The New Death and others
Published by James Hutchings at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 James Hutchings
How the Isle of Cats Got Its Name
Under the Pyramids (based on the story of the same name by H.P. Lovecraft)
The Prince of the Howling Forest
The Moon Sailed Sadly Through the Sky
The Doom That Was Laid Upon Fame
The Mirrors of Tuzun Thune (based on the story of the same name by Robert E. Howard)
The Adventure of the Murdered Philanthropist
The Garden of Adompha (based on the story of the same name by Clark Ashton Smith)
Legend: The Story of Kevin Marley
The Construction Workers of Telelee
Diamanda and the Isle of Wives
The Handsome but Impossibly Demanding Prince
Charon (based on the story of the same name by Lord Dunsany)
In the beginning of the world the gods considered all those things which did not have their own gods, to decide who would have responsibility and rulership.
"I will rule all flowers that are sky-blue in colour," said the Sky-Father.
"I will listen to the prayers of migratory birds, and you all other birds," the goddess Travel said to him. And so it went.
At last all had been divided, save for one thing.
"Who," asked the Sky-Father, "shall have dominion over the poor?"
There was an awkward silence, until the Sky-Father said,
"Come - someone must. Those with no gods will grow restless and cunning, and in time will cast us down, and we shall be gods no more."
"Not I," said blind Justice, and her stony face flashed a momentary smirk at the thought. "Why not Fame or Fortune?"
"Darling I don't think so," said the sister goddesses together.
There was a long pause. The gods shuffled their feet and avoided one another's gaze. At last a voice broke the silence.
"I will," said Death.
How the Isle of Cats Got Its Name
Death stalked the cats of Telelee.
Throughout the city there was much hiding under couches, and a yowling fear of shadows who came in the night. These shadows gathered squint-eyed kittens and cats trembling with age. Starving alley cats like leather bags filled with bones, and pampered house-cats more spherical than cat-shaped, alike were taken. The shadows asked not whether a cat was tom or queen. White cats and black, tabby and orange, grey and tortoiseshell, cats that looked like their owners and cats that looked like nothing but cats, the shadows hungered for all.
Once upon a time there was a city called Telelee.
In this city there lived the sorceress Abi-simti. All the sorcerers in the world trembled at her name, and before her they were as puddles before the sea. But she was like one who drinks salt water; the more magic she knew, the more she wanted.
This was all very well for a time, while there were still tomes to find and entrails to study and beings to summon forth and bargain with. But after a time, Abi-simti had learned all the magic that could be discovered by mortals.
Thus she set her greedy heart on the magic known only to the immortal gods.
Now this was easier said than done. For if the gods gave their secrets then they would be cast down, and would rule mortals no more. This they could not tolerate. The gods are monsters of vanity. They must always justify and explain their ways to mortals, and demand praise, and are greatly jealous as to who has the most worshippers, though they affect a haughty disdain.
Abi-simti went to every temple in Telelee, and spoke most sweetly and learnedly to the priests thereof, and sought to learn whether this god or that would trade away their secrets. But each time she went home disappointed. The priests too were disappointed. It was a small thing for Abi-simti to know the desires of the priests, and to appear as a man or woman with all that the priest admired, whether flaming red hair, or coal-black skin, or violet eyes, or all three. Though she could work no magic on her voice it was pleasant enough, as befits one who must cajole and command the spirits, and she could pitch it low when pretending to manhood. And though she could not mute the clacking of her left foot upon a marble floor, this foot being in truth a cloven hoof after an unfortunate summoning of a certain efreet, this detail went unnoticed by the priests.
At last she had visited every temple. She had even gone to the secret temple wherein a hyena-mouthed Lady is offered human hearts, which her worshippers call the fruit of the spear. She had gone to those caves and abandoned buildings where worse is done, to please gods that have no face or name. These gods promised to give away power. But it was clear to the wise sorceress that the secrets they told were as the cheese in the trap, which is not laid out for the rat's sake.
It is well-known that cats have the ability to sense entrances to the infernal realms, and the desire to enter therein, in order that they may combat demons and devils. This explains why they spend so much time under houses, and why they often disappear, never to be seen again. At night they gather to share news of the things below. The subjects of which they speak are so horrid that the conversation sounds sinister even to those who do not speak Cat. It is not a good sound to hear in the night; yet such things may not be spoken of by day.
