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.:  The Divinity Chapters  :.
Cunto 01
Cunto 02
Cunto 03
Interview 01
Cunto 04
Cunto 05
Cunto 06
Interview 02
Cunto 07
Cunto 08
Cunto 09
Interview 03
Cunto 10
Cunto 11
Cunto 12
Interview 04
Cunto 13
A short 'mindstream' novel about a man's descent to hell and subsequent resurrection. His critical review of the novel, as captured by reporter Marvin Gander, and the 'mindstream'© process is interspersed throughout the chapters and may be included in the final work, in accordance with the author's wishes.

Any unauthorized publishing of this will precipitate excessive violence on the part of the author. Please ask. It's all ©2004.



A tail twitching, girded once for each sinner on the way down. Snake tongue flickering.

I am remembering fucking a woman named Prudence. Not so much fucking, but notfucking, after she sucked me off and I left her untended and angry and crying. So young and unknowing, wisdom of coming still to come. Why didn't I use that salient tongue? The wind is picking up the closer we get to the edge.

The demons are awake, sitting in staid bureacracy as we join the line. Not
so much as I thought it would be. Kob points to the mainframe in the
distance, high metal peaked with crystals and skulls and crystal skulls, and at the center, the great bureacrat, behind the machine. The line moves quickly, all naked men and women. This is where I should have been, penance for Prudence, for talking her out of a place with the hosts. Convincing her to preach to me alone, without her husband, and so seducing her. We talked for hours and I broke her down, told her the book she held in her hand wasn’t real and she believed me, the whispering in her ears. Believed the animal story, sweet lion's breath. Believed the tale of the first male. Slitherslither went the snake into the deep grass. Bright afternoon hours. An end to her cold nights, to a certain sterile touch, but she is here now, and her face, over in the maelstrom, beaten by the winds. Bruised by naked parts and cocks and hammers, full clubs, swirling round in the hurricane and my face is turning red. The heat. Smell of semen in the air, smell of soiled sheets and currant oil.

We are getting closer to the devil at the desk, his tail thumping regularly on the ground. Fastidious Minos, glasses on his face, held on by neat billy goat horns. Small face, small eyes, the suit and the sharp tie, changing colours. The light is failing, it is dark in his office, but we can see. We know it is dark, that there is no light here, just the persistent flashes from the ground, the sparks that fly as he beats the ground, so fast, precise, transmission of light.

Demonminos types all names and all delicious carnal crimes into the machine, humming as the naked bodies get closer, long chains snaking out of the swirling winds to snatch people, long arrows, soaked with venom and the pull line, fired through the ankle, strikes near the tendon drawing them into the windstorm. Kob pulls me from the line of naked bodies, and his attendants are noticing us, but say nothing. Rotten black souls of old pornographers and pedophiles; priests unveiled. We are clothed, invisible to their work, incompatible. Kob points out small asps on the ground and whispers in my ear that they take so long to kill, saw scaled vipers. Five days or more. The myth was that it was the black asp who bit her, the woman in the corner, beckoning, like a fallen whore, the animal thatfinished her carnal leisures, and it maybe so, it was the elapidae, trust me. Naje haje. Big snakes, long as a man. Imagine the pleasure that could bring. He wants to confess something to me about snakes, but is shy. I do not press him. We step softly and approach the bureaucrat.

He has a small head, small black eyes, and very thin black hair. He is bent to his task as though working bellows, when all his work is only to look the next person in the genitals and enter a number on his keyboard. An abacus on his desk made of castoff foreskins clicks over of its own accord each time, slid over by an unseen hand. The arrow, hurled by demons in the hurricane armed with atlatls, strikes the carnal sinner and they are torn into the wind. Castigated. Castrated, perhaps. A young woman, maybe fourteen, maybe nine, Italian, it seems, steps to the forefront, pressing up against the desk, undeveloped breasts below the level of the wooden top. She wants to say it is her fault, not her fault, but the demon is not interested. He stares at her unfettered mound, clean lips and enters a number. It was an older man and what did I know about love, what did I know it wasn’t approved of by an unknown god, it is unfair and of course I enjoyed it till it was discovered, sweet brother, I am innocent. Her face puffs with pride. I played, is it a crime? I was a child playing. Children playing are gods. I am innocent of this wind.

I am another god in hell.

Face strewn with tears. The abacus clicks over and the tail curls, scaly backed, and strikes the metal and the hurricane screams, the line comes out, nevermissing, and the child is torn nearly in half, split at the thigh from the force of the harpoon. Her lover is in there as well, and she knows it, but there is no finding each other in the maelstrom, cut apart and blended and viciously sodomized by elementals on patrol. All this for play, I say to Kob, and his eyes are dark with tears, watching so many beautiful sinners, the smell of sweat on their bodies, hurled into the cone of wind. A waste of so many bodies, so many fine breasts, so many women in there, slain by my own sword and Kob looks horrified at the face of a young man, pressed to the glass of the machine, and I know his secret, possibly. The young girl screams as she enters the machine, but her voice lost in the wind, and I cannot watch, and the place mute of all light, descends on my eyes. Another god in hell, indeed. Sweet young lovers on the wrack. And I am falling down on my knees, bent by the cry of prudence, lost to the winds. What can be said, woman. I should be in there with you for my sermon, swimming desperately through the muddy waters, nose plugged with sperm and menstrus, but you are alone. The abacus clicks again, young Jerusalem testicles, knocking each other forward. The bureacrat does not notice, just looks at the next cock, the next worn vagina and the snake hisses and the saw tooth vipers keep the fuck fucker fucker carnal fuckers in line perfectly and the wind screams and all those parts, all exploding and lost in throws of orgasms that never quite peak and always always sodomized and the burning and the whipping of flesh with hard scales, tips of bitter fangs. The lion, with his chasm of teeth, as they say, opens wide the maw and I fall in, deep under, broken by pity. I should be with you, religious ones, but I am not. I weep.

Kob wept. And darknesss fell.

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