0 comments/ 25826 views/ 17 favorites Slime and Ice By: Araddion "You got it?" Sanchez asks after a long drag on his Marlboro. His name's an affectation: he's lily white. He's Mom's sweet boy, cleans his room, does his own laundry, kisses her goodbye, sells joints and pills to highschoolers on Saturday night, then goes to Church on Sunday pretending to be sinless as starched white sheets. Typical American shyster. Sanchez is young, maybe late teens, more likely early twenties. Buzz-cut hair like a Marine's, though he doesn't have that mechanized killer look. Well-formed: broad shoulders, trim waist. Sleek like a powerful colt. Biceps, designed by steroids, inked with strange runes. Plaid boxers crowning sagging jeans. Coral pink lips. Those lips hypnotize Snake. Wanna feel those on my shaft. But Snake buries the thought. This is business. Business for the Disciples. He drawls, "I got it." Reaching down into his Varadero's saddlebag, Snake pulls out two ounces of weed, packed in a mason jar wrapped in a brown paper bag. Towering thunderclouds glower down on the graveled lot, tucked deep inside Umstead Park. Dark green pines bend under the heavy humid air. It feels like one of those ancient days when sorcerers gargled demonic syllables and called forth entities from blasphemous planes. Sanchez extracts the jar from the bag, opens it, sniffs. He looks up. "Good shit." He grins like a kid who's just unwrapped his best birthday wish. Snake spits. "Disciples always got good shit, man." Sanchez snorts. "Disciples! Disciples! You sound like Baptists. Who's your god?" There's an unexpected scalpel-like urgency to his question. Don't tell him. That voice doesn't come to him everyday, but Snake knows it well. He's made love to its maker countless times. The words rumble like the Pacific Plate grinding against the North American Plate. It's the Leather Messiah's voice, and the only way you can hear it is if you take one of the Messiah's phalli up your butt. If you've chosen Him, you obey the Leather Messiah. If you're wise. Yeah, the Disciples of the Leather Messiah. The biker gang. You've heard of them. America's Most Wanted runs their photos most every Saturday. And a warning never to approach them unarmed. The Disciples blew up that bank ... you remember the stockbroker in the black face, his staring eyes, unbelieving that anyone could strike him. Me? Why? It was profit, just money, that's all I wanted...I've got a family... Whiny fucker. The Disciples are the ones who spiked the water in Branson, Missouri with good old LSD, triggered that geriatric orgy that scandalized Oprah and resulted in all those funny faces on the CBS Evening News. And the revolting clips on YouTube, before they were banned and shifted to Xtube. The Disciples torched that GM dealership too. Even left their calling card: ropes and ropes of dried jism, criss-crossing on warped asphalt. Enough DNA to convict everyone of them. You gotta be proud--hell, fucking arrogant--to be a Disciple. The Leather Messiah doesn't intend for the meek to inherit the Earth. Snake looks at Sanchez with less lust, more wariness. "That would be telling." Sanchez snorts. "You gonna pay me or do I need this?" Snake clutches the pocket of his low-riding shorts, outlining a chunky Colt .45. His shorts drag down, revealing the upper limit of a patch of blond pubic hair. His body energizes as if on the cusp of murder, or sex. "Hold it." Sanchez tosses the weed to Snake, leans into his car--Dodge Viper, because Sanchez is stylish--opens the glove box. Snake's mouth waters. Nice butt. Awesome butt. Fuckable butt. Snake's a top, you see, and he appreciates all comely males. Sanchez thrusts a bundle of Andrew Jacksons to Snake. His eyes linger on the outline of Snake's gun. Snake tosses the weed back to Sanchez and stuffs the money into a free pocket. "Whatcha got there?" Snake asks. Sanchez starts. "What?" "Looks like a sword." The hilt sticks up like a hard slender black cock. The scabbard is decorated strangely--silver medallions bearing a design Snake can't quite make out. The weapon is set on the Viper's passenger side floor, leaning against the seat. Sanchez swallows, glances back at the car, glances at Snake, glances at the picnic tables empty of innocents at play. "Dude owed me some money for some roxies. Traded me that instead. His granddad got it on Okinawa. World War II. You know, like on the Hitler Channel." He lies, beloved. He wants to kill us. A brief moment. Snake nods. "Cool." I want you to get that sword from him. And then I want you to kill him with it. "Now?" Sanchez frowns, puzzled. "Now what?" Shut up. Not now. Wait. You're pretty. But stupid. Recovering quickly, Snake says, "We done?" "Ahhh ... " Sanchez shifts his feet. "Might need some more. Different stuff. I've heard things ... can you get it?" Wariness maximizes. Different stuff? Different stuff? Is he talking about-- Snake plays dumb. "Weed? Sure." He grins. "I'm a fuckin' Disciple, man. We can get anything." "Ummm...where?" "Where what?" "Where do you get it from?" "You a narc?" "Hell no!" "You talk like a narc." Snake eases the Colt's butt out of his pocket. His eyes regard Sanchez the same way a python savors a vision of fresh young doe. "Calm down, man, calm down, calm down, just put the fucking gun back in your pocket, OK?" I want you to leave. He needs a mystery to solve. "Sure, man. Sure." Snake turns and throws a leg over the saddle of his Varadero. His shorts ride