On this particular night the boldest cat in Telelee came to the temple of Bast, which to human eyes appears to be an alley behind a fish-market. She was a white moggy with a black patch on one eye, and her name was Artemisia.
"Is there a greater thaumaturge in Telelee than the bull-footed Abi-simti?" she asked an ancient grey cat, who was the high priest.
"I have not seen nor heard of a greater in my eight lives past, nor in this ninth," said the high priest. "Not in Telelee nor in the wide world".
"It is whispered in the depths," replied Artemisia, "that she has spoken with the worshippers of the Lady. Yea, and even gone to the grottos of the skinless devourers who are worse than Her." This news made both cats arch their backs, and their fur stand on end.
"Only the desperate and wretched, who have some wrongness of body and mind, worship those of whom you speak," said the high priest at last. "Thus these gods are like wolves who are half-starved, and whose meager food is rotten. The one who dines on Abi-simti's worship will grow strong. Many things which hide in the darkness below shall hide no longer". The old cat lifted and shook all four of his paws, one by one, as if he had stood in something foul.
"Yet your whiskers are longer and more sensitive than any others," said Artemisia, "and can feel even into the future. Can you not therefore tell us how we may thwart the wizardess' designs?"
The high priest stood for a long while with ears cocked and eyes wide open, listening for the faint vibrations of future things.
"I can," he said at last. "Yet the witch is not a ball of wool, that may be knocked one way or the other with ease. We are like a cat who walks upon a fence lined with shards of glass. Yet there are dogs on either side, and I can see no other way".
Exhausting the gods that are known in Telelee, Abi-simti then studied those only known in other lands. But Telelee is as the sea into which all rivers flow, or the market where all gather, or as some moralists have it, the lowest point in all the world, to which all base matter must descend. Thus most of the gods not known there were dead, or senile, or had passed from the world in which Telelee is found. Just when she was close to despair, she learned of the god who had been driven away.
He had come from another world, younger than hers, where the gods still lived among mortals. This god kept a group of witches, who were called Snake-Wearers. These women would drive themselves into a frenzy with wine and dancing. Then they would bare their necks to the fangs of venomous snakes. The poison would drive out their reason but increase their strength. Their nails would grow and harden until they were like the claws of lionesses. To stand against them in battle was to take a sword to stop a river, or to argue against old age. Wherever they went the people hid, and envied those who were visited by locusts and plague.
Finally all the other gods made war on him, whether for despoiling the land or for giving away his power none may say. He and his followers fled, through a great desert and to a high mountain. The journey to reach the god was long and dangerous. Yet every so often a farmer would find a sheep or an ox mutilated and dead, and no wolf or boar about who might have done the deed. Then folk would say that it must have been a witch, on her way to join the god.
Having read this, Abi-simti longed to pledge service to the god and thereby to be told the secrets of the Snake-Wearers. Yet her desire did not overwhelm her cunning. There was the problem of the desert, so barren that there were not even djinns. If there had been djinns, then she could have bound them to her service to carry her. She would have arrived in an instant, in a chariot of finest crystal, and her arrival would have been as the entrance of the Queen of Sheba into the city of King Solomon (an event which is known in almost all worlds). She wasted little time on such thoughts. For there were no djinns. And there is a law of the universe, as immutable as the desire of all matter to bind together which grows more ardent the greater the mass, and is called gravity. This law is that, of all spirits, only djinns may bear one across a desert.
Abi-simti contemplated this desert that she must cross like any traveler, enduring days of cruel sun and nights of sepulchral cold, and the bleached bones giving demonstration of her likely fate. She beheld with mind's eye the bare mountain that must be climbed, and the sharp rocks which waited to embrace her, and felt despair.
As Abi-simti wandered the streets of Telelee, too fretful to sit still, a cat crossed her path. It was a moggy with white fur, and a black patch on one eye. This cat rubbed itself against her leg, as cats do to mark their territory. To be precise, it chose her left leg, which ended in a hoof, and thus stood as proof that even her power had limits. Abi-simti was not minded to receive this lesson. In fury she cried,
"May the Crone turn the water of your bowels to ice, O cat! Your lordly self-satisfaction shall not go unchallenged. You who have claimed territory shall instead be both conquered, and the means of greater conquest". Saying this she picked up Artemisia (for it was her), and made her way home with great speed. Abi-simti was in despair no longer, but had a cunning stratagem.
