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Thunder? Stampede? Earthquake? Ragnarök?
No, man, it’s the Disciples. The whole motherfucking gang. They’re on their hogs, and they ride. Hair streams like sinister oriflammes. Naked biceps clench in leather jerkins. Fists twist throttles. Like a dust of diamonds sweat glistens on the tattoo tapestry.
The Disciples roar through primeval forest, serpentining around potholes, a ten thousand horsepower parade, their mechanical mounts screaming like flame-mouthed Fafnir scenting gold. Dappled sunlight caresses their muscled forms. Chrome flashes actinically in the gloom. Petrochemicals pollute the clean air. Black leather and hard skin.
The Lizard King rides point.
Yeah, you know the Lizard King. You’ve heard the tales. The frightened old ladies quivering at crosswalks. The banker with the black eye, the trembling lips, the unctuous self-pity. How can I pay for my boy’s Ritalin? The owner of the GM dealership, outraged, outrageddamnyou!, because the Lizard King’s meth drop showed up a few ounces short and caked, positively caked, with rancid biker jizz.
Yeah, that Lizard King. The rebel. The stud. Your enemy.
You can’t see his eyes because they’re hidden behind his silvered goggles. But you can’t miss his smirk. The canines, barely glimpsed. The contemptuous curl. The nostrils, flaring, sniffing, divining emotion by scent. Long, goatish black hair streams behind him. His open denim jacket flaps in the wind. Pyrotechnic ink blazes on his chest. From his aureoles thrust rays of black, red, and gold, turning and mixing like turbulent smoke, each color fucking its companions, a luminous orgy on the Lizard King’s skin. Just above his belt buckle is a curious design. A knot of some sort, but a perverse, disturbing one.
Tentacles and cocks writhe together in unwholesome bliss.
If you could smell his sweaty armpits–trust me, you would if you could–you’d think of sandalwood and a bin of old, crusty, abused high school jockstraps.
Shouted above the roar: “This ain’t shit, motherfucker!” But it’s not the Lizard King who shouts.
It’s the cherry, Snake. The blond one.
The Lizard King says nothing. He spits, leans into the turn as the road switches back on the mountainside, rides on, the king.
Behind the Lizard King, Black Crowley sits astride his beast, clad head to toe in sombre black leather. He’s tall. And powerful. He could wield Thor’s hammer–or, like Loki, breed with a stallion without a grunt. His thighs could crush an elephant’s ribcage.
The defiance Snake’s shown infuriates him.
Fury on Black Crowley’s face isn’t something you want to see.
His visage is skull-like, his skin taut and white like bone bleached in the sun of western deserts. He has no hair. No eyebrows. No beard. No eyelashes. Not even follicles. Eyes: black jellyfish swimming in a crimson sea. His teeth are — naturally? otherwise? who knows? — sharp and pointed fangs.
His face makes you think of Valkyries weaving bloody intestines into the strands of a man’s fate. Nosferatu and unholy lusts.
Black Crowley’s loyal to two things. Sex. The Lizard King. In that order. Got it?
Behind Black Crowley: three men, the upper echelon of the Disciples, riding in a chevron formation. Their thighs almost touch. They sport blood-red bandannas. Black leather trousers. Bare chests: two obsidian, one golden. Matted hair and stubble. Ink, man, ink blazes on their skin. Automatics tremble in holsters, eager for action.
Crotches bulge, alien eggs ready to hatch and to procreate.
And then, at the center of the procession, come the cherries. Yeah, the cherries. The Lizard King’s appellation. It doesn’t matter if these two bitches are the biggest whores since Scott O’Hara: the Leather Messiah hasn’t fucked them, so they’re cherry. Sweet and delectable and ever so fun to breed.
The cherry called Snake rides on the left. Flaxen hair escapes his helmet. A golden van Dyke rings his lips. He is shirtless. Snake. You can easily remember his name. Look at his arms. You see those anacondas there, rippling on his forearms? Yeah, they’re doing just what it looks like their doing: thrusting ophidian cock at each other. He’s a powerful man, with big smooth pectoral muscles; he could model for Boris Vallejo. He’s Sigurd, a sword-wielder clinging to the side of a ravine, waiting for the beast to present its vulnerable belly.
You look at him, and you see a defiant grin on his face, like the boy who just told a raunchy fart joke to his Sunday School teacher. But look closer, past those icy blue eyes, and you’ll see inside him an autumnal forest shivering in the cold breeze, see a deer trembling as it realizes the thing it hears rustling the leaves is a hungry, all-powerful python, see a gazelle in the last moments of its life, nothing remaining for it except the foamy fangs of a cheetah closing fast.
“Fucker!” he barks, still defiant.
Snake’s not likely to guest on Oprah Winfrey.