lower, revealing a smooth expanse of hard buttock. He guns the engine. "Later. Cocksucker." He throws a mock salute and roars up the gravel road towards Highway 70. He's going to follow you. "You want me to loose him?" The wind whips Snake's long blond hair. His Van Dyke feels itchy, as if a thousand little bugs are crawling around his lips. Sweat blooms on his naked chest. The reptiles tattooed on his arm swell as he twists the throttle. No. Go home. Let's fuck. A boner awakens in Snake's sweaty crotch. Grinning, he flies down the highway, past the strip malls, past the chain restaurants, under the Beltway bridge, then roars down Glenwood Avenue towards Raleigh's heart, where two semi-skyscrapers jut like half-hard cocks above the oaks and the asphalt. Home is a rundown house buried under old oaks. Property of the Disciples of the Leather Messiah, who've taken lessons from the bankers and the lawyers and the other criminal classes and gone into real estate. It's not impressive. Warped boards in the front porch. Peeling white paint. Driveway of cracked concrete. Open windows with Venetian blinds. Mailbox stuffed full of junk. Out of season azaleas huddling against the foundations. Scratched front door. Small garage with grimy windows. But it's private, and safe, and the cops don't stop by because the Disciples slip fresh, crisp bills into sweaty yet eager palms. It's empty today. Other Disciples crash here, but today they're out. The Leather Messiah spins a web, and none of His Disciples know what His final design is. The Disciples obey the Leather Messiah. Snake waits, recumbent on the tattered couch, a fat blunt smoldering between his fingers. A mass of golden hair ensnares his shoulders. On his shoulder is a tattoo of unspeakable evil: tentacles and cocks writing in unwholesome bliss. He's stripped naked. His fat boner leans over his hard stomach, dripping liquid like molten diamonds. His nuts are ripe plums, eager to burst. He waits, eyes bloodshot and dreamy. The heavy air, like held breath. The heat of a North Carolina summer. Thunder booms like the cannons of the gods at war. Alone, except for television's comedy of fear. An announcer pauses, wipes slavering lips, plunges on. There's been an outrage, a travesty, a disaster. Some insane country held elections--but America's candidate was resoundingly defeated. How can this be? Electoral fraud, must be; no one could have any genuine objections to the American way of life. Poor benighted third-worlders, wallowing in their ignorance. Who will bring them shopping malls? Democracy? Doritos? Diabetes? Analysts debate strategy. The crucial question: shall we correct the electoral returns through starvation, by conventional bombing, or a traditional nuking? Snake laughs uproariously. Demons rule this world. It's just a matter of finding one most in accord with your personal tastes. He hawks a huge wad of spit, languorously masturbates. He's got a gutsplitter of a prong. Thick and long, with a fat urethra capable of vomiting cup after cup of hot biker semen. Apple-sized cockhead. Urethra thick as your finger. Veins web the shaft. Do you like him? Snake starts, relaxes, takes a long drag, holds it, soars higher and higher, a dizzy eagle reaching for the unobtainable sun. "Hot fucker. I'd like to plow him." Good. Maybe I'll let you fuck him later. A pause. Do you love me? The golden afternoon thrusts between the slats of the blinds, Apollo's fingers caressing his lithe form, reaching for his fat cock. "You fuck like a god," Snake says. "But I don't think I love you. How could I love someone like you? You're not human." I am the Leather Messiah. Is that not enough? "Love ain't nothing but a good hot fuck." A chuckle like boulders falling in a cavern. Let me teach you what love is, then. A sound burbles like slow boiling wax from the old furnace grate. A frisson of excitement shivers up Snake's cock. Heart beating fast, he stubs out the blunt, props himself up on his elbow to look. Enter the Leather Messiah. A mound of flesh lifts itself through the grate. It resembles, if you the uninitiated could bear to look at it, an octopus: bruise-colored flesh spotted with mushroom-colored circular blotches. The flesh is liquid and seemingly sentient, flowing smoothly around the grate bars as if the Leather Messiah is a colony of independent, sapient cells. It shapes itself into a stump of slimy flesh, quivering. Pseudopods rise from the mass and form eyes. Roots ooze across the floor. Cilia rise like cat's whiskers. "You are beautiful," Snake breathes. He lifts his knees. The purple lips of his butthole beckons the beast towards the warm delight of human ass. In other times, in other situations, Snake's a top. But this is the Leather Messiah, for whom all life bottoms. Like racing snakes the slender roots of the Leather Messiah's shapeshifting flesh course across the carpet. They brush lightly at Snake's feet, slithering around them. The Leather Messiah's flesh is cold, cold as the Jello you've forgotten in the refrigerator. But it quivers with life, almost as if its on the verge of orgasm itself. Or perhaps it is orgasm itself, made flesh. The Leather Messiah's whiplike tentacles ooze over Snake's body, embracing him. Snake shivers, moans. Small teeth appear at their tips and bite at his nipples. He jerks like a plucked violin string. You are hot. "I'm hot for you." It sounds stupid even to Snake but he says it anyway. The Messiah has a way of eliciting