Demonmachy: Demonic Apocalypse (Messiah of Death) Read online

  Demonmachy

  Messiah of death saga

  Volume one

  Brant Danay

  Copyright © 2010 by Brant Danay

  Copyright © 2010 by Severed Press

  www.severedpress.com

  Cover art Copyright © 2010 by David Lange

  http://davelange.carbonmade.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

  electronic or mechanical means, including

  photocopying, recording or by any information and

  retrieval system, without the written permission of

  the publisher and author, except where permitted by

  law.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names,

  characters, places and incidents are the product of

  the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9807996-3-7

  All rights reserved.

  1

  The blood in the giant bong bubbled and swirled, emitting a sweet-smelling steam as it heated throughout the labyrinths of the monstrous Satanic pipe. A furnace the size of a torture chamber, an altar of sacrifice the size of a temple, an incinerator the size of a crematorium, the Bloodbong nearly consumed the capacious inner sanctum of meditation which housed it. Hells within hells within hells, like the universe itself.

  The Bloodbong's endless mazes of tubes and chambers were woven into hypnotic patterns and mandalas, flowing endlessly into and unto themselves while filling its hollow, translucent effigies, caryatids, and telamones with hot vermilion plasma. Twisted like catacombs and intricate to the point of psychedelia, the sinister device was yet as controlled as a circulatory system, a mechanical tapestry of capillaries, arteries, veins, and organs that pulsed and beat like those of a living creature. Through the transparent, scarlet-fogged, rune-carved glass the blood could be seen pumping back and forth, rushing upwards, cataracting downwards, and swirling in crimson maelstroms, driven by the same powerful necromancies which had spawned the Bloodbong eons ago. Flames churned upwards from the interdimensional portal at its base, burning at light speed through an abyssal, roiling wormhole leading to the underworld, heating the Bloodbong with the very fires of Hell.

  The center of the bong was huge and shaped like a living heart, its four contracting and expanding sections filled with a tangled mass of naked, screaming bodies, immersed to their necks in boiling blood. Some of the blood was their own. Some had belonged to their ancestors. Some was the blood of their children. They clawed at the sides of the bong's heart-chamber, their faces contorted into raw-meat animal masks. Nearly the last of the universe's dwindling population, they were not near to being the last of the Necrodelic's own personal supply of flesh. Victims, prisoners, and slaves he had, imprisoned throughout the demonium of his living spaceship. Evil he had. Power he had. What he craved, now, was enlightenment.

  Chariah, the Death Addict, the Necrodelic, sat with his legs crossed in the ancient, often lethal, black lotus position, his wrists upon his knees and his fingertips joined. Gently, he wrapped his lips around the mouthpiece of the Bloodbong. Chariah inhaled, the deep, slow breath of the succubus. Smoke billowed and filled the chamber, filled his black lungs, his black flesh, his black soul. His ebon claws and jet hair grew longer, his eyes more crimson. Veins bulged like black mambas across the chiseled muscles of his caliginous figure. His blood quickened and fevered, as did his gonglike heartbeat, his meditative thoughts, and his sin-laden astrosome.

  The bodies in the bong began to disintegrate, their flesh pulling apart and transmogrifying into red-tinged fumes. The thin screens surrounding the nexus of the gargantuan hookah like pericardium drew the fumes into the tubes of the pipe. Chariah exhaled, the deep, slow breath of the incubus. The clouds of smoke suffocating the chamber began to take on mystical formations. Death screams resonated like hideous mantras, then mutated into visible wraiths in rushes of synesthesia.

  The Necrodelic smoked his victims alive. His plasmoptic and pyroptic powers now heightened, the Necrodelic gazed through the blood and the smoke as though it were boiling Lethe and crystalline steam. He watched with drugged fascination as the skin of his victims fell to float in the blood of the bong, as chunks of muscle dropped away like the flesh of immolated lepers, as raw gleaming organs were slowly exposed, loosened, and freed, then dissipated into gory flotsam. He watched as bones began to separate, as charred skeletons unhinged, as entire bodies were reduced to wet ash, their fresh ghosts free-falling like his drifting consciousness, and then he himself was floating like the gruesome detritus in his pipe, floating downwards into a grave, the grave of the astral plane, where Mother Chaos awaited, pink flesh beckoning, purple hair streaming on psychic vibrations.

