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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 XII

Welcome to violence. We come to violence. Beware, all those that enter past, for ye must look upon yourself in violence. All meekness lost, from here on in. Let the furnace blister ye on the wheel of your own fists.

Thus speaks the sign. I tag it cockyellow and walk on.

Violence, meditate on that for the Mingus who used to get up and stay up and write like a hopped up devil on the stick, so fucked with it. Got's to do it, every night, and then fight and fuck like I got the body in the truck, the back seat still full of meat and the blood and the staining, still gaining, where the demons been training in the back yard in the basement where it reeks sweat and the blame doesn't carry forth on the terry cloth I used to wipe up the piss and the tears and lying flat on my back, on hers, with her anger, her righteous anger, and the shame of looking in my own face and believing that I did a bad thing to hurt someone. Bad. Violence.

Kob gestures erratically. He wants his spear back, his feet are far too thick to trod upon anymore without holding himself up, but I do not dare give it away. So he is kicking his feet, his shoes against the oldhell rocks. The sound of cracking metal, and better shod hooves appear, an old satyr, with that thick black snake hiding deep in the bushes. You don't need it anymore, do you?

We are in the mountains, high above the plain collapsing now, magma smouldering in the distance. The sight is long and clear, rough rocks and open red sky. A sun rising as we try not to fall down, try not to drop into the pits without first circling, without first sighting the enemy.

Sheath yourself in muscle, sweet man. I say. For we are in the killing today.

Kob is sad, the burnt wick on an old candle. We are not in the killing today, he says, not if we are spotted. Today on the rise, come the old bull and the men with four legs who are part horse and part man.

Not unlike yourself.

I have noticed. I have lost three toes, it seems.

Why is this?

I do not know. As your friend once said, the further one stares into the abyss, the further it stares into you. Perhaps, as we travel?

The further we travel into hell, the further hell travels into us?

Perhaps. Perhaps hell travels into us. Perhaps it engulfs us.

Let it begin then.

There are creatures stirring as we descend towards the valley, swift sound of hoofbeats, and the whistle of long limbed birds about our heads. Clackclattering about the rocks. We reach the valley floor when I see them, the centaurs, long stretched sinew and horseflesh melded together, left unfinished by the slothhands of devil smiths. The beasts are covered in viscera and long sweating hair from their heads, matted dreadlocks and longlong cocks dangling carelessly, nearly snagging the stones as they gallop towards us - the things seem to have their own minds, hovering over the ground as they do, twisting like elephant's trunks, extend, retract. Two manhorses approach, one carrying the bow, the other the lance.

I told you they would find us. Now, my spear, Tourette.

Your spear can wait. The ash is mine for the moment. When it comes, it will come as it comes and the blood will flow and fuck it, who the fuck cares who is holding the spear and who is running and who will do the killing. The hell is crawling into you, infecting you, but I tell you now, Kob.

The devil comes into me quick.

Not now. The messengers must be treated with respect.

I show no respect, not here. And you need a lance.

Well, there is nothing I can do and I know this. Then it comes as it comes. But I have warned you.

The centaurs slow to a trot and circle us, staring. The one with the lance is speaking.

You have gained two toes, it appears, old man.

I have. says Kob. I ungulate.

He is trying not to smirk.

You are becoming one of us. Welcome to violence. Now, you are far away from your home and well out of place. I must submit that you must submit to us. Submit to the beginning of violence.

And how do we do that? I say.

We do not address you, fledgling. We address the old traveller. We are telling you the toll, and you must know, there is a toll for all those who wish to travel these roads. For those that can travel these roads.

We do not pay a toll.

You do, or there will be a fine to pay.

We may pay a toll. If the toll is fair.

Longlong cocks snort and sniffle along the ground, digging deep into the pebbles. Their heads are crusted with warts and callouses from all the riding, assumed, all the fucking.

The toll is sodom. What else can we charge?

The ash is growing in my hand. There will be no sodom here.

There will be no sodom here.

Enough, fledgling. We submit to the old traveller.

You submit to me. And if we do not pay the toll?

Rattling the scabbard, the sheaf of arrows with demoniron tips. A hardiron lance, all iron. The longcocks awake now, poised and looking for a new crevass.

You must pay the toll. You must submit to it. Or you shall not pass.

Fuck it fuck you fuck your horse it is time to die and with that little blurb the ash in hand and the old leap into the air and the look of surprise on the devilhorse face when the ash splits his breastbone and his heart explodes. Spewing black ichor. Punching a crab, the sound. The hardiron lance, all iron, slips from his calloused hand. The other horse is wheeling, nocking arrows, birds flying, but I am moving too fast around his friend's body, and the birds strike him broadside and the hardiron is in my hand now and I can throw or I can leap, or I can stand on the faltering back of the first demon horse before he falls and press the butt of the hardiron into my own nock and drive the hardiron point into the archer horse flanks. Artemis screaming. No dying yet. It's an ugly wound and I am on the ground, wrenching out the hardiron, its long sharp tip in my hand and the longlong cock afraid of me, recoiling from the metal but it is not too far away and it cannot get away and with the deft flip of hand, it is cut off and lying on the ground quivering and I am disemboweling the horse for goodmeasure and it is lying on the ground now, its legs quivering and I am holding the longlong cock in my hand, hard and bent like an dead oldman's bones and the horse is shuddering every time the hardiron twists and every time the longlongcock smashes into his face, turning bones to powder. A fine morningstar, I laugh. A fine ball and chain. The horse bleeds black and snorts through broken teeth one more time and the cock comes down on its eyes and darkness descends on it and it is over.