truth. Hence His unpopularity in America. I can fuck for hours, the Leather Messiah says, but we don't have the time. Sanchez is near. He wants to kill us. But I need to cum. The tentacles tighten on Snake's body. The Leather Messiah lifts Snake off the couch. An atavistic impulse flares in Snake: twist! thrash! escape! It's like the scene in the movie when the man-eating tree seizes the virgin and draws her in to be devoured. Snake, aware that ecstasy looms like a dawn after night, fights the impulse down. Good boy. The Leather Messiah cradles Snake. Turns him so he's face downward. With slow strength that hints at the patient, unstoppable power of oak roots gnawing into the eternal earth, the Leather Messiah parts Snake's legs. Pretty. The Messiah draw himself up. The demon is now a Sasquatch-sized mound of flesh. Five eyestalks focus on Snake's lithe form, waving like sunflowers in a gentle breeze. I dreamed of you when you were a boy. Small, and frail, and filled with lusts you didn't understand. I looked at you and I saw your hair like spun gold, and I saw a body that Apollo himself would breed. And I wanted you. It would take time, but one such as I has all the time in the universe. The Messiah's chest irises open like a hard fucked butthole. A huge blunt mass of flesh thrusts out. It too is textured like octopus' flesh, but it's rigid as steel and dark as obsidian. Foot after foot emerges like a stallion's cock slithering from its sheath. The Messiah's cockhead opens like a tulip. Five finger-like shapes, arranged pentagonally, beckon excitedly between the petals. From those ejaculators bulbs of gelatinous liquid drip. The worn carpet steams where they fall. The demon moves between Snake's legs. It arranges its eyes around the tableaux as if it were a director of pornographic photography. "Do it," Snake begs. "Do it to me." His heart feels like a small bomb bursting inside of him. He wants it. Needs it. Again. Hard? "Yeah!" You always wanted to be a demon's bitch, didn't you, boy? "Yeah!" The Leather Messiah cranks Snake's legs open wider and wider, exposing Snake's tight pucker to His gargantuan phallus. Pain shoots through Snake's hips. He strains to lift his butt, angling it so the demonic phallus can plunder him. Now it's time to fuck. The only god Snake ever imagined himself worshiping was one who went blind with lust. No chastity, no restraint, just one who could dissolve himself into the red fire which drives all living things. The Leather Messiah draws Snake to Him. His gigantic phallus nuzzles between Snake's buttcheeks. The ejaculators wriggle like fingers, smearing thick slime on the pucker. The liquid, like the Messiah, is alive. The hot liquid courses over the pucker like wax. Snake sighs, eyes rolling up. The slime worms its way inside. Warmth dawns in the eternal night of a man's gut. The Leather Messiah laughs. The furniture rattles. Breeding time, beloved! He heaves forward and rams his phallus into his Disciple. "Fuck!" Snake doubles up in pain, almost broken by the power of entry. The Leather Messiah emits tongues from his shapeshifting flesh, eagerly drinking the tears leaking from Snake's eyes. Poor boy. You taste like wine. Another thrust. Another foot of phallus. It flexes inside him, turning and twisting with Snake's intestines, penetrating him further than any mortal cock could. It bucks and leaps, strains against the confining colon. And penetrates. And thrusts. And probes. And slithers deeper, deeper, ever deeper into that succulent tightness you can only find in a man's hot butt. Doomed to live in a place where fucking is a matter of economics. "Fuck me," Snake grunts. He reaches up, embraces the Messiah. His fingertips plunge into the demon's flesh. Do you love me? The demon's phallus ripples inside of him. Withdraws until Snake's anus bulges. Sinks inside. Snake's toes curl. Let me tell you about love. The hard, urgent thrusting begins. The ejaculators lengthen into finger-like appendages, stroking Snake's tender innards. It's not about money. The Messiah churns faster in Snake's guts. If love is for money, then it's not love--it's parasitism. That's your empire's curse, you see. It was birthed in plunder, and it never escaped its birth. "Fuck me!" Snake reaches up and embraces the deliquescent flesh. A surge of electricity explodes through him, and he writhes and twists and bucks on the rutting phallus. He feels as if he's drowning in erotic ooze. You're a pleasing boy, and your body burns with the need for rut, and that is why I chose you to be one of my Disciples. But you don't know what love is. "I got ... three feet ... of love ... inside me!" Snake's head whips from side to side, spittle flying. Dim pot-addled boy. The Messiah's eyes turn fiery. Love is a kinship. The willingness to do anything so that someone else ... something else ... may live. Your universe was born in the death spasms of a previous universe ... and if you wish to escape the legacy of its birth, you must strive for life. "... cumming ... " Snake murmurs, and slathers his chest with ropes of jism. Ah, you feel good, boy. You please me. You give in to lust, the fire of life. I burn to cum to. I am the Leather Messiah. I am here to liberate your people. The demon's thrusts become more frantic. !!!ORGASM!!! The demon's phallus erupts. Scalding fluid rushes into the blond biker, and Snake bucks, arcing his back against the iron embrace of the Leather Messiah's tendrils, helplessly