  The touch of Mother Chaos was as that of a shadow or an ebony sunset, ephemeral as the blind eye contact of the null-demons which inhabited the black holes littering space. Her mouth and vagina were two of those black holes, it seemed, sucking Chariah's tongue and penis through the pink death that was her flesh, through the limits of love and beyond, to salvation or damnation, nirvana or Hell, their astral sex a microcosm of their apocalyptic spiritual war.

  Cursed with omnisentience, Mother Chaos felt all the suffering throughout the universe simultaneously, as well as all the suffering which had gone before and all the suffering yet to come. The pleasure and pain of every spirit in existence, living or dead, resonated within her omnisentient astral body, an infinity of torments which only the love of her demon devotee could assuage.

  The Necrodelic pretended he was Satan, his wrathful and ultimate master, as he made love to Mother Chaos. He could feel Satan watching as they writhed through time; he was Satan, now, phallic horns bleeding, veins and arteries wrapped in an interdimensional labyrinth around the exterior of his crimson body, barbed penis leaking fiery semen. He breathed omniscience like a drug, sighed omnipotence an eternity later.

  As the Necrodelic and Mother Chaos made love, spirits rocketed through the astral plane from above, the severed souls of those whose bodies Chariah had smoked. They screamed at him as they were drawn inexorably downward.

  "...bastard Necrodelic...by bloody karma, Satan will have your soul as well...you will never become the Jh'a'vyraa..."

  The white cataract of souls came to a blazing finale as they dropped out of sight, soon to be repossessed by Hell, probably never to be born again, for universal moksha, the terminus of all reincarnation, was imminent. Even now, reincarnation was attained by only the most highly evolved demons, for the gauntlet which preceded it grew more arduous by the moment, in direct relation to the proximity of the end of time and the velocity with which it approached. For most, to die in this age meant an eternity in Hell, their spirits plucked from the endless orbits of their samsaric cycles like planets being devoured by a black hole.

  Chariah knew this, and, thinking of such universal armageddon, asked Mother Chaos, "Will I be the Jh'a'vyraa?"

  "... you will be the Jh'a'vyraa...my Jh'a'vyraa...together we will escape Satan...and attain the final enlightenment beyond...you shall become the Messiah of Death...and the salvation of the Jh'a'vyraa shall be ours..."

  Chariah kissed Mother Chaos and made love to her anew, her long purple nails vibrating along his back, her amethyst wings fluttering. Chariah's astral body quivered as they floated.

  "Who is to be my next victim?", Chariah asked of Mother Chaos, his words running like ichor in the pulsating atmosphere.

  Mother
Chaos kissed Chariah on the forehead, and from her damson lips words came like slow worms, using his astral body as a conduit to embed themselves in his brain.

  "...you will seek out Morpheus Rex...the Oneirophage...on the planet Grystiawa...he is a powerful demon with intricate and deadly designs on becoming the Messiah of Death...of attaining the Jh'a'vyraa...the devourer of dreams represents a serious threat to your destiny...his wise and ancient mind contains many dreams which he has ingested over the eons...dreams which you must smoke from his skull...tonight, we sail to Grystiawa, upon this dark jihad..."

  The words maggoted through his mind, sensuously massaging and painfully lacerating his optic lobes, creating gory visions of the words' true meanings, and then the womb of Mother Chaos was shrinking, tighter and tighter, squeezing the blood and oxygen from his engorged phallus until it became bruised and disfigured like the throat of a strangled corpse. The Mistress of Entropy pulped his member for several moments before finally constricting her thighs and womb one final time, like a boa constrictor with its prey.