First she brought forth creatures of a far star, who looked like shadows, but had substance, and who obeyed her commands, though not willingly. She bade these creatures to go forth, and gather the cats of Telelee. This they did, with silent and terrifying efficiency.
Having dismissed the shadows, Abi-simti then found with her arts an island that had no name, and no-one living there. She summoned a djinn of the air to carry her there, along with her feline captives. There she bound spirits of the water as her slaves. They worked day and night for many months. Nigh every tree on the island was felled, the rocks in the streams were cut and shaped, and even the sand on the beach was fused into glass. At the end of this time, there stood a huge harp. It was higher than three elephants standing one atop the other, and had hundreds of strings. There were metal fingers to pluck the strings, hundreds of fingers for hundreds of strings, so that the harp seemed to be caressed by a centipede of prodigious size.
But the strangest part of this harp was the music it made. For the strings brought forth no sound. Instead, when the mechanism was operated correctly, the metal fingers would pluck a string. This plucking would cause cogs to turn wheels and wheels to turn cogs, and at last a lever would fall. At the end of this lever was a nail, and at the end of the nail was a cat, which would yowl in pain. Abi-simti had arranged the cats so that the cry of each one was the exact pitch that the corresponding string should have made.
Having made this harp, Abi-simti caused it to play. It played night and day, for as many months as her djinn-slaves had toiled to build it. It was more strident than nails scratching a blackboard, more revolting than the sounds issuing from a communal latrine during an outbreak of dysentery.
At last the music reached the ears of the god. He said to the Snake-Wearers,
"In two worlds and millennia uncounted no sound more strident or unmusical has defiled my ears. This cacophony, surely, is the very embodiment of discordance, which I hold dear. Therefore, O ten-taloned witches, go forth and find its author, that you may bring them before me and I may praise them."
This the Snake-Wearers did. They found the nameless island, and Abi-simti.
"Are you the architect of this device, and the music thereof?" they asked, and Abi-simti averred that she was. "Then explain to us its construction," they demanded.
Abi-simti showed the witches the levers by which she worked the fingers. She showed them the fingers that plucked the strings, and the strings themselves, and the cogs that the strings caused to turn. She pointed out the wheels that the cogs moved, and the cogs which were moved by the wheels. Finally, she discoursed upon the lever which responded to the wheels. Lastly, aglow with pride and ambition, Abi-simti showed the Snake-Wearers the nails, and the cats who were prodded by them.
"O Abi-simti," the Snake-Wearers said, "did you not know that all witches are cat-lovers?" Having spoken, they tore her apart.
What happened to the witches, whether they returned to the god, and if so whether he slew them or forgave them, is nowhere recorded. Yet it is told that there are untrod places in the world where it is doom to play a harp.
In Telelee wise and venerable cats still tell kittens of the time of their great-grandparents, when the shadow of Death lay across the city.
The harp now lies in rusted ruin, and the trees have all regrown. Through the wreckage, it is said, wild cats prowl. Some have white fur with a black patch over one eye, and all have an unmistakable air of smugness.
The foreigners were everywhere. It was extraordinary, when one took the time to look, how many one saw. It was like the dirt in the house of a man who lives alone. The piles of clothes build up and crumbs remain unswept, seen but not noticed. Then one day company will be expected, and one will see as if with new eyes.
Yet, he thought, surely a diamond in the muck shines all the more brightly. There could be no greater contrast than between his actions and theirs. Where they were cunning, deceitful, and clever he was straightforward, blunt, simple, direct. He epitomized the contrast between his people and theirs in actions as simple as eating. He could not walk the street without any number of exotic concatenations of oils, spices and flavors beckoning to him. He disdained them all, choosing the hearty, simple and satisfying food of his birth.
Even his appearance, his very clothing, marked him as obviously local. Yet many of the foreigners wore the same as anyone else, almost like a disguise, so that one might not notice until they passed close. And, he thought, if a foreigner might be mistaken for one of us...could one of us be mistaken for a foreigner?