cumming again, fountaining life in the demon's slimy embrace. Long moments pass, human and demon united in the sluggish retreat from Elysium. The phallus shivers, softens, slurps from Snake's hole. Greenish ichor pours out. Gently the demon lowers Snake's body to the floor. Snake lays, panting, smearing the jism on his chest. Demon seed burbles from his butthole. The Leather Messiah's form melts until He is a giant amoeba pulsing on the floor. That boy. Sanchez. I want him dead. "I've never killed anyone," Snake gasps. He stuffs two fingers up his butt, scoops out spoonfuls of the Leather Messiah's seed, devours it. His eyes roll up. Marijuana's high is dilute compared to the ecstasy blazing through him. There's a first time for everything. "Why?" He is my enemy. He worships powers who oppose my designs here. He wants to kill us. Destroy everything I stand for. Wipe out my Disciples. "I didn't think you could be killed." Snake wants to doze. Fuck this Lord of the Rings crap. No quests. Just weed, and sex, and-- There's peril for the disobedient. The sharp edge in His voice quells the urge to sleep. "All right. All right! Sorry. Forgive me. I'm human." I love you because you're human. Get dressed. "Why?" He's coming. "But why do I need to get dressed?" Because he's got the sword and he might cut your cock off. So it's over. This special moment with his god. It feels like the end of summer, when winter's cold claws begin to tear the leaves from the living forest. Snake slips back into his shorts. But he leaves his semen there on his chest, glistening, oblong medals celebrating primal lust, drying to curly flakes. The smell is pungent. The Messiah flows toward the grate and retreats to the plane of his existence. The throaty roar of a Dodge Viper with tailpipe modifications stops in the driveway. Kill. The stark word burns in Snake's mind. Oh yes, he's thought of it. The Disciples live a dangerous life, but they're for anarchy and freedom, not death. Yet they're not untainted with that crime. Until the Leather Messiah triumphs their world is war. Snake's not killed. Thought of it, yes. Yearned to do it, like when some cop grills him. But he's still cherry. White. Chaste. Kill! Can he do it? Can he kill someone with coral pink lips and an eminently fuckable butt? Sanchez knock is loud and firm. Snake seeks a moment to collect himself. "What do I do?" Answer the door, nitwit. Sanchez shifts uneasily as the door opens. He holds the sword. It's sheathed. His Honda idles in the driveway, the door open. Behind him the sky is gunmetal gray, rapidly darkening. Tall pillars of cloud boil. Lightning dances like titanic fireflies. "Seppuku?" grins Snake, shoving his hand into his pocket and cupping his palm around the grip of his .45. Do it now, master? Slime and Ice You're an idiot, beloved. Don't do it now. Puzzled, Sanchez asks, "What?" "What do you want, fucker?" "Uhhh ... anyone home?" Sanchez shoots a glance past Snake. "Yeah," says Snake slowly, groping for a thought, a plan. "Down in the basement. One of my buddies in brewing something up." Not true, but Sanchez won't learn the facts. "What ... kind of stuff?" "We've been here before, ain't we? You a narc?" Snake's eyes glitter. "No! Hell no!" "I'll ask you once more. What. Do. You. Want?" Can you give me a clue, master? The Leather Messiah is silent. "Listen. Let me come in--" Let him. Snake backs away from the door, keeping his eyes on Sanchez's twitching fingers. "Suit yourself, motherfucker." Thunder booms. Window panes rattle. Sanchez' eyes take in the room. The blunt in the ashtray. The twittering television. The puddles of fluid--demon jism--on the floor, smelling like a locker room blended with marijuana. The open box sitting on a side table with a treasure trove of .45 cartridges. The bookcase sagging under the weight of blasphemous tomes. If Sanchez were sensitive he'd feel the otherwordliness leaking like a heavy gas from those volumes. But he isn't. Or perhaps the fumes of demon jism addle his brain. There's not really any cover in the room, so Snake leans against the jamb of the doorway leading to his bedroom. He can retreat. If necessary flinging himself through the window. He fakes casualness but his eyes never stray far from the sword in Sanchez's hands. "I heard--listen--a buddy of mine said you guys got some stuff." Sanchez has one hand on the sword hilt, the other on the scabbard, as if he's ready to draw and begin swinging. "The Disciple's got lots of stuff, kid." Snake eases the safety off the pistol. Lightning cracks. The lights flicker. A sound echoes up out of the furnace grate. "They say this stuff--it's like Viagra, but weirder, makes you horny like you can't imagine." The Big O. That's what this pretty boy was hinting about earlier. "Put that fucking sword down, OK?" Sanchez sniffs. "What's that smell?" There's a tent rising in his pants. A big top. "Put the fucking sword down." Sanchez lowers the sword to thigh level, his eyes boring into Snake's like prison searchlights. "The Big O, that what you're talking about? Is that what you want?" "Is that the stuff they're brewing down there?" Snake smiles thinly. "You keep poking your cock into shit that ain't your business, kid." "I know--I know some guys who want some." "Listen, Sanchez, the Big O ain't for little high school boys. Clear? It's for men. Rich old men who want to be horny again. Who want to fuck for a whole weekend again, like when they were kids. Give it to