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The story of one man's longing for perfection, and his relentless efforts to preserve his way of life. He finds quiet victory in controlling the forces around him which dictate his fate. To any and all means will he go, in order to ensure everlasting happiness. I KILLED GREGARIOUS LECHENSTEINFor some time now, this bedelugma has been plaguing my existence, my very fiber of being, that which allows me to wake up in the mornings to enjoy my coffee and cigarettes, to enjoy the pleasures of erotic sex, to make love and give love, to enjoy the fine taste of a gin martini, straight up with a twist and Spanish olives impaled onto a scimitar... yes, on this day, the first day of my Revelations, I shall pray to Sister Marie-Adélaïde Tiamat in the Kingdom of New Epheses, that I may find the strength to purge this beast, this bastard son of the Whore of Babylon, from this great and divine earth. For the end of days is at hand for this fiend, sunt tempus enim prope est. Amen. I hate Gregarious Lechenstein. I will kill Gregrarious Lechenstein. I consider myself a simple man with simple tastes. In the mornings, I have my coffee and Virginian cigarettes at the corner French café, and after the sun sets, my gin martinis. I spend a lot of time at that place, so much that I have almost become a fixture; all the employees there know me by name and many of the regulars often mistake me for a proprietor or owner of some sort. The tiffany stained windows of the café face the river to the east, and the morning sun reflects off the prussian-blue waters to illuminate the corner café in so many colors, havana lake and rose karmethene. It has always been the embodiment of perfection, perfectly complementing my existence. And in this setting do I spend most of my hours and days, either seducing the French waitresses to come back with me to my castle, or reading the best literature of the day: pirate stories and hymn songs to virgin maidens. As for the waitresses, I knew that they talked about me when they went on their bathroom breaks or back to the kitchen, they shared their stories about me amongst themselves, but I minded not, for they only had good things to say about yours truly. Finally, by the graces Sister Marie-Aurèlie Zaltu in the Kingdom of New Smyrna and after trying for months, I had managed to seduce the shyest of the seven French waitresses working at the corner French café, yes I did indeed seduce her, and we made love for many many hours in my rocketship that night, we surpassed all human realms of pleasure, we swallowed the fading pearls and discovered orgasms that seemed never to end. Perfect. With the seventh seduced, I finally had the chance to fulfill the fantasy that most men on this great and divine earth do not even bother contemplating. Every night after the corner café closed, I would wait until the seven French waitresses closed up, to take them back to my castle in my flying chariot, to fuck all seven of them at once or in a row, all fondling and touching and kissing every inch of skin on my body, all bringing me to orgasm again and again and again and again and again and again and again. Oh my Marduk, I have achieved perfection. Yes. I am Alpha and Omega. And such was my perfect existence for one year, forty-two weeks, and six days. On the seventh day, a stranger came to the café, a religious man, a pious man, he sat down beneath the crescent moonlight of a humid evening and ordered a black tea with honey. He lit a cigarette, one of those filthy Turkish cigarettes that smells like evil, and from under his cape he pulled out seven golden candlesticks and set them upright on his table... taking the still-lit match that he used to light his cigarette, he lit all seven golden candlesticks to bathe in their imperfect and flickering light and warmth. Initially, I was already annoyed by this man, for he had ordered tea (and I hate tea) and the smell of the air, which had once been perfectly aglow with coffee and gin and Virginian cigarettes and French pussy, but now, now, the stench of that accursed black tea and the Turkish cigarettes made its way up my nostrils, I was becoming nauseous, dizzy. And as each of the seven golden candlesticks became lit, another section of this man was lit until I could see what he looked like: he was fat, grotesquely fat, fat like gluttony of false prophets, teenage russian girls, and aging whores, and from every pore on this heaping sack of seven churches, oozed his vile sweat, this man he sweated literally like a pig, an enormously obese pig. And as I watched, involuntarily hypnotized by the sheer ugliness of this man, like how one can't bare to look away from retarded children, deformed circus freaks, or fatal car crashes, I watched how every few minutes he would pull out this vile gray rag from under his cape to wipe the sweat off his brow, and as he lifted his arm I saw yellow pit stains that had soaked down to his sides, which were partly covered by his sagging man-breasts. I said to myself, there is no reason to hate this man, there is no reason to feed him his heart and drive a pickaxe through his brain in the middle of his last supper, for he is a man like any other man on this great and divine earth, for St Paul had told the Thessalonians to be patient to all men. Ashamed of it as I am now, I do admit that at that moment, in my moment of weakness, I prayed to Sister Marie-Anaïs Mammetum in the Kingdom of New Pergamos that I may find the strength to overcome what I had perceived to be mein own bigotry. This elderly gentleman with hair white as wool and eyes like fire, was sipping his tea and noticed that I must have been rudely staring at him, and proceeded