Friday, August 11, 2006

Der Pariah Negra

The black ink of night poured through his soul as an oozing denizen at once devouring each and every molecule of his existence, enfolding his being in its viscous tar. He felt like some self-aware sponge saturated by its smothering nothingness.

He feared the night. For to him it was only a harbinger of a destiny of doom.

How unlike the other side. There, complete knowledge. Total comprehension. Illumination, complete.

Here only the icy black, numb, nill and nefarious.

Reaching out into this chasm would only remind him of the futility. Groping to find nothing, and reminding him again that he is alone in this black sea.

Here he lay, a sponge at the very bottom of the leviathan. Like the water, he could feel the darkness. It was consuming him; filling his pores with an ink one shade darker than black-strap and twice as thick.

He dreaded the light of day, for even in it he would carry the darkness of night on his soul. His burden was heavy - his task, damning.

To take a man's life. To stop his heart. In an instant, to destroy his being and at once your soul; to cast him eternally into this fate that of recent had become his black enemy.

Daggerfjord thought of how it would again look into the eyes of his enemy as he peered into that eternal damnation of dark, with only the yearning for some light.

He could draw no other conclusion, and he feared the black blasphemy, but what becomes of evil but damnation?

To see the eyes of his prey as he had done so many times before. To view those ice-blue eyes consumed by an ever-expansive ebony apeture telling of the eternal dark. To once again feel the dark exhale of the dragon's final breath. To cast this soul against the black chasm of space and infinite dark.

"Revenge is mine, saith the Lord."

"Then might I be the fulfillment of thy will, Father. The facilitator of thy plan, the sling and stone composing thy weapon, the assassin of thine enemies. Cast me true into this night, oh Father, and pierce it I will. The heart of the dark chasm will explode with your light and will leave not a single slice of shade in any corner of the universe. Victory will be yours.

Forgive me, oh Father. If it means the loss of my soul, it will be worth it for those who will come to know the light. For what I am about to do -- to break thy commandment again and stop the beating heart -- for this I am so terribly sorry. Mine is a justice, incomplete; but for the terror he has wrought, I am left with no other choice.

Forgive me."

That black bastard who was ripped from the womb of Lucifer's whore would now meet destiny. His eyes would not be able to blot this unmistakable blue light of truth.

Bigoyle must die.


Bigoyle turned to his lovely valet and asked her to mix him another whiskey sour.

A young mongul girl of Russian descent, Jade Piece was more than happy to oblige. She was dutiful, but Oyle knew her ambitious soul.

To some she was known as the Green Dove, thanks to her past exploits as an eco-terrorist. It was she who master-minded the attack on the Dove soap factory in Pinepski, Illinois.

To the hippie, soap was nemesis. Full of who-knows-what (99.99% pure hell), it was the thing that washed their funk away.

Lord, how the hippie hates bathing.

Jade was their heroine. She struck at the heart of their enemy's soul and dragged its white purity through the mucky slime pond that was her domain.

Filth was her weapon, and Bigoyle knew he must exploit this dirty girl to his own, dastardly ends.

Her nasty funk would be his weapon against that muddy so-and-so, Daggerfjord.

Fight filth, with greater filth. Ingenious. Simply, ingenious.

1 comment:

Xavier Martel said...

Now that's more like it! Excellent! However, I do wonder whether Stan has confused Bigoyle (a tall texan, by Miguel's account), with his tormentor (who had an african idiom). Jade Piece... priceless, although perhaps Jade Peace would be more subtle and also more nuanced in its double entendre.