  Mother Chaos' erotic quietus, their last act of tantric sadomasochism, brought the Necrodelic to Dark Orgasm, sexual death, his ceremonial gateway back to the physical plane. Blind as a grub, senseless as a corpse, helpless as an embryo, the Necrodelic drifted in an existential cosmos where nothing existed except void and orgasm. The sexual nihilism drained the thoughts from his mind like a sinkhole, then through his unfeeling body to be released with the smoke and the space that he invisibly ejaculated into the vacuum. Visions, dreams, and prophecies took the place of thoughts, only to be forgotten in the moments following their psychic flashpoints, and then the void became the orgasm, the orgasm became the void, and he was floating, floating upwards through a grave, the grave of the astral plane, back to the universe he must rape, back to the races he must slay, back to the smoke-filled, sperm-splattered meditation chamber of the living spaceship, and back to the body he must escape, ascending to the ultimate state of consciousness and freeing the tortured soul of Mother Chaos, his soulmate and guardian angel.

  Awakening with newfound evil enlightenments, Chariah exited the meditation chamber through a living door that automatically dilated before him and constricted behind him. Chariah made his way to the womblike cockpit in the center of his bestial spaceship, where hanging forests of umbilical cords writhed and curled as they dangled from the ceiling. Likewise, living jungles of umbilical cords swayed and reached out like tentacles from the floors and walls. Chariah stepped inside, and a pink umbilical cord extended slowly from the ceiling and attached itself, on one plane, to his forehead; on another plane, to his third eye. A thousand more followed, joining their flesh to his with wet sucking noises at a thousand different points, pulling his body in a thousand different directions. The Necrodelic was raised toward the ceiling on umbilical stalactites, while umbilical stalagmites simultaneously fought to drag him back down to the floor. Tautening tentacles from every angle suspended the cruciform demon in midair, where he floated as though upon very slow winds. Through these umbilical cords Chariah connected with the ship's nervous system and telepathically guided it toward the Tyterviax system, where the planet Grystiawa spun and the Oneirophage dined upon feasts of dream.

  A pair of telescopic umbilical cords attached themselves to the rims of flesh around the Necrodelic's eye sockets, then stretched and bifurcated throughout the bestial spaceship to the myriad eyeballs scattered across its exterior. These scrying tubes enabled him to observe the universe from deep within his living vessel. He gazed with wonder across the dead and dying galaxies, graveyards of space once teeming with life, now laid to waste by armageddon and extinction. He contemplated the passing cosmos, its vastness as black as his billion lifetimes.

  As the Necrodelic navigated the universe, he meditated upon love and death, and throughout the entire journey to the Tyterviax system, and throughout his entire meditation, he was haunted by Satan's blood-red stare, poking like hot torture irons through the myriad planes which separated the two of them, voyeur and demon, father and child.

  2

  Grystiawa's sunset was a bloodletting, a bloodletting Morpheus Rex felt in his flesh as he gazed like a drugged voyeur upon its vermilion splendors. Through the vast, sometimes kaleidoscopic, stained-glass windows of his prism palace, Phantasmagorika, he watched the scarlet rays spray the firmament as though from a thousand severed carotid arteries. The clouds of evening absorbed the infinite shades of darkling red until they hung like blood-soaked bandages across the wounded skies. Crepuscular crimson sunbeams flowed profusely over the planet, as if the jugular veins of Satan himself had been slashed asunder. At the nexus of this ensanguined twilight the red sun Tyterviax beat like a dying heart, sinking deeper and deeper into a lake of its own blood, twitching like the scattered shrapnel of daylight surrounding it as it drowned. The spill of crimson light from the setting sun was not only reminiscent of a bloodletting, but symbolic of one as well, for it was a harbinger of the violent deaths which were as inherent to the Grystiawan nocturnes as black skies, red moons, and golden starlight.

  For the devourer of dreams, the sunset was a soulletting. As the day died, so too did his diurnal persona. As Morpheus Rex, the Dreaming Predator, he had stalked the badlands of Grystiawa since dawn, walking with deafening silence, running at blinding speeds, and fighting with mind-numbing ferocity upon the lower body of a hominid demon. On two legs, with the thighs of a tiger and the tattoos of a serial killer, Morpheus Rex hunted, crippling and subduing his prey with Prismsword, Spectrumhammer and Rainbowspear, leaving his victims bloodied, wounded, and maimed, but never dead. Dreams were a drug most potent when imbibed from the flesh, blood, and brains of the living. Thus, the sacrificial dreamers never knew death until their slayer had satiated his psychedelic addictions.