some quarterback who's planning on boning the prom queen and you're gonna have a quarterback who sands his cock down to a toothpick and a prom queen with a cunt that's like wet catfood." Sanchez's eyes steady with purpose. "Can I get some?" Give him some. Do the deal at his house. Get his sword. Kill him there. Snake takes a deep breath. "It'll cost you. Lots. Two grand for ten pills." "What?" "Two grand for ten pills." Snake shrugs, a salesman explaining a Ferrari's price tag. "The chemicals we Disciples need--well, they're exotic. Gotta get them from DARPA. Government boys, well, you can't turn their heads unless you gotta lot of grease for their palms. You see why the Big O's for rich old fuckers?" Sanchez breathes heavily, his eyes on the floor as he searches within himself. "Shit." "No money, no deal." Snake crosses his arms. Sanchez makes his decision. "I can get it together." "How much you looking to buy?" asks Snake. "Ten pills. Just ten pills." "They for you?" Snake lets his eyes drop to Sanchez' obvious erection. Sanchez laughs nervously. "Maybe." He pushes his cock down so it's not so protuberant. "Two grand. You get it. You get the Big O." Sanchez nods. "Fine. Fine. Meet me in Umstead--" "Fuck that," says Snake. "Cops watch people like me and you, you know. Doing a deal two times in one day in the same spot is bad karma. Really bad." He grins. "We'll do it at your place." "You're fucked!" Snake feels the Leather Messiah's slime rising and falling in his guts like the wax innards of a lava lamp. He shifts his legs. Grins. "Yeah, well, not often. So where you live at?" "Shit, man, my fuckin' Mom is there!" "Get the lovely lady out of the house if you don't want problems. You want the Big O or not, faggot?" Sanchez' eyes narrow. Malevolence shines through, greenish and malignant. "Fine." He spits out the address. Sanchez lives in a swank neighborhood. Oakwood, east of downtown Raleigh, not far from the Governor's mansion. Big oaks, big Victorian houses. Used to be a rundown place but rich Yankees found Southern plantation style homes to their liking. It's just up the street from the crack houses. And if need be he can get on a big road and hightail it out of there. "Ten tonight," Snake says. "Have Mom out of the house." He hefts his prong. "Unless she wants some action?" "You're sick," Sanchez says. "You want some action?" Snake waggles his eyebrows. "Nah," His eyes dart to Snake's face. "No." "Yeah,, well, get out then. I gotta beat off." Exeunt Sanchez. The Viper roars its way into the city. Something glops in the furnace vent as Snake slams the front door. "So why?" Snake asks. "Who opposes you, master?" I am not the only demon. There are demons of fire. There are demons of mud. There are demons of wind. There are demons of ice. My Disciples are not the only worshipers. Go to his house. Take the sword. Kill Sanchez. You're my Disciple. Obey your god. Your reward will be ... bliss. Maybe ... maybe Snake can kill him. Maybe it won't be so hard after all. # Snake emerges wearing shorts and boots into pouring rain and a world split by jagged lightning. He's cold and sober as he ever is because he's going to need to focus tonight. Not just because he's going to be riding through flooded streets and pounding rain. Something weird is going to happen. The .45 is loaded, cleaned, oiled, ready. But Snake senses there's something else at play. That maybe he won't need it. Kill him with the sword. But why not the .45? Murder is death no matter what weapon is used. Nonetheless the .45 is an old friend, and Snake wants it with him on this ... quest. He roars off on the Varadero, rain nipping his skin like pellets from an airgun. His blond mane soaks the rain. His nipples stiffen as if an invisible god plucks them. His cock throbs with blood. Onto Peace Street, take a right, flash past the old Cameron Village Mall. Trees thrash in orgiastic frenzy. The lights in the little houses are small eyes staring frightened at the world in conflict. Across Capitol Boulevard, a concrete canal sometimes of traffic now of water. The sterile government buildings downtown are bone-white towers haunted by malignant souls. Then into Oakwood as lightning forks like serpent tongues in the boiling sky. Drenched, Snake rolls to a stop at Sanchez' address. Behind a spiked fence, cloaked with ancient gnarled oaks and vines, rises a Victorian pile. Windowed turrets huddle against the storm. Ornate woodwork, painted to please Timothy Leary, dances on the timbers. A double door on an elaborate porch. A narrow driveway between hedges leads to a garage sized to house Model T's and 1930s Packards. Most of the windows are dark. A dim light flickers in the windows flanking the front door Sanchez isn't expecting him for another two hours. Snake's a student of history. He who gets in the first blow often wins. Worked for bin Laden. Not so for Yamamoto. Context matters. Snake hopes he's read this situation right. He hurls himself over the fence, skidding on the wet grass. A car raises a curtain of rain as it hurtles past on the street. He hurries to the driveway. Just the Viper. Good. Don't have to worry about dear Mom and Dad. Good people, no doubt. Rich. America's finest. Probably eat puppies, Snake thinks. Raw. No, he's not going to knock and ask, "Can I come in now?" Water vomits from the mouth of a gutter. Snake rattles it. Not strong enough. There! A trellis, decked in ivy. It is strong enough. Snake climbs to the second