It was a strange thought. Yet once thought, it could not be un-thought. His beard, for example. What could be less foreign than that beard? It recalled the wizards of mythology - or, more historically, the pioneers and woodsmen who had carved this land from the wilderness. Yet the foreigners, too, often wore long beards. It was like one of those disturbing pictures which was a candle-stick one moment and a pair of faces the next. In certain lights, from certain angles, a foreign face seemed to look out from behind his own. It was sometimes hidden and sometimes seen, like a gang lurking in the shadows of a church.
He shaved off his beard. There was no question of keeping his mustache. A man with a mustache and no beard appears sleazy, untrustworthy; an oily carpet-seller, or something worse. A smooth, clean, wholesome face presented itself in the mirror. A face that, metaphorically and literally, kept nothing hidden.
He had a vague idea that their religion forbade cutting the hair, or cutting certain parts of it. He hardly had long hair, not by today's standards. Yet if one was dressed for winter, so that only a small amount of hair was visible, could a mistake be made? He could not be sure that it would. Yet he could not be sure that it would not. It was better to be safe than sorry. This simple saying, he thought, had a deep wisdom. Not exotic, not alluring - and therefore ignored by most - but good and true.
He looked at his new haircut with satisfaction. It gave him a certain military air. And indeed he was taking part in a kind of war, though one where homeland and enemy territory were not distinct, but horribly mixed. Or perhaps he could be compared to a monk, head freshly-shaved as a sign of his vocation. A monk, or a priest...
Like one who wanders familiar paths, unheeding of the way, and suddenly looks up to find themselves lost, his thoughts led him from light to darkness. The thought of priests reminded him of the shaven-headed priests of ancient Egypt; tall, bald, wicked and hook-nosed. And with a shock, he realised that he too could be described as hook-nosed. He could not believe his eyes. He turned before the mirror, first one way and then the other. He even raised his hands to his face and felt it, as if it would prove to be false, as if it would come off like one of those combinations of false nose and glasses that are sold in novelty shops. Too blind to see the nose in front of his face. Another commonplace saying with a profound truth.
He went out, and returned with a new knife. The pain was unbearable, and he had to use whiskey to numb himself, as well as maintain his courage. At last the part in question was removed. It did not bleed nearly as much as he had imagined.
"There," he said. He raised a wisp of cotton wool to the wound. But his hand did not complete the movement. It hung in the air, as if he no longer commanded it, as he stared at his fingers. His long, slim, covetous fingers.
"OK, that was a pretty scary story, but I think I've got a better one." Rob paused to pop a roasted marshmallow in his mouth. He stood up. In the flames of the campfire his eyes seemed to glow, like those of a wolf in the night.
"Once upon a time, not so long ago, a group of friends went out camping. There were five young men and women...but did I say five? In truth there were but four. For the fifth member of their party was not the young man he appeared to be. He was not a man at all; indeed, not even a living creature, but one of the walking dead! Dear friends, there is a twist in the tale. This is no story. Many years have I walked in the guise of mortal man. Many thirsty years. Now, at last, I shall feed!" Rob opened his mouth, now filled with long, wolf-life fangs, and howled with inhuman laughter.
There was a long silence.
"Wow. This is awkward, Rob," said Jenny at last. "I'm actually a vampire as well. But I guess we can split two ways?"
"Three ways," said Mark.
"Oh, no way you're both vampires too," Rob said angrily.
"No, no. I'm a demon. I was hoping to tempt you into sin and damn your souls. Well, Tim and Alice's souls now."
A pair of bat-like wings, huge and leathery, sprouted from Alice's back.
"Sorry. Succubus."
Tim raised his hand.
"I'm the coagulated rage of the murdered children whose bodies lie beneath us. I regenerate, so I guess you guys could eat a bit of me, but I'm kind of sour..." He trailed off as the others shook their heads. Mark warmed his hands at the campfire. Everywhere is too cold when you come from Hell.
"Man, what are the odds?" Rob asked no one in particular. "I mean, you assume everyone else is a real human, am I right?"
"I guess so," Tim replied. "I actually stalked these four college kids last month? Turned out they were the ghosts of some college kids I killed years ago. Pretty embarrassing."
"You don't..." Alice began, then trailed off.
"What?" Mark asked.
"Well, you don't think that they're all gone?"
"Who?"
"Humans. Mortals. They haven't...I don't know, died out?"
"What, so...so everyone's really a vampire or a demon or something?"