  Until such time, their vanquished bodies were stored in the Darkprism, a sable, pentagram-shaped talisman which he wore around his neck while he hunted, a tiny black hole from which neither light nor souls could escape unless summoned. Thusly were his prey and their dreams preserved until he returned home to Phantasmagorika, his mighty, glittering, sparkling castle which had been carved from a single megalithic prism, an ephemeral oneiromancer's palace which disappeared every evening, and reappeared in a different part of Grystiawa every morn.

  As the last vermilion rays of sunset laced his bedchamber window like veins and arteries, the diurnal persona of Morpheus Rex began to retreat. The sun and the skies, the clouds and the land, gradually turned black by degrees of crimson. Grystiawa reddened itself into darkness.

  The sound of Phantasmagorika's heliotropic gateways closing for the night reverberated and echoed across the planet. They did not close to keep intruders out. They closed to keep victims in. In one silent moment nightfall covered Grystiawa. The soulletting of Morpheus Rex followed within a nanosecond. The flesh between his thighs began to weld itself together, the skin on his legs crawling in rippling sheets like beached manta rays, until all beneath his twin penises was interwoven and had transformed into the tail of a gargantuan serpent. Dark, iridescent scales and diamondback patterns replaced the tattoos that had adorned his legs. Like a male lamia he hissed and slithered, a demon from the waist up, a serpent from the waist down.

  The change was one of inner metamorphosis as well, a psychic transmutation of self, a nocturnal enlightenment, a spiritual vivisection, a soul transplant. As his brain slowly filled with blood like a living sponge, the bestial psyche of Morpheus Rex was conquered by the demonic psyche of the Oneirophage. Oestrus became sadomasochism; torture and suffering became meditation. Hunger and thirst became vampiric cravings for blood, flesh, and dreams; shamanic cravings for drugs, enlightenment, and power. Totemic religion was conquered by devil worship. Psychedelic synesthesias of blood assailed him from every possible sensory organ. The thrill of the hunt mutated into perversions of evil, fetishes for murder and mass destruction, a lust for apocalypse and eternal damnation. Death was revealed as the ultimate reality
, the meaning of life, the raison d'etre. The entire universe was his hunting grounds, and total genocide was vital to his survival.

  The nocturnal transformation was complete. Carnivorous beast had evolved into genocidal demon. Morpheus Rex had metamorphosed into the Oneirophage. The familiar, black enlightenments known only by highly evolved demons, powerful deities, and almighty Satan himself permeated his mind, body, and soul once more.

  The last changes were minor, final adaptations of the flesh to the spirit's metamorphosis. Externally, his prismatic eyes began to glow from within, rather than reflecting and refracting light. Heat-vision gave way to night-vision and dream-vision. Internally, the cravings began. Like a vampire's bloodlust, dreams were the only substance that could sustain his nocturnal flesh and evil soul. He craved dreams, needed dreams, was addicted to dreams like a drug. His brain was starved, throbbing with stabbing hunger pangs, so many hunger pangs that they left him room for only one thought at a time, a single mantra that repeated itself, over and over, inside his pain-wracked mind:

  I would die for dreams.

  Lounging on his vast, rose-colored bed, surrounded by bloodstains and blankets, the Oneirophage watched the moonrise through the stained-glass window which comprised the western wall of his bedchamber. With eyes like flaming prisms the Oneirophage gazed upon the shadowy, blood-colored wastelands of his realm. Grystiawa was dying in stages, piece by piece, a little more with each victim the Oneirophage killed. The bloodletting sunset was the signal of temporary safety for those few who had escaped the Oneirophage's clutches thus far, those still roaming the crimson moors outside his castle. It was the signal of doom for those within, who stood chained together against the curved wall facing the Oneirophage's bed. Their final day had ended. Their final night had commenced.