/ it meant you could put your weapons and armor aside/ he filed the future's fangs down/ he made Kelja believe in a life in which the soul didn't scream for nepenthe to untrammel it from the hurt/ his quiet voice carried over the vicious condemnation of the righteous/ mislabeling their own malleus meleficarum gratification as other's betterment/ and they separated them/ two fragments of spirit that shone with light when put together/ Kelja locked in a room/ isolation screaming in his face, it's hands around his neck, threatening to be the only one to never leave him I have the loyalty you sought, the same that wore your breath to shyness in its pursuit/ Kelja’s cries were uncontrollable that night/ astonished at the size of the pain/ crushed in the giant's palm

//Everywhere he turned there was something to strike drown burn or cut him/ his opponent was everyone/ kindness is mythology- the blood from this scourging is made of the illusions he’s thereby drained of/ apostates of faith in the world entire/////

//Next morning lights come on/ a second later it all comes back/ a boulder that could crater a city smashes into his chest but it spares his legs so he gets up and brushes his teeth, a menial chore that mocks/ trivializes/ ugly embarassment, this phase-shifting from solid to tears with a mouthful of toothpaste. Kelja grabs a chisel and carves a mask of stone. It has a strong jaw, a heavy brow, a fierce expression. He checks the eyeholes. They frame the world, they put it in a cage and make him safe again/ fix the strap in place sheathe the dagger fill quiver with arrows/ walk through the door/ cage the world/

// Vulnerable no more covered in hard metal hatred/ render my enemy's disintegration/ impose overkill/ power inspires fear/ smiles reversed/ your horror my manna/ it nurses me grants a malign euphoria makes me glow red/ I'm the shudder sharp iron invader/ I burnt the tunnels into your attempted defenses/ gutted responsive nerves/ manipulated your signals/ repurposed your machinery/ exploited your experience/ red sharp unlistening cruelties grinding knees-deep through your skinned-compassions/ kindness lying torn and bloody crumpled in a playroom pile/ tender brutalized empathy sucked out the safe interior soul like a prize of crabmeat swallowed with greed the coiled ball of love's cuddle gore/ blessed-infant-moire-poix sold-kiddie-flesh-profit-turning sacred miracle bundle of joy/ teddy-bear-rapekit innocence-splatterball cerise-colored-orgasm-puddle pain-slop-cradle-atrocity//

[contravarius-blog]

The Charnel House For All Your Dreams

/I am a demon transmuted into a 12 year old boy when Dhakan's hands find me/

Kelja anticipates naked hatred from all contact/ acclimation to Dhakan's tenderness has rinsed away the apathy even a careless glance couldn't fail to notice/ Kelja has lost his 1000 yard stare at the sight of these advances/ they come from Dhakan's hands/ open, slow, not primed into closed-fist weaponry with the knuckles forward (the same weapons that can show such tender affections you'd think they were other than themselves)/ because of Kelja's renewed awareness of being here now his instincts activate: an enfilade of startled birds, condition-specific environment-reaction sequences/ wet feeling robots/ he winces/ he shrinks away/ ashamed, he looks at Dhakan's face, an emulsion of pain and warmth, a look Kelja has never seen before, and it turns his winter to spring: numinous attractions awakening with the urgency of convalescents things too long dormant/ a flash/ an eidolan of memory/ a spring day buried in the stubborn reticence of the past/ Joey/ the warmth of his smile/ it leaves Kelja chapfallen/ benignly it imprisons the enfilade in a modest refuge / its safety lays soft and quiet and whispered/ but the eidolan packs the memory away in its haversack- in life he was an immigrant from a blacking factory in some industrial-era futureless dream-incinerating prospect-dismantler- and departs for the train station, leaving Kelja alone with hands that are open, slow, and that in their quiet language sound ingenuous when the say: I'm not going to hurt you/ Dhakan's face presses close to Kelja's and his hands whisper, quiet yet resolute: I will protect you/

//There is a place almost unreachable where Kelja knows those words would have been his everything, and it’s unreachableness is there despite its being in a more recent, less reticent past/ But that time came and went/ Dhakan's ardor supplies a fuel that has no flint to act upon it/ because spring or not, the thing in Kelja's chest is dead, and summer, if it comes at all, will have to be a staged production

//Now that I have love I can’t feel it/ Warmth finds me impermeable/ A cold dead thing that can't feel pain/ But I know others can, allowing me the empty pleasure of doing the same evil as others did to me for respite from the depths of andavé A word he made up. it means the totality of hateful, painful, hopeless thoughts and feelings which characterize inescapable suffering mercy would prohibit if the depths felt mercy's influence

//He looks at his hands and they grow claws no one else can see/ the skin blackens and spiderwebs in glowing vermillion filiments like his blood is hell's magma/ No flint required; the fuel vaporizes on contact/ the magma needs no pulse from the dead thing in Kelja's chest, just the oscillations of convection currents, heating and cooling the inhuman impulses that animate Kelja's corpse, the smiling dibbuk that burns in the rubicund eyes/ I will protect you, it mocks, from safety, from love, from relief... and you'll be my captive in a charnel house for all your dreams

[contravarius-blog]

D&K

//Kelja: ‘What about loyalty then?’/ ‘What about it?’/ Kelja didn’t speak, but his eyes dug into Dhakan’s/ archaeologists excavate soil looking for signs of humanity/ ‘I mean- have you ever loved someone enough to be loyal to them?’/ ‘Afraid I’ll dip out on you?’/