"Well, yeah."
"No. No, no way. I mean, we'd know. You could tell."
"You know," Mark said thoughtfully, "people don't seem to be into forbidden magic any more. It's been so long since anyone tried to sell me their soul. It was...actually I think it was in the 20th century some time. Gee, that long. But no, no way they could all be gone." He turned to the two vampires. "I mean you guys get hunted all the time don't you?"
"Oh, for sure," Jenny nodded. "I'm always thinking people are following me or about to throw holy water or whatever. There was this old guy, Obadiah something. Wow, he just didn't give up. Followed me pretty much the whole Civil War."
No one replied. The only sounds were the insects and the fire. At last Alice broke the silence.
"Hey, if this was a TV show? The vampire hunters would leap out at us about now, and they'd be all like 'we didn't die, we just got real careful' or 'we're over here' or something."
But no human sprang upon them. None at all.
If my life was filmed, it would
go straight to DVD
and someone who was famous once
would have the role of me
and if five stars meant 'excellent'
you'd give it two or three
and most of those who rented it
would watch ironically.
Years later they would track me down
and do an interview.
They'd say "I heard you died," and I'd
say "Yeah, I heard that too."
"Is any of it fictional?"
"Perhaps a scene or two.
There weren't as many ninjas, but
the rest is mostly true."
Once upon a time there was a man who had a date with Destiny. He dressed in his best clothes, made sure to put on deodorant and aftershave, and masturbated beforehand, so that he would not be led into error by lust. At the appointed time and place he presented himself, flowers in hand.
Alas, he had never met her in person, but had arranged the date through meetallegoricalfigures.com. And username hotdestinyfate69 was not Destiny at all, but Ambition, who had used Destiny's photo to get more messages. She meant to explain this before meeting him, but always decided to do it later.
So Ambition turned up, presenting herself as Destiny. She agreed with everything the man said, and the man found her delightful. In truth the man liked the idea of going out with Destiny, but probably would have found Destiny herself a bit bossy. Ambition and the man stayed together, and lived happily ever after.
Once upon a time there was a demon named Lilly, whose job was devising ironic punishments for the damned. The greedy she caused to be stuffed with lard until their stomachs exploded, upon which they were sewn together to gorge anew. The generative organs of the lustful she caused to sprout chains, and these chains to be attached to skeletal horses, who dragged the wretches around. Thus, as she explained to them, they who followed their genitals in life would follow them in death. On her wall she proudly displayed the award she had won for this, even though the judges had noted that a few of the most debauched seemed to enjoy it. However most of her work was traditional but solidly executed, as she spent the centuries heaping humiliation on the prideful and causing the covetous to lack what they desired most.
One day she received word that her section would be expanded.
"Thou must choose for thyself three underlings, of whatever kind and nature thou desirest. Yet beware! For many have been brought to ruin by the attainment of their heart's desire; and that which is bought without payment may in the end cost...THY SOUL! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!" the memo read. She thought for a great while on who she would request to have transferred to her. The worst part of the job was the paperwork. There was no point taunting an Aztec priest by denying him a cell phone, or withholding a finely-curved sacrificial knife from a real estate agent, and thus each soul must have a detailed file. She had often wished that Inhuman Resources would computerize the system. Alas, the section head was a demon of the Eighth Deadly Sin, making puns (1) and always said
"I'll be damned if I use those infernal things! Har har, did you see what I did there?" In the end she chose three different specialists. The first was an expert in torture by conversation. The second was trained in the Ninth Deadly Sin (saying 'lol' out loud). And the third was an incubus, a male demon of lust.
The new minions duly arrived. The first minion worked hard, although he had a slight speech impediment which meant that he sometimes used words correctly. He knew a secret, extra-annoying way to mispronounce 'nuclear', and he could use the word 'synergy' four times in a sentence. His specialty was quoting comedy sketches and getting them slightly wrong. Few could stand his rendition of
'This parrot is no good!'
The second minion did his job well, although once she caught him looking at spreadsheets when he was supposed to be working on pornography.