“Shut up, asshole!” This is the nervous plea from the other cherry. This one’s called gaziantep escort Skunk. Yeah, you’ve heard of Skunk too. Man, escorted from local mall due to offensive body odor, shouts obscenities. Blurred picture of lanky shirtless stud, fuckfinger raised. The Xtube video of Skunk, standing shirtless in a greenhouse, forearms locked behind his head, geraniums shedding petals like confetti.
Yeah, him. You shit yourself last time you saw him, didn’t ya? Fucking pansy.
Skunk’s hair is black. Long strands of it escape his bandanna. Lanky shirtless stud, almost every square inch of flesh sporting ink. The designs are too numerous to recount. Most characteristic, however, is one on a bicep: disembodied red-veined eyes worship an African-hued jinni emerging from a gargantuan bong.
Yeah, you’ve seen Skunk before. Smelled him, rather. Remember that time in the restaurant and he walked by, and you almost gagged, and you shot this look at him like who the fuck are you, pig? And you were afraid you might die from the way he looked at you?
Do you know what he thinks of you?
Let me tell you.
Skunk think you’re a neutered piece of filth, tamed and subservient and lapping up vomit they send through the television, thinks that your skull would be a fine ornament decorating the burning, radioactive ruins of suburban America.
Not Oprah material either.
Right now, though, riding his roaring bike, fear subsumes rage in Skunk’s mind. His armpits are cold with sweat, and his gut feels like he’s lost a cage match with an Aikido stud.
He’s got a premonition, see? He’s got a feel for the future.
Behind the cherries come the rest of the Disciples. White. Black. Latino. East Asian. South Asian. Hooting. Hollering. Jeering. See, they’ve gone through this ritual themselves. Survived it. And they want it again, because it makes their balls burn.
The road ends high on the mountain, just below the bald summit, in a gravel parking lot where the shadow pools. The sun rests on the horizon, bleary, on the verge of dreams. The sky is the purple of the Caesars, and the brightest stars glimmer. But the cavalcade of evil doesn’t end here. There is a path strewn with soft leaves leading upwards, and the Lizard King guides his roaring Triumph up it.
The Disciples and their cherries ride into a golden meadow rich with sunset. Eldritch night races in from the east. Alone, isolated, the bald summit is a brothel for voyeuristic sky-gods. Eastwards and westwards of the peak long ridges undulate. You could imagine great Odin seated here, his tame wolves Geri and Freki at his feet, his titanic cock erect and spewing semen as he watches the pornographic panoply of human existence.
The Lizard King kills his engine. His servants follow his lead.
The cherries? Well, they sit there astride their bikes a moment, gunning the throttles. Defiant. Hiding the fear.
“Made it, motherfucker!” Snake shouts.
The Lizard King is amused. Why? Why do they do that? They’ve begged him for this moment. But they pretend to hate it.
Hate it? How could anyone hate what the Messiah is about to do to them?
The Lizard King pulls off his helmet. Locks of nightdark hair fall forward into his eyes. The sides of his head are shaved, revealing tattooed outlines of crowned goannas circling his ears.
“Not yet,” he says. “Cocksucker.”
“We’re here,” says Skunk. “That’s what you said, motherfucker.”
“That’s not all I said, buttboy.” The Lizard King rises from his bike. His jeans are stained: oil, carbon, piss, jizz, the funk of a thousand orgies.
“Let me handle that fuckhead, boss.” Black Crowley rumbles.
“We’ll all handle that fuckhead, Crowley. Shut the bikes, off, cherries.”
The cherries obey.
“What the fuck more do you want?” Snake spits.
“Babies,” says the Lizard King. “Pretty babies.”
The Disciples laugh.
Snake swings off his bike. Tight denim makes love to his powerful legs. “We ain’t afraid!”
Skunk mutters, “Know something? You’re an idiot.”
The Lizard King points to the tree line. “Look.” A huge pine rises, dark, fragrant, ancient, black. “There’s three bodies under there.” He chuckles. “Pieces of three bodies. They didn’t make it.”
“Fuuuuuuuuck,” Skunk mutters, exchanging looks with Snake.
“You got the idea. Crowley. You bring the Book?”
Crowley extracts from his saddlebag the Book.
The Necronomicon, you’re thinking. Wrong answer. No, this is The Book, the Tome Sans Title. It’s a thick, slimy volume, curiously bound. The cover seems to be leather, but not a single piece–rather donuts of leather, interlinked like chain mail. Black Crowley cradles it as if it weighs a ton. It doesn’t smell of old libraries. No, it reeks of sperm-crusted underwear, of tight balls cupped too long in raunchy piss-stained jockstraps, of an ancient temple where the buttslime of countless sluts drip-drip-drips from the carven statue of ithyphallic Freyr.
The Book. Not a Bible, based on faith, but a Manual, based on fact.
Black Crowley passes the Book beneath the cherries’ noses. “What do you think?”