A pause, then Kelja’s head twitches and he opens his mouth but catches himself and his word gets cut off before the first phoneme is carried to term/ Dhakan’s eyes scan him up and down. He chews his lip while he considers his adjutant. He leans forward in his chair with his hand extended, intending to touch Kelja’s cheek with the back of his curled fingers, but The Boy shrinks away/ pained wince/ though not far enough to get out of arm’s reach. More than enough, though, to freeze Dhakan in midair. Kelja won’t make eye contact with him/ ‘Think about what you’re saying, Kelja: I found you after all this time. All this time that I’ve been looking for you... the X on my map’/ ‘I can barely remember that place, and I don't want to remember it’/ ‘You reacted one way to what happened. I went in the other direction. There’s reasons for that.’/

Kelja fidgeted in his chair, his eyes darting back and forth from the room to Dhakan/ ‘You don't have to be so self-conscious around me, Kalja.’/ The Boy flushed cerise red/ ‘Or embarrassed to have it pointed out’/ ‘But I- I have to-’/ ‘You have to stop being so wary-’/ Dhakan leaned forward again ‘-so hesitant-’ touched his shoulder ‘-so uncertain-’ touched his neck ‘-in order that I can give you what you need.’//

//I find myself drawn to the little dude/ he expected me to get mad at him when he pulled away, that was obvious/ instead I softened my approach/ But I know he wants a bad boy/ when I look at him I see a kid starved for some good dick/ Ill be the best he’s ever had/ I know he likes that I was in the Vorics/ that I sell dope/ that I rob people and beat the shit out of em/ that I dress well and drive a fast car/ that I fucked 800 bitches (ah appearances)/ that I’m ripped as fuck, know how to put bass in my voice, and walk like I own whoever’s watching me walk/ he likes that I’m more than a head taller and could kick his ass but prefer to fuck it instead/ he likes that I get him high on the city’s best.

//But whatever Dhakan might have told himself, there was more to it than that, and it was obvious by the way he kissed Kelja and wrapped him in fighter’s arms and set him down on the bed light as a photon/ More to it that Dhakan couldn’t look at dead-on/ it turned him on to see Kelja’s dependence, his shy submission- it turned him on to know that Kelja wanted to get fucked by a guy twice his size/ but there was a far less prurient feeling too/ something Dhakan hadn’t felt since The Processing Plant/ he felt protective over Kelja/ like the kid was his responsibility/ he wanted to show him how to stand up straight/ how to spit comebacks/ hone his confidence and replace his self-atheism with indissoluble faith/ he wanted to groom his talent, and make him happy- and these were the feelings he couldn’t understand.

//Face to face/ one hand on Kelja’s forehead, mussing up his hair, the other cradling his neck, the thumb rubbing his cheek/ Kelja’s legs around him with the feet locked together/ slow/ kissing him deep the whole time.

//The purity of Kelja’s adoration could inspire envy in heaven if only the purity of an adoring heaven made it capable of envy.

//Grabbing him by the shoulders and getting up on my knees so his tiny ass is off the bed, his back curled up, his arms around my neck/ merging/ fucking him with the biggest cock he’s ever seen/ out of his throat one continuous paean of ecstasy in his upper-tenor register, an ululation that undulates with my thrusts, his shoulders damp with the sweat of my hands/ I look in his eyes, and that is a crazy feeling, almost too much for me, but somehow the little fucker never wavers and now I'm getting more than I anticipated because I cannot be the first to break the bridge of sight connecting us on yet another level/ my bottom boy can do that if it should please him to/ I wear the most reassuring expression I can manage to send the signal that I would not fault him for doing so/ but he won’t, and if I am honest it is I who need the reassurance I give to him, for his fearlessness in intimacy is intimidating and it humbles me/ his eyes will not let me go until I come/ and now he is the one to reassure me of his desire/ in tones at once passionate pure violent and sweet he pronounces a liturgy offensive to those whose lack of love causes them to label as evil the love of others.

//‘fuck me Dhakan, fuck me!’

[contravarius-blog]

DHAKAN>>>VANITY

//Wars are fought over far less than me/ 6’1” 205 lbs big hands fucking shredded abs 5% body fat bronze skin the eyes bedrooms were invented for/ under the lights, loudspeakers pounding 28” subs causing an earthquake for five neighborhoods nearby everyone looks/ stares/ envies/ idolizes/ in goes the image out comes the thrall/ Christ I’m perfect/

ME ME ME/ and my cock my fucking beautiful huge fat fucking cock crowning glory of all god’s creation/ that motherfucker has had more and better feelings than 10 to the 27 % of all the sentient beings that have ever existed/ I was built for ecstasy for divinity for PLEASURE/ oh Dionysus oh father bless me/ flawless flesh that never grows old but instead refines itself, perfects with time/ I am the impossible configuration/ and starving hopeless withered black-eyed emaciated winter siege victims trapped behind ghetto walls/ how much prettier is my decadence for their privation/ for every 20 billion of them not even one of me gets to BE/

HATE ME WANT ME FUCK ME/

I don’t want to love you or even know you/ I want to masturbate using your body and using your soul/ can a god ever be arrogant?/ I am your guilty reflection/ I’m what you wish you could be, and the wish shames you because you know it’s evil/ you know pleasure is better than LOVE and it frightens you because maybe God knows it too and that’s why the world is such a meatgrinder/ when you look at your fears and desires incarnated as flesh, your life goes topsy-turvy cause the universe sees through you/ it beckons to you Kelja/ evil is the joy you seek/>>>/ creature of perfect confidence/ dominion over your fellow man is the only goal/ physical perfection and pitiless cunning/ the world was made for the strong/ the world was made for me/ I am the center of attention and I’m used to it so much that it has to be pointed out by others in order for me to be made aware that’s it's a thing/ you can try to resist me, but I’ll become the center of your world just to spite your efforts/ and I’ll win because it’s not an instinct you can over-ride/ your flesh will call you out and show you for a liar/ you don’t want depth, you want me to plumb yours/ I can make you feel again, I can make you believe/ that I’m what God made you for//