But the third minion, the incubus, brought joy to her black and rotting heart. From the top of his horns to the tip of his hooves, he looked the very embodiment of both punishment and sin. He seemed slightly taller than whoever he was talking to. He had velvety wings and strong yet gentle claws, and his violet eyes gave a promise of honesty and commitment that no damned soul could resist, though they knew it was false. As she considered these attributes one evening (if that term may be used for a place where sunlight is unknown) Lilly realised that she had fallen in love with the incubus.
Love is strictly forbidden in the infernal realms, or rather happiness derived from love. The damned may feel the agonies of unfulfilled yearning, or pity for their equally damned beloved, but there may be no happy marriages. Demons are, of course, masters of deception, and so she had no fear of her feelings being found out, provided she did not act on them. But oh, how it cost her to maintain the facade of normal unlife. When forcing critics to review every book in The Library That Contains Nothing But Fan-Fiction she still brought forth peals of malevolent laughter, but in truth she felt no joy. She bought tumors and pustules for the office's morning teas, where before she had baked them at home. Even feeding the supermodels failed to cheer her.
She began finding fault with the incubus, speaking harshly to him from fear that she would betray her true feelings. Yet her harshest words were reserved for those occasions, all too common it seemed to Lilly, when the incubus was called upon to go to the mortal realm to seduce a weak soul or reward some lustful evil-doer.
"Thy mustache is unevenly curled, so that the left maketh two full revolutions more than the right," she would say, or "that goatee maketh thee look like thou workest in a skate shop." Always the incubus would respond with mildness and humility, which tore Lilly's heart far deeper than angry words would have done, for they made her feel weak and foolish.
Things came to a head at the office's annual party, just before the unholidays. It was the tradition to have an office Secret Satan, where each employee would be given the name of another, for whom they would have to buy a gift. The gift had to be cheap - no more than 40 pieces of silver (2). Everyone was included, even the imps, though they were not permanent (3). The incubus drew Lilly's name. Most gave such gifts as bottles of white whine (the cheaper blends of scaremongering and resentment), or for the ladies perfume scented with soiled mattresses and the sour sweat of despair. But the incubus gave the best gift of all. It was a desk calendar, printed on creamy human skin, and featuring inspirational quotes from such paragons of wickedness as Jack the Ripper, Tom Cruise, and people who put comments on YouTube. Everything about it said 'quality' - even the typeface (4).
"D00d!" said the imp of the Ninth Deadly Sin, "How d1d u f1nd that 1n budget :O ????" The incubus merely smiled modestly. But Lilly scowled.
"I like not this gift," she said brusquely.
Some hours later, the incubus approached her.
"O my manager," he said with head humbly bowed, "I crave the honor of a private audience." They went into a stairwell. Lilly swayed slightly, affected by strong drink (5), and perhaps by another intoxication.
"O tower of villainy," the incubus said, politely sinking to one knee, "it is clear to me that my labors pleaseth thee not. Yet I have striven with all my might to seduce and corrupt. Yea, and more than once have I been rewarded with commendations. Even Azrael, the Destruction of All Hope, the Bringer of Unending Night, hath written in letters of black fire that I am a credit to the team. Behold my letter of reference, wherein he also writes 'I am sorry to hear that he is leaving us. Indeed I will howl terrible blasphemies for a year and a day at this doom which hath been laid upon the whole section. I have no doubt that he will be a calamitous force for ruin in his new role.' By the cloven hooves of Oprah, tell me how I may gain thy favor!" All the while the incubus looked up at her with an expression of such woe that she felt as guilty as if she had a soul. At the conclusion of his speech, Lilly was moved beyond endurance.
"O my minion," she cried, "Thou art the very model of foulness. The fault is mine; for thy perfection hath moved me beyond propriety, and into love."
The incubus stood, and took her in his arms.
"I, too, have fallen in love," he said, with a sincerity that could not be doubted.
With all the slyness of their kind, the two devils hid their affair. At work not so much as an improper look passed between them, and there was neither heat nor coldness in their speech. They would leave work separately, then meet later, going by devious paths to avoid meeting anyone from the office. Sometimes they would stay inside and watch TV; a comedy like Fiends or the game show Who Wants to Boil A Millionaire? Often they would go to a McDonald's (the only restaurant in Hell). There they would stare into each others eyes, needing no words (which is lucky, because the McDonald's in Hell constantly have eight separate toddlers' birthday parties happening at once). One weekend they visited the county unfair. They ate fairy floss made from real fairies, and rode on the emotional rollercoaster. Afterwards they walked along, simply holding claws, looking up at the moonlight streaming through the hole in Ozzy Osbourne's back yard. The lyrics to songs suddenly seemed meaningful: Lilly was embarrassed to find herself shedding a tear at Hail, Bringer of Torture. They gave each other their hearts, as well as several others.
