From Issue 3.6 - Summer 1997

Juliette: Dungeon of the Burning Angels

Part III: An Old Dance Revisited

Serial fiction by David Aaron Clark

Meditating in my gallery of bound and defiled angels, I am yet morose. No matter how I try to concentrate on the mathematics of my impending triumph, my memories are cancers, and I am riddled with them.

They are not quite as cruel as dreams. I have been largely without the candied slow taint of those taunting shades ever since the calamity of my first incarnation; that short, brief reign of innocence granted a freshly born soul that, in my case, was to end in such jaded and boring tortures and infamy that my unquenchable bloodlust born of hatred for an uncaring God's mechanations has now -- by this late date on the world's terminal calendar, every leaden moment leading to which has been witnessed in one form or another by this drearily sustained consciousness -- multiplied to celestial proportions.

Nothing less can satisfy me now than to roam through an era in which newborns are brought into the world eyeless and howling and spiders nurse at the death-swollen teat of Jehovah's favorite whore. When every slave has been branded with his shame and every pious soul peeled caterwauling from its shell, only then will I be able to look around me with a soft smile, and be at peace with The Way Things Are.

Until that day I suffer the consequences of my long career waging war against the harsh orders of heaven, with their fascist armies of obedience and ranks of pietic purpose.

My pawns against them have always been the weak, piteous cattle who pitter about at their lord's command, cannibalizing each other the moment the fields run fallow. But now, my strategies have grown more daring and expensive. My prizes, my prisoners, my food, are not the meager contents of those short-lived worm-shells, but the haughtily eternal angels themselves, who once thought me such humble and passing prey. They have learned better.

They are pieces of manifold value in this debauched tourney I have organized, in a final effort to reach the real theater where I wish to wage combat. No longer am I gnat to be swatted away by His hand. A provocateur, a diplomat of the apocalypse, I seek to reignite the conflict that once shook the cosmic abyss, to pit the Prince of Light against the imperious, battle-scarred Michael; to blot out the sun with the blood of seraphim, cherubim and dominions. I failed in this campaign before, but now I have the cannon fodder to do it.

I want to see all the angels and devils scrabbling at each other's throats. Let their righteous bile and poison malevolence run from the battlefield and into my bowls, to provide the grease for my copulations.

I shall continue to harvest them, for they are clumsy and unaware while inhabiting this plane. I am born of the dirt of this planet; it is my dominion, not theirs. They can never understand the nuances of power as well as I; whether angel or daemon, they are from the ether that has been since far before the forming of the earth, and therefore can never truly embrace and manipulate it as I do. The power of my hate and my passions is fed through my human roots, and is unwavering and inexhaustible; they may possess the secret of eternity, but I am blessed with the knowledge of nothingness, of mortality and sleep, the jail of flesh.

And how arrogantly unaware of my formidability are the newest players in my game. Those three whore-brides of Sammael, bitches of natures both infernal and prosaic, who sashay and preen through the landscape of this age of apocalypse, thinking that their craven murders and flimsy plots are any more contribution to the suffering than mere embroideries on the edges of an infected wound.

Of the trio, the sister I most look forward to spending a luxurious week flaying the pelt from is Agrat Bat Malah, the haughty princess of blood-let, whom I have come up against before, in the first few years of my second life, while I was still suffering from the shock of what an unmerciful God had allowed to be wrought upon me during my first.

I had wandered to Africa. At that time my thirsts were far more direct and brutal, and I thought the only thing that could sustain my reanimated flesh was the actual raw blood liberated from unlucky denizens of my former race. The body I inhabited at the time was that of a heavy-breasted temple whore. Drunk on vampirism, I huddled in a dream-craft of neurons in orbits perilously decayed by constant explosions of animal pleasure on a plane that reached down to the nuclear.

So plentiful and accomodating was my food that within a few years I grew fat and smug, all sausage flesh ripe and brown, lips fat with blood and eyes made luminous by constant sensual satisfaction. After the untimely death of the reigning high priestess, I rose quickly through the ranks of the blood-cult, from whore to living goddess.

My scalpels were maintained by awestruck hand maidens, kept honed and gleaming, at permanent attention. Ready for the promise of blood. I carved my complaints against God into the haunches of virgins who would never know the sweet painful push of a prick into their loins, who would never feel the searing agony of a new life torn from their belly, rending the flesh of their hemmorhaging cunt.

Instead they would be conducted into sexlessness by their priestess's cruel and clever hands, the lust that might have one day tainted their souls instead imprisoned, trapped behind senseless stone. The process of their clitorodectomy was the last sensuality they would know. A violent one: weaved to the strains of a gently lapping symphony of ebbing sanity, their nervous system possessed by never predictable scales of suffering. They cried and sobbed for mercy, every note of their songs sharped and full of grace.

This was my sex, in that life; the lubricant was their blood. I ate it in great quantities, and smeared it across my breasts, turning their shade from deep caramel to gleaming maroon and mahagony. I frigged my iron cunt with coagulated fistfuls of it, and screamed my taunts at Shiva. I knew the hopeless truth then: all faces of the ever-lasting are my enemy; all myths are my pornography, to be burnt in the righteous fires of obliteration.

I had temporarily laid aside the identity of Juliette Lorsange in those days, something I have been moved to do by one set of circumstances or another in the ocassional incarnation, and was known to my hypnotized, terrified acolytes as Siva Ram. My ambitions were much greater than my predecessor, and so the temple grew; new flesh was contantly required.

After their induction into my cult the daughters of the local tribes became whores for the temple, laying all day long on their backs among great bales of stained silk with faces inscribed with the holy runes of their shame. The humor was exquisite; stupid, maimed children being raped for half-days at a time by brutish, fumbling men pretending to offer tithe up to some blue-faced goddess.

Things were good, until that bitch Agrat happened along. Until that point, I had thought myself unique among corporeal beings, believing I was the only beyond-human creature striding the face of the earth. How ignorant I had been in those days! How arrogant!

Agrat was the vessel by which I learned that hard lesson. Though her ambition was so naked as to amount to an amusing burlesque, I underestimated her ability to fulfill it. When she came to the temple in supplication for acceptance into my guild, I found myself so taken by her black natures and erotic power that I spared her the knife, and instead took her to my bed.

So began my inevitable downfall; thinking I could train a viper for a housepet, I instead found myself in mortal combat with a dragon. Wielding a hypnotic power great as my own, as well as infernal skills the likes of which I had thought the province of fairy tale and fiction, she easily wrested control of my acolytes from me. A development which resulted in my second violent disincorporation, as I was crucified, heart cut out, head to the ground, by a pack of screaming whores whose loins were numb from my ministrations.

And now the weave of history has brought us within each other's spheres of influence once more. Only now I have become the dragon. The proof is strewn about me, mutilated, defiled, incinerated. I shall roast the bitch with my very breath.

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Last updated: 20 August 1997