floor. He creeps across the porch roof. He tests a window. It opens easily. Idiots. They must've unlocked in to catch spring breezes and closed it without thinking. He tumbles into a bedroom. Dark, but there is some illumination: the mirror on the antique dresser reflects orange streetlights. Smell of clean linen and tropical flowers. Soft carpet absorbs the water trickling off his skin. This place reeks of tradition, wealth, power. Sanchez' family takes their clues from old movies. Huge wardrobes stand like hulking beasts. The bed is a four-poster with velvet curtains tied to each post with a golden cord. He shuts the window and creeps towards the door. He draws his .45. I told you you wouldn't need it. Slowly he opens the door. A breathless moment as hinges squeal like copulating rats. But the TV murmurs downstairs, masking the sound. Snake slips into the balcony. An ornate railing separates the balcony from the great room downstairs. Gilt things glitter in the periphery of his vision. Red and gold striped wallpaper. Artificial orchids. Brass vases. Enameled heraldic plaques. Classic American Instagothic. Snake shudders. This home gives him the creeps. There's Sanchez. Sprawled in a chair. Shirtless. His body looks like stoned carved by a river. Smooth and hard. He got a hand jammed in his boxers, and he's fiddling. He sucks on a fat blunt. Saliva glistens on his coral pink lips. But he's not looking at the TV, where celebrity imbeciles complain about the lack of makeup in the jungle. The altar standing against the wall hypnotizes Sanchez. Black marble veined with crimson. Two translucent candles flicker like burning cocks of ice, emitting greasy tendrils of smoke. They flank a statue of what seems to be clear glass. Snake struggles to make out the statue's shape. In the mad light of the candles and television it's difficult. The statue shimmers like ice under a strobe light. Suddenly it's clear. It's something insectoid. Two legs. Four arms. Elongated skull. Wraparound eyes, all knowing, all seeing. A curving spike for a cock like a New Guinean phallus sheath. What the fuck? Snake thinks. Then, more cogently: The sword. Where's the fucking sword? His eyes frantically search the room. Sanchez rises, stubs out the blunt. His cock tents his boxers. He shucks them. Naked buttocks gleam, oiled with sweat. Smooth and creamy, eminently breedable. Snake's cock lurches towards erection. He can't help it. It's just his way. Sanchez pads across a Persian carpet rich with mysterious designs as a fragment of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. His eyes are so bloodshot they seem pools of blood embedded in his face. Sanchez kneels before the crystal insect with the hardon. He blows smoke at the statue. The hallucinatory vapor enfolds it, a ghost embracing a nightmare. A long moment passes as if Sanchez listens to some strange chant. He bows, presenting Snake a superb view of his buttocks, showing a bruised anus that looks as if three football teams have pounded it. Then he wraps his succulent pink lips around that hard, curving spike. Snake has to remind himself to breathe. The blowjob is perfunctory. Sanchez releases the minuscule cock, sits back on his legs, his saliva gleaming on the tiny phallus. Kneeling before the insect, he again bows his head, murmurs. Sanchez chant electrifies the air. Snake knows that power. Life in the Disciples has attuned him to things of this nature. Sanchez works a spell of summoning--powerful magic to rend the veils between the universes so that nameless entities can cross. There's a shivery sound, like a hammer busting a frozen waterfall. Sanchez laughs. The crystalline insect flexes its arms as if waking from deep sleep. Its head turns from side to side, scanning the room. It moves, strutting around the altar. It whirls its arms as if stimulating blood--or some fluid--to flow again. With each step it enlarges. Now Snake understands why the Leather Messiah was obsessed with the sword. Where's the fucking sword? Snake feels the tick of an unseen clock counting down towards some unknown catastrophe. He can't see clearly in the dim room, especially since the statue has now grown to the size of a small child, brandishing his cock, and its unnaturally jerky movement distracts Skunk. "It'll happen tonight," Sanchez says. The crystalline being leaps off the altar, scuttles around the room like a grass crab on all limbs. Its cock drops black fluid like crude oil. "He'll be here in a couple of hours," Sanchez continues. "You sure you can get his demon to show?" The crystal demon is now three quarters of Sanchez height. It hurries to him. Four claws seize his head and force Sanchez's face into its groin. Delightedly Sanchez swallows the crystal demon's cock. The demon's head rocks back in ecstasy. Teeth chatter. Its hips churn. There. Snake sees the sword. It's cradled on the pegs of a wall display about ten feet from the bottom of the stairs. Shit. Now how am I supposed to get it? He shoots a look at the coupling pair. Are they busy enough? Snake rises, his fat prong thrusting out of the top of his shorts, and he thinks of Sanchez's coral pink lips. At least someone's enjoying them. He begins to creep down the stairs. Odd. It feels as if he's descending into an invisible cold fog. His nipples spike. His skin goosepimples. The crystal demon now looms tall over Sanchez's worshipful form. Its skin is hard like armor but subtle structures trace through it like