"O darkness of my life," the incubus said one day as they lay in bed, tails entwined, "wilt thou allow me to visit thee over the long weekend? I have a surprise."
"O Snuggle-Maggot," Lilly replied, "I will."
It was a balmy 1000 degrees when the incubus arrived. He sat in a fine carriage, drawn by two murderers, who had been condemned for setting fire to the homeless (6). When Lilly answered her door, he presented her with a blindfold.
"I fear to spoil the surprise," he explained. Lilly leaned against him as they rode, listening to the pleasantly anguished moans of the murderers as the coach-imp whipped them to go faster, or simply for the joy of whipping.
"We have arrived," the incubus said at last. He held her by the arm as she stepped from the coach.
"Do not remove the blindfold yet," he said, and gently guided her, until she heard the creak of a door opening, and he sat her on a seat that felt hard and wooden.
"Remove thy blindfold now," he said at last. She did so - and found herself in a prison cell.
"Lilith O'Diferous, you are hereby detained under the Ironic Comeuppance Act," said the incubus. "You are charged that you did, on various dates, ironically punish the damned. This is both compulsory and illegal according to government policy."
"Betrayed!" Lilly cried, heartbroken. "Alas, I have been so naive. Was thy love all a sham?" she asked.
"It was!" replied the incubus. "You, who arranged ironic punishments for others, are thyself punished. You who scourged the lustful are undone by your own lust - is this not itself ironic?" the incubus laughed.
"But...wait," Lilly replied. "If I am to be ironically punished for punishing others ironically, does this not mean that you will be likewise punished for punishing me?" The incubus stared at her for a moment.
"Oh hell," he said.
1 Authors Note: I myself used to do this. But I repunted. (back)
2 $6.66 in decimal currency. (back)
3 They had been hired through a timp agency. (back)
4 It was Hellvetica. (back)
5 They served evil spirits. (back)
6 They were flaming hobo sexuals. (back)
Based on the story of the same name by H.P. Lovecraft.
Cairo is a story-book
and Cairo is a dream
where all the fates the world awaits
were long ago foreseen.
The smoky, incense-thickened air
the water-seller's cry
the wailing of the call to prayer
unchanging as the sky.
The sky itself a miracle
a deep and cloudless jewel.
The sunrise like the eye of God
all-seeing, golden, cruel
for not all dreams are happy, nor
do stories always end
with monsters killed and treasures won
and coming home again.
Both beautiful and hideous
unsullied and unclean
Cairo is a story-book
and Cairo is a dream.
I left the noise and crowds behind
and walked into the dunes.
Night came and I was all alone
save for the crescent moon.
Save for the moon, and for the past
and for the desert wind
that whispered like a pack of ghouls
reciting every sin.
Before me, blotting out the stars
I saw the pyramids.
One seemed to call me forth, and I
approached as I was bid.
I walked toward the monoliths
an ant before a lion
cowed like an ancient Israelite
enslaved and far from Zion.
No God saw fit to rescue me.
I walked till I arrived
below the tomb of Nitocris
where she was sealed alive.
As subtle as a cobra's hiss
the one who lay within:
the pitiless Queen Nitocris
queen of the ghoul and djinn.
The merciless Queen Nitocris
who, some have dared to write,
still has her throne within the stone
as pharaoh of the night.
No guide would come here in the night.
The tourists lay in bed.
I stood, the only living thing
among the royal dead.
I cringed and looked around like one
who braces for attack.
I looked up at the silent tomb
and it, I thought, looked back.
In terror of I knew not what
in darkness and alone
I cried. The desert drank my tears
and stayed as dry as bone.
No guide or tourist dared to come
without the light of day.
Who was it then that came to me
and carried me away?
They wore a shape that had not seen
the day since days began
with leering face that showed no trace
of any race of Man.
They held me with inhuman hands
and carried me inside.
I walked in silent blackness till
I felt that I had died.
I felt that I had died and gone
to walk among the damned
forever in the secret places