Snake sniffs. “Fucking hot.” Now it smells like hot iron.
Skunk sniffs. “Weed?” Now it smells like marijuana.
Crowley’s head falls back. And he howls. Spittle gleams on his fangs. His gums are red like fresh blood.
Birds explode from the trees, flee squawking into the gloom.
Piss blossoms on the front of Snake’s jeans.
Gently, Black Crowley’s fingers stroke the Tome. It shivers. And swells.
The Disciples ring the players, the Lizard King and Black Crowley, Skunk and Snake.
“Look at the Book,” the Lizard King orders.
But Skunk and Snake have eyes glued to the sight of the Lizard King’s crotch, where something mighty has begun to grow.
“Look at the fucking Book!”
“Crowley’s got good fingers, right? You know how they feel, right? Thick, and long, and rough? Like a cat’s tongue. Makes your butthole hurt, don’t they? Makes it hungry, right?”
“Right,” whimpers Skunk.
The cherries strip. Snake’s nipples spike, pink daggers crowning his pectorals. Skunk’s cock hangs like an elephant’s trunk over his heavy balls. They ain’t shy. Hell, they’ve ridden naked down the interstate, beating off, pursued by America’s ineffectual finest.
Murmurs of approval from the Disciples. Grins. Lewd fondling. Moans. Mob mentality whelped in the shade.
“Look at the Book,” the Lizard King hisses.
See the cherries look. See their eyes widen. See their nipples spike. See their ballsacks tighten. See their buttocks clench. Smell their fear. It’s like poppers, or marijuana grown in the powerful light of alien suns. Aphrodisiac.
The Book swells. Like that time in 7th grade English, when you looked at buff Lucas’ sweet lips and thought of licorice and blowjobs.
“Crowley’s got good fingers. He makes the Book get hard.”
The Lizard King peels off his clothes.
Look at that dong. See why he’s a king? See why he’s a master? His weapon is over a foot long. Fist thick. Foreskin. Smegma in clumps like cottage cheese. Veins throbbing with blood. Raunch. Smell of urinal. Smell of a wrestling mat. Matted pubic hair, thick as a carpet.
Look at that.
Three nuts stretch the Lizard King’s sack. The side mounted testicles are egg sized. The middle testicle is the diameter of a small peach. And it pulsates like a star about to nova.
Dark hair beckons on the maroon flesh like fingers.
He’s the Lizard King, and he fountains sperm.
“Yeah,” he growls. “I’m a stud.” He roars: “Ain’t I?”
Fists pound in the gloom. The screams rape the sky. Far away wolves join the cacophony, crimson cocks sliding out of hairy sheaths, feral eyes glowering at the beta males.
“Who are we?”
“The Disciples of the Leather Messiah!”
“Who are we, cocksuckers?”
“The Disciples of the Leather Messiah!”
“Who,” ventures Skunk, “is the Leather Messiah?”
Black Crowley, caressing the Book, chuckles malevolently.
The Lizard King says, “That would be telling.”
But that’s not enough for Skunk. His eyes feast on the Lizard King’s mutant sack. “Who is the Leather Messiah?” When Skunk gets horny he forgets his fear.
“You’ll come to know Him. Soon.” says the Lizard King, “We are his Disciples. Sex maniacs. Hedonists. Perverts. Deviants. We live on the flip side of the modern age. Caligula. Elagabalus. De Sade. We’re with them.”
“De Sade?” whispers Snake.
“De Sade.” The Lizard King savors the syllables. “The Disciples of the Leather Messiah. We’re the enemies of puritanism. We hate it. That’s our bond, our blood, our brotherhood.”
Can you see it? Look between the Lizard King’s legs. At his nuts. See the center one? See it glow now, sullen, ruddy, like lava flowing deep under the sea?
It is as if the hand of Odin sweeps over them, scooping up the twilight. They are plunged into a night dark as a tomb. The stars glimmer like the tears of a madman.
Crowley opens the Tome. The words themselves emit light, as if they are slashes on a membrane separating this world from a fiery, primitive, demonic dimension. Sinister shadows play on his face.
He begins the chant.
Cringe, boy, cringe. Fear Crowley’s words. They stink of sulfur, of wounded flesh. Syllables comprised of staccato glottals, ingressives clicking like monstrous claws, fricatives hissing like the thrust of a cock over bruised flesh.
“Bend over your hogs.”
Snake: “Please, man, please, I don’t–“
Skunk: “Shut up, idiot. I want this.” He means the words. It’s like the first time cock pierced his tight butt. Urgent. Transcendent. He turns, lays his palms on the cool seat, displaying his ass reading for breeding. And it’s an ass you’d want to breed. Heart-shaped. Slender hips. Tight muscles. Sculpted dimples. Long thighs. Raw butthole, bruised, pulsing, hungry. A tattoo, drawn with sure lines and subtle shading: rearing stallion sporting monstrous hardon, head at maximum flare, streaming liters of cum.
