From Issue 3.2 - December 1996/January 1997

Juliette: Dungeon of the Burning Angels

Part I: Buried Gehenna (The Rape Chamber)

Serial fiction by David Aaron Clark

Witness Rachiel, one of the three angels of Friday, a presiding spirit over the planet Venus, one of the Cherubim, trapped in the body of a Hollywood call girl who for the promise of $500 has allowed me to stuff her into a black and white rubber French maidŐs outfit and chain her narrow, gloved wrists and booted ankles together.

I am fucking the bitch, hard. Slapping her ass with the crisp seam of the black leather opera glove that ends just below my flexing bicep. Despite the ball gag plugging her comically rouged hole, an extravagance of bile and spit has gathered on her chin like rabies. Or the froth of a horse being ridden far too harshly.

The butt of the petrified demon bone strapped to my shaven crotch rams into the dry, cool meat of my pearlescent clitoris. The ungainly, rough friction delves veins of black electricity through the necrotic tissue, and my loins quiver a bit of their own volition. A frightening loss of control, considering that my continued animation is an act of my own concentrated will, a rebellion against the government of nature that demands all things stop when they die.

The excitement of that notion, that I risk my own continued existence through the thrill of committing this act of rape against one of God's most exalted servants, feeds the black radiance inside my soul, and I feel ebony tendrils travel through the still air around us, testing and sliding against surfaces both rough and smooth, burning and damp. Caressing the geography of my beautiful sunken lair.

The Dungeon. My buried Gehenna. Its merciless tools, its abject art, its profane furniture. In the corners, the dust of victims; the light perfume of their evaporated fear and agony.

Once this was an abandoned sepulcher in a land of cemeteries, a strange and morbid suburban development south of San Francisco. The business of this town called Colma is death; there are seven graveyards here, a dozen mortuaries, and countless flower shops. Through my ministrations the power of the place has gathered, through ritual, through human and animal sacrifice, until this chamber has become sturdy enough to serve as a proper church for the most unholy acts of violation. A place to lure and trap God's cruelest, most loving warriors. A place to rape angels.

This slut possessed by Rachiel is the second of my victims. The stallion ridden by Baniel, the first angel to be subsumed in the bitter lust driving my diabolic crimes, stands propped in the coffin against the far wall. The boy, I found in a church. Seduced by playing helpless: "oh, I don't know this part of town. Could you walk me to the bus line?" Brought him here. Broke him.

And performed the sacred, secret rituals to call down Baniel, an inferior spirit often summoned by Solomon. Once caged inside the shell of my human prisoner, Baniel served as a trial run, a toy to practice with. Before moving on to bigger game.

Thirty days later he stands immolated, resembling a victim of one of mankind's infamous twentieth century wars, crispy black patches split by weeping troughs of flesh seared down to the tender white fat. Eyes melted. Fingers fused. Genitals burned away. A Hiroshima Angel.

Oh, but still twitching! Still animated. Not empty. Even though the luckless human soul of the original owner finally fled, after the luxuriously drawn-out month of torture that preceded the incineration. Doubtless to some insipid corner of paradise reserved for those mewling, inadvertent martyrs who beg in their final moments to impotent God that they not die.

But much more importantly, the angelic conscious is still present; once drawn into a human body, such a being cannot quit it so simply. So Baniel remains. Trapped. Suffering.

Mine. The first of my splendid collection.

What a magnificent game of chess I am playing. Certainly worth the pain of my own rebirth. I hope the sow who gave up her body for me still has some flickering luminant thought lurking somewhere inside this transformed flesh, gone from soft and warm to mortified and indestructible, and can appreciate to what good use I have put it.

After all, it was her hate that drew me. Where I was, I do not know. Somewhere in the silent sea of true death, so consigned by the puerile white light of the Antagonist after failing in my turn of the century effort to become the Red Whore of the Apocalypse. Drugged and stuporous, my essence lolled about, like some bovine thing cursed to chew its filthy cud in the fields of forever; drowning in the peace of idiocy. All was blank. Long rows of numbers.

Until came the faintest call, an echo not even meant for me. No more than a whisper, really, from Grace.

Grace the beautiful, with the long straight spikes of white hair falling about the cruel Mongolian eyefolds and cheekbones. And the malevolently ripe mouth, the hint of some strain of tropical heritage as well.

Grace who hated herself only second to the weak, nauseating and infectious world around her. Grace, raped by her father, Grace, a stripper from a suburban Northern California town who went to Los Angeles and became a porn star, with corresponding medically inflated breasts -- a slow poison within her -- and gym-hardened torso, rippling belly and pierced navel, the tattoo of a raven in flight crowning her shaved vulva. Sexual desire frighteningly personified.

A tall, strong woman, who through boredom and frustration let herself sink to nothing but the status of abject hole offered up as cunt sacrifice for the anonymous masses of groveling, snarfling masturbators not fit to cut their throats at her feet. Grace, who went to her closet and tied an electrical cord around the outer door knob before slamming the door shut with the slipknot around her well-muscled neck.

Grace, who I heard in the moment of her death, and came unto, and learned these things, as I fused with her nerve endings and blood vessels; seeped through the gray jelly of her brain, reigniting it with my black flame. Grace, whose finely kept body now roars to the engine of my eternal discontent, my inextinguishable lust for atrocity.

Rachiel is sobbing at the stabbing pain in her horse's guts. I suspect the scored flesh of the mare's ass has gone numb, the multiple contusions and slices combined into a dull symphony of hammer blows. But she still feels me fucking her ass. The exquisite crystal field on her cheeks proves it, and her muffled grunt at each impact of my hips.

A fitting manner to tame and enslave such an infamous sex angel, herself responsible for fits of erotic rhapsody among humankind that end as often in brutal pool-table rapes as lace-covered honeymoons. Rachiel is as beyond human morality as I am.

Soon she will be beyond all but service to her mistress: Juliette. Ravager of angels.

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Last updated: 8 January 1997