veins. Its eyes shimmer, focuses on the kneeling form blowing its cock. And that cock--Sanchez's lips strain on it. It's thick as his forearm. Saliva drips from it. The nutsack resembles a cauliflower: knobby and textured with tiny bumps. As the demon moves, thrusting slowly at Sanchez's throat, a crinkling sound echoes from its joints. It gets colder and colder as Snake pads down the stairs. He carefully tests each step before putting his full weight on it to ensure that nothing creaks, that nothing betrays him. The sweat in his armpit and groin feels freezing. His nipples are hard turrets. He's down. The huge room looms cathedral-like. Snake glances at the two. Both are lost in the blowjob. The silver medallions on the scabbard draw Snake like an owl's eyes shining in moonlight. Heart hammering, Snake reaches for the sword. A blast of supremely cold air stops him. There's no wind. It's as if some force sucked energy out of the molecules of air. Trembling, he turns. The demon stands ten feet from him. The phallus drips saliva and black precum. It must be a foot and a half long, curling upward like the horn of an ox. The demon's stance is wide, as if a phantom Sanchez still blows him. It beckons to Snake. "Fuckstick!" Sanchez wipes black oil from his lips. His cock drips slime. His flesh doesn't look cold. No, Sanchez looks like he's been in the middle of an orgy. "I told you--" HE WANTS TO KILL ME. The demon's eyes roam Snake's flesh. His hands are an array of claws, and they snap like knives. I WILL KILL HIM. BITCH OF THE LEATHER MESSIAH. AFTER I FUCK HIM. "Let me kill him!" SHUT UP, BOY. The demon beckons. Snake is frozen. COME HERE, BITCH. Snake reaches for the pistol. IT DOESN'T WORK AGAINST MY KIND. YOU KNOW THAT. COME HERE! Shit. Where's my Messiah now? Snake stumbles towards the demon. The claws entangle in Snake's golden hair. Immeasurable strength forces him to his knees. Hot tears cloud his eyes. This is it, man, this is it, I'm gonna die, killed by a freak from some other plane-- Snake knows what he's supposed to do. It would be fatal to resist. He opens wide-- The black fluid tastes like blood. The demon's cock is beyond cold. The contact sears Snake's mouth as if he's jabbed a spike of dry ice down his throat. But the ice-like rigidity is an illusion. The shaft bends, worming into his mouth. The demon pauses there, savoring the feeling of Snake's lips stretched taut on his cock. But not for long. Smoothly it enters Snake's throat, the black precum numbing and lubricating. Snake's gullet stretches and stretches, but there's no gag reflex. The demon chitters as his huge knobby scrotum presses firmly against Snake's chin. GET THE SWORD. Sanchez, who's been masturbating as Snake absorbs his master's cock, hurries to the wall, takes down the sword, rushes back to stand at his master's side. YOU PLEASE ME, SLAVE. I'VE BURNED TO FUCK A DISCIPLE SINCE BEFORE YOUR ANCESTORS CRAWLED OUT OF THE SLIMY SEA. Saliva boils from the corner's of Snake's mouth. He looks up. The transparent eyes glitter at him, crystal balls in which no future can be seen. The demon's mouth yawns open, revealing a cavern thick with needle-sharp teeth. His exhalation flows like air from a mortuary freezer. Don't kill me. Snake pleads with his eyes. The demon laughs, draws his cock backwards, embeds himself again. His pincers needle into Snake's skull. He fucks Snake's mouth. I've not forgotten you. Please him. Like trumpets blowing in the darkest heart of a battle it's a relief to feel that voice vibrating in Snake's pineal gland. He's not lost. There's still hope. There's cavalry out there, on the way, charging across the plains. He just needs to old out. Please him, you idiot! Snake works his tongue over the icy shaft plundering him, tearing his mind away from the icy burn the demon's flesh inflicts upon him. He throats that gargantuan phallus expertly. The coppery taste is heady, crackling with energy. The hair on the back of Snake's head shivers as if a lover breathes on him. Damn. This demon is a stud. ENOUGH! The demon rips his cock from Snake's mouth. Sanchez licks his lips. YOU'RE GOOD. NOW I UNDERSTAND WHY THE LEATHER MESSIAH LOVES YOU. YOUR FLESH IS PLEASING AND YOUR TALENTS ARE SUBLIME. Staring down at Snake's kneeling form, the demon strides around behind him. His footsteps clatter like ice cubes rattling in a glass. A brief moment as he examines the focus of his desire. Then his claws seize Snake's hips and draw his ass up into breeding position. GIVE ME THE SWORD, SLAVE. Sanchez hands the weapon to his master. The demon draws the dark gray blade. Strange cursive symbols glow a sullen crimson on the blade. The writing isn't Asian, the writing isn't Arabic, the writing isn't European. It's hard to say what it is. Strange curves, following a chaotic mathematical pattern. But the words themselves, whatever they may be, are malign, a curse against the existence of the Leather Messiah. Snake awaits the blow, shivering. Don't kill me don't kill me don't kill me... Clutching the blade in a claw the demon kneels. He shoves Snake's legs open. He covers the blond haired biker like a stallion, his claws resting in pairs on either sides of Snake. The sword shivers with the urgency of the demon's passion. The demon doesn't wait. There are no preliminaries. Smoothly, inevitable, like a frozen slug the demon's phallus presses inside Snake's butt. Snake arches up into the demon's bitter chest as his sphincter irises