I am cutting off the other cock with the hardiron. They are fine weapons. Kob is silent.

We're taking scalps as we go. Pick up that demoniron lance, man. Can you make with the bird?

I can not. I must be honest and say that I would be better with the lance. Even if I do not want it. Why are we walking this way?

I do not answer. Kob is withdrawn. This was not the route we agreed to walk. We are straying, and if there was a path less travelled down here, where would it end? He knows only one path, and we take the other.

Somewhere in the valley, a bull is bellowing. Kob is picking up the hardiron spear. I keep the old ash tight to my arm. The ash is trustworthy, and I have the morning stars if I need them. And the birds. The sound of heavy hooves, cavalry riding down on us. No, a lone rider, a lone horseman, coming from where? The mouth of a cave, close to us. Stepping from it, the ironshod feet, the empty eyes and the crooked horns. Bulbous muscles, and the ever present cock, vibrant under a torn loincloth. The minotaur, holding a club made from human skulls.

Those are my messengers you hold in your hands. You stain their arms with your flesh.

They would have us pay a toll we would not pay. They had no sense. Do you?

Sense is not the word. Duty is the word. My duty is to ask the riddle and yours is to answer. If you do not answer properly, you will pay the toll. For the messengers and for myself.

And if we answer properly?

You may pass.

I think you lie.

Think what you wish. Answer this:

A single flower grows on the wasteland rocks of the Atlas mountains, far away from its brethren.

I wait for the rest, but there is no more. It is a trick. That is not a question. The cocks quiver in my hands, ready for killing.

Wait, Mingus. It is not a question for those who cannot hear the question. I will answer.

But I am ready for the killing.

Of course you are, but this kills too. Defeat, my friend. The answer, minos: The flower is born, it lives alone, and it dies.

The humanskulls sigh in relief. There will be no fighting today. Minos' shoulders slump.

But my bestial wrath?

Your wrath is not for us. And besides, we have one whose wrath is greater. You have done your duty. Let us pass. Keep your head. Bury your messengers. Sleep in peace tonight.

The great horns bow. The cave beckons. Minos, this minos, retreats. The urge is to bury the ash in his back, and Kob knows this.

He is just a guard, Mingus. He does the job he was given. He pays his toll on the land. You would be no better than he.

I am no better than he. His horns would looks fine mounted on my spear.

Do not, I ask you. I have had enough of violence to others. Enough of this place. I wish to carry on.

Fine, let us carry on. You are the great pacifist.

I am not. He is back in the unbaptized masses of limbo. I simply tire of demon blood. I wish to move forward.

Better sights, I suppose.

A new figure is walking towards us now, long Thracian robes. Hurried purpose in his step. The ash, ever ready.

I am your ferryman, Nessus. I take you to the edge of the river. I am sent by Chiron to guide you.

How does Chiron know we are here?

The whole round knows you are here. Your presence ripples through this place. We can feel it, the devils feel it. Even the river feels it.

Which river?

Come.

This ferryman takes us further into the valley the air thicker and brighter, taste of copper. Sound of distant rapids.

There is a bridge for you to cross, and it is sound, so do not be afraid. He says this as we round the mountain's southern morass, and out of the canyon, mixed with clotted scree, a river of blood.

What is this?

The blood of the tyrants. Alexander. Attila. Dionysius.

Genghis?

I suppose. It has been so long since I walked the earth. There have been much, much blood in the last few days. Russian blood, german blood, the blood of mongols. The blood of jews. The blood of pogroms. Entire races, I believe. We saw red blood through here in waves, spilled by new tyrants, new people we did not know. I watch the tides, but I do not understand who all these people are.

And there is more to come. But let me tell you, most of it is the blood of believers.

Mingus.

It is true, is it not? Bloody muslims and Christians and Jews. One would think athiests did not bleed.

Or that there is no nation for you.

That is true as well. There is no tribe for us, just the faint bond of living free and alone. A nation of hermits. But enough, let us be on with it. Nessus. Is there any trick to this bridge?

None, if you have paid the toll.

We bid him goodbye and take the bridge. I stop to look down several times, directly into the bubbling, swirling blood. I love rivers, I reflect. I love to stand in rivers, to walk rivers, to dip my legs into them and stride their banks and fish for what lies beneath. But what fish lie beneath these crimson waves? Fish, indeed. We reach the apex of the bridge and we can see the other side.

A wood, it seems, in the distance. Faint screams. Faint moans of pleasure, but I may be hearing it wrong. I look into the river. Smell of clotted blood. And chamomile. Faces in scarlet, and her face, bleeding tears for me down there. The urge to leap and hold her, to pull her forth, though she's out of fucking reach and I can't help her any more. The urge to jump and let it all wash over me. I am going to jump.

Kob's steady hand on my back.

Who is it?

The trinity. I need to help her.

Do not help her from here. Your gaze is tainted.

Sound of water rushing over my ears, the warmth of a summer river in the far north, naked bodies mingling. Smiling audience applauding from the rocks.

That's what stares into me. Old words from the past.

Too much blood, Kob. All these tyrants, and the worst of them, at the top of seven. That's where all this blood stems from. This river might as well start there.

But it doesn't.

But it does.

The blood is everflowing from the top of the mountain. This I know. It simply possesses those messengers to add to it. Who knows this? We're all possessed. I know it.

All possessed. The blood flows beneath us.

 




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