“Good, stinkboy,” croons the Lizard King. He turns his attention to the other cherry, jabbing a finger at the pine tree. “Don’t fuck with me, Snake. Do it!”
Snake does it. Muscular butt, fat nutsack, deep crevice, tight hole kissed by blond hair.
Crowley chants. Evil energy sizzles in the air.
The Lizard King kneels behind Skunk. He sniffs. Grins. A hiss. “Nice.”
Snake, that interior cold breeze shivering, whines. “Aw man. Aw man.”
Skunk breathes: “Holy shit.” He grinds his ass on the Lizard King’s face.
For the Lizard King has fed him his tongue.
It’s not a normal human tongue. The Leather Messiah has changed the Lizard King. He can extrude maybe six inches of slippery flesh from his lips.
That abnormal organ pierces Skunk’s slut butt.
Not a normal human tongue. Not merely because of the length. For as it probes, and tastes, and slurps in that tangy dark cavern, a bulge swells at the base, golf ball sized. It moves up the slimy flesh.
You can’t see it but Snake feels it. Like a small turd rising up in his guts.
The tongue’s tip irises open and deposits a dark capsule inside Snake.
It squirms and writhes. It’s a living thing from the dimension the Book gateways.
Skunk’s lithe body suddenly acquires a sweaty sheen, and his back arches as if he’s in the midst of an orgy.
The Lizard King slurps his tongue from Skunk’s butt, staring at the winking pucker. He grins as tendrils of sapient slime emerge from the slit and lewdly caresses the pucker.
“Aw fuck … aw fuck.”
The beast now lives inside Skunk. Waiting.
Snake shudders when the Lizard King administers the treatment. He’s mostly a top, but not shy of anal play. But this scene is bizarre, not what he thought it would be.
The alien intruder, throbbing against his prostate like a second heart, induces Snake’s surrender. He bucks. He moans. He begs.
“Give it to me!”
All the while Black Crowley chants. Swiftly the implanted beasts begin throbbing in unison with the dark syllables.
The cherries’ souls burst into lambent flame.
For the last time the cherries see the false world they’ve dwelt in. No longer do they perceive the world divided up into discrete things: there are no motorcycles, there are no pine trees, there are no remnants of failed cherries mouldering in the old bloodstained Earth. There is nothing but the continuity of quarks, muons, photons–strange entities willing themselves into existence for a sole reason: to couple with other particles, to pass information and energy and power to other things. To share. To merge. To breed.
Heisenberg’s ghostly orgy: foundation of reality.
Asses arch high, eloquent of need. Stench rises from armpits, from groins. Cocks throb against the cooling engines of their bikes.
And now Snake and Skunk understand Black Crowley’s demonic words:
Master of mankind, Maker of lust,
Breed hard these bitches, boys no more.
Unite with youths yearning for sluthood.
Potent master, proud with cock,
To thee I cry: cram these men
With godlike gift: golden cock!
Skunk: “Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Snake: “Fuck me! Fuck me!”
In this moment, under Black Crowley’s dark spell, there is no difference between them. They want nothing more than to be a sheathe of flesh wrapped around a thrusting, titanic organ, dissolved in ecstasy.
See how powerful this spell is?
It’s transformed the very world itself.
In the lust-filled sky the stars are fucking.
Studly Orion and his triple-starred cock. Gemini sluttwins with universal asses. Pegasus with his gigantic Perseus-pleasing prong. Ursae Major and Minor, incestuously coupled. They are a thousand … a million times brighter. The stars ejaculate a cloud of glowing corpuscles, pale as a cometary coma. Thick filaments of luminescence rape stellar neighbors.
The universe, mad with lust.
In ancient eras, awesome, empty,
The void burned hot. Vast was its need.
It desired to fuck so dick was made.
The empty space the Slut Primeval.
The Universe yells youngest of orgasms;
Worlds whelped by the white jizz;
Time’s endless orgy an eternity of fuck.
Black Crowley closes the Book. It spasms, sighs, sleeps, satiated.
The stars fuck. The wind blows. The wolves howl. In black space the Earth sails.
The Disciples ring them. Cocks thrust. Balls churn. Precum drips.
In the sky something cracks, bone broken by dragon’s teeth.
“The Messiah,” intones Black Crowley, “has His gateway.”
“Let Him come,” breathes Snake, legs spread.
“Let Him fuck me,” pants Skunk, back arched.
The Lizard King struts towards the boys, his cock hungry. It is tattooed with a greenish dragon, lambent with evil. Scales armor his hard shaft. Talons pluck at a cocksnot-clogged urethra. Fangs ring the foreskin.
His center nut glows like a hot coal plucked from the heart of a fire.
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