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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.

DIVINITY

CUNTO VII

Workers in the cells. Castes. Shed out of the humidity and the fucking rage that goes with it, snapsnappsnsapping as the snow turns to sleet turns to rain and I've got some fucking demon heads on Kobs pike and he's walking proudly beside me with the glint now in his eye and we're not too far from the fifth circle which is so fucking good cause that's where we belong, with the wrathful, with the anger. Impregnated as she is. So much water in the air, thick chockinthcik and fuck it, here we come , descedning into hell and the howl of some platonic wolf hanging there like stench of a dead old lady left so long in her own house, fell dead after a dream of her dead husband, and the firstwrath that she brought with her. Rode no horse, fell, only fell and baked and lay there while the world rang on without her. Fists tight on the ashwood. Tight on the ash, I am the man with the fist full of ash. Fear me, you fucking demons.

Dark woods. Skirmishers. I can see the glint of them in the pale light here. Orange moonlight. Shoving and jousting, slapping their chests, up to their knees in the mud. Gold bars hung round their necks, of course, the obviousfucking irony of the avaricious weighed down by gold bars. I am praying for more, the closer I get. Gold ass plugs, pierced clits, ingots thrust through nipples which hang down like unwilling aztec warrior lobes. They push each other, golden beatles, through the marsh, nearing that river on the fifth, down on the fifth.

I say good for fucking you, but I don't care. Blisters on the feet, starting to swell. Kob looks much better now, not scared, not angry. Business like, wearing a white shirt and a tie and he has no pants, grass skirt and the reeds are rustling as he walks. Briefcase in hand. The insects hum, and all the white shirts in the mud, dancing to each other's wing beat [the money is this way] and they rub up against each other, chest puffed out like mad penguins, elephant seals with the probiscus whipping wildly. Slapslap in the mud, come, this is our punishment.

Filthy little beetles. Exoskeletons crack as they push hard gainst one another and for what? Driven by longing for what is no longer there, what didn't fucking matter in the beginning, though I'm understanding; for the more gold, the more fucking, the more fucking, the more joy, pure unjustified joy. And the violence is intrinsically related to being a slave, mere drones and workers, mere numerals, ones and zeros and nucleic acids that never rise above the simplicity they inherited. Does this seem like filth? This mud that I trod through? I know why Kob is not wearing pants. The river is rising, flooding without flooding, in the distance, and on the far shore, city of iron, glowing hot, shining on a black sky without stars, an ember in the darkness. Little cells, beating heavily in the mud beneath our feet. Little insects, devolved to larvae, left ungrowing in a dying swamp. Little slaves, dancing to the unseen hand.

The pike is heavy with the old anger in my hands, grown wearied by the little grubs knocking each other over for nothing. Weighed down by the gold, sinking as the marsh flows high, warbling little songs under water as the air leaves them and they are drowning, drowning as a way of life, drowning as each tide rolls in and fighting, scraping mindlessly in the mud for so long. Eternity, so long. There must not be any minds left in those shells, I am reflecting. Kob is looking through his briefcase for something slim piece of metal and cannot find anywhere to hack in. Shiny silver in the marsh of fatted calves. I let the pike's tip sink into the water, and watch uselessly as they come alive, drawn as they are in death to the smell of blood, swarming, deep in the water to devour the heads. Cerebrus, dissipating in the greedy mouths of a thousand golden dungbeetles, to be shit out again in the marsh and swept down the river. I am not unpleased and the river is rising.

 





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