open. It's huge, but not like one of the Leather Messiah's phalli. He can take it without that sense of being stretched to the edge of rupture. The demon enters slowly, a stately procession of cockflesh up Snake's back alley. No sensation of heartbeat, of breathing, throbbing against Snake's back. Just a cold being of devoid of all purpose but the cessation of motion. Slime and Ice You'll know what to do, beloved. "You fuck him well, master." Sanchez appears in Snake's vision, jerking himself furiously. His nuts blur with motion. Snake grunts when the demon finishes stuffing his cock into Snake's colon. He's full. His butthole aches. But he's done it. And he finds pleasure in it. For the demon's cold cock presses against the hard nut of Snake's prostate, and Snake's cock twitches obediently, drooling precum. For a moment the demon savors the feel of a warm velvet tunnel wrapped around its tool. Greasy precum drips into Snake's bowels. Then the demon moves. Slowly, a glacier retreating down a narrow valley. An ecstatic howl bursts out of Snake. Fists clench, and he thrashes his head. It's good. It's so fucking good. The demon thrusts. His sack presses like a snowball against Snake's. The demon finds his rhythm and seeks his pleasure in Snake's forbidden flesh. Snake moves his hips against the demon's plundering thrusts. A flash of guilt. Should I like this so much? What does He think of me? But Snake can't change his response to the pleasure. It's Snake's nerves which betray him, primal and subliminal, delighting in the sheer animal rut of the act. It's too much for Sanchez. He gasps, points his cock at Snake's face, and skyrockets sperm. Thick as wet paint Sanchez semen douses the Disciple. When he's finished Sanchez slurps the spunk webbing his fingers as if it were spilled vanilla milkshake. The demon isn't happy. He gnashes his teeth, rips the carpet with his claws. I WILL TAKE REVENGE FOR THAT. But there's no interruption to the drilling the demon's giving Snake. The demon fucks faster and faster. His claws rattle, and the sword he clutches trembles on the floor. No, Snake's not a bottom. But he's learned since he enslaved himself to the Leather Messiah. He knows how to give himself to the pleasure. Instinctively his butthole squeezes on the demon's cock, pulsing in time with the plundering shaft. There's pain, but it's a transcendent pain, a great wave Snake can ride higher and higher and higher-- LITTLE BITCH. I WILL FUCK YOU INTO A SHOWER OF BLOOD. Snake whores his butt for the demon. Spreads legs. Lifts hips. Squeezes butt. Moans. The demon likes it. Boom. A huge berg calving from a glacier. Snow rumbling down mountain slopes. Pine tree shattering under the weight of ice. !!!ORGASM!!! A gusher goes off in Snake's guts, an icy torrent so powerful you'd think it'd burst through an frozen dam. It roils and roars inside him, scouring him. Orgasm's red fog rises out of his subconscious. Snake's cock twitches, bleeding precum. Ride it ride it ride, up and up and up His nuts throb, ready to burst-- No! No! No! Snake grunts, and thinks of crushed kittens. Rattling, the demon spews a final lake of jism into Snake and collapses onto his back. Claws relax. The sword clatters free. And now Snake knows what must be done. Snake twists, bucks, hurls himself up against the weight. The demon crashes to the floor like an icicle falling. A bitter wind roars. DISOBEDIENT BITCH, I WILL KILL YOU! Snake grips the sword. Dark voices suddenly chatter in his head. Ancient sorcerers, practitioners of black magic, who sought to banish demons from the world. Curses, abjurations, words of condemnation and damnation. The syllables uttered when this keen blade was forged before the modern world began. It can be used against any demon. He scrambles to his feet. The crystal demon is rising, his mouth a cavern of icicles, his claws yawning open, reaching to tear out Snake's heart. Now! The blade slices through the demon's neck like air. The head whirls off, smashes against the television, clatters on the floor. The body thrashes, stumbles backwards. Claws reach for the missing head. The legs twitch like a dying cockroach. It keels over. Shatters like ice cubes dropped on the floor. It's over. Snake struggles for breath. Liquid oozes from his sphincter. The room is suddenly warm. Tropical even, as if an orgy has taken place here. Sanchez stares at the blade, frozen with fear. "Don't kill me, man." "Why shouldn't I kill you?" Snake pants. "That crap about the Big O was bullshit. You wanted the Leather Messiah dead." He rises, brandishing hard cock and ichor-dripping sword at the terrified boy. "I had to!" "Liar! Everything you did, you did because you wanted to!" Snake gestures with the sword at the shards of the demon's body, emitting smoke now, and shrinking. "Please ... please don't kill me!" Don't kill him. "What!" This is bullshit. "This whole thing has been about killing that fucker!" Sanchez stares. "What--" "Shut up! I'm talking to my fucking master!" Don't kill him. I lied. None of this has been about killing him. It was the master I wanted. Sanchez is merely a tool. Like you. Boy. "So what do you want me to do, Messiah?" Snake can't keep a bitter tone out of his voice. I promised you bliss. There it is. Snake stares at Sanchez's naked body. Coral pink lips. Awesome fuckable butt. Snake drops the sword's point. Grins. "That's more like it." Yeah, Snake's a top. And his god loves him. What could be better?