to stand up. And I say 'proceeded to stand up' instead of just 'stood up' because for this gentleman, standing up was a severely imperfect process. First, he had to spread his fat arms apart to gain balance, then lean forward to heave his giant ass towards the front of his chair, which was creaking and about ready to buckle, then swing his fat arms apart to regain balance, then using the table edge as support, lifted himself off of the seat, then swing his fat arms yet again apart to regain balance again, then pushing against the armrests to separate his ass from the rest of the chair, for his ass had been caught between the armrests. Now, fully erect, he took his rag out from under his cape to wipe his brow, then waddled over in my direction to extend a sweaty palm, fingers stinking of turkish cigarettes and... and.... French pussy. I was bewildered, I was confused, this man, that unmistakable divine smell, he had it, and it was that familiar smell, not familiar as in the Frenchness and femininity of it, but it smelled familiar of a person, but the stench of the turkish cigarettes muddled my senses and I could not ascertain a precise conclusion. “Good evening sir. I could not help but notice you looking over in my direction. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gregarious Lechenstein and I live across the canal from this establishment, of which I am the owner and proprietor. And you must be....” Oh my Marduk, that beast opened his mouth! Foul, foul olive-green breath blasted at my face, bringing me to the edges of anoxia, but wait, he asked a question, should I respond? Do I dignify his imperfect presence by replying? Should I? I must, for that is the polite thing to do when people address you, isn't it? What should I say? Oh forgive me, Sister Marie-Agnès Dumkina in the Kingdom of New Thyatira, for I know not what I do. “I want to kill you.” The fat man was looked confused. Perhaps there were too many fat cells blocking his fat neurons. No, wait, I was not supposed to say that, I was supposed to say my name and a 'pleased to meet you.' How did that slip out? I am a man of self-control. I am a simple man. I enjoy simple things. I enjoy coffee and cigarettes and gin martini's and the French waitresses at this café... wait, he said he owned this place, but how? and since when? Is he going to come here everyday, to offer me a vile eyesore for me in this otherwise perfect café? And that unmistakable smell on his fingers, on the outstretched hand pointed at my face, not the turkish cigarettes, the other one, where did it come from? how did it get there? “My Marduk... excuse me, sir? What is your name?” At last, my social graces took over my befuddled mind. “Oh, I am so sorry, I must have accidentally read one the lines from this book I'm reading, out loud, from this book I am out reading loud book lines read.” I stood up effortlessly and without thinking, shook his hand. “I frequent this fine place, but I have never seen you before.” “Pardon, allow me to clarify, I had been ill for some years and had stay in the city for treatment. During that time, I handed all responsibilities for this place to my Jewish money-changer and part-time investment banker, Eli Mosha Rosenbloomgoldbaumsteinherchelberg. But now, by the good graces of our lord Marduk, I am well enough to resume said obligations.” “Yes, praise Marduk, god and creator of mankind, Asarluhi Marshakushu: do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law, Lugal-dimmer-ankia Asar-alim-nuna.” “Zi-ukkina Ziku Zisi. Love is the law, love under will. Iruga Iqingu. Amen.” “Amen, Mr. Gregarious Lechenstein” “Now, if you will excuse me, it is getting late and I must retreat to my pyramid.” “Goodnight, Mr. Gregarious Lechenstein.” Our brief encounter ended. Maybe his monstrosities are only oily skin deep, and beneath and inside that vessel of fatness was a decent man. Perhaps I had judged too early. But what now? No. No! What is he doing? Look, Sister Marie-Adèle Belit-tseri in the Kingdom of New Sardis, he has an arm around one of the French waitresses. She's mine! Get away from her! What is she doing? They're... they're... kissing, he has his, his right hand up her skirt. His left clutches the back of her head. He's taking her across the street, he pulls out his seven keys, opens the door to a limestone pyramid... that must be his residence. She turns around. She gives me a quick glance and then proceeds to fondle Gregarious Lechenstein's cock and balls. The door shuts. Behind me, the other six French waitresses giggle to each other. What is going on? I needed to gather myself, bring my senses back together. I departed from the café, mounted my flying chariot, and rode back to my castle. Now, I will not bore you with the details of how I wrestled with myself for days on the particular reasons (or lack thereof) as to why I should hate Gregarious Lechenstein, or how I had started the first night thinking to myself, “I dislike this man, but I guess I shall avoid him and stick to the other six French waitresses who have hopefully not laid a finger on that... thing” and ended on the sixth night thinking, “I will kill Gregarious Lechenstein.“ I am sure you do not want psychoanalyze my decent into dementia, of how my emotions overwhelmed every capacity for logical thought, of how a perfectly self-controlled and simple man such as myself with simple tastes spiraled into madness, as one false rationalization built itself on top of another, eventually leading to an irrational hatred of an otherwise, decent albeit ugly, smelly, and vile man... it is trivial, predictable, and patronizing to both parties. All you really have to know, is that on this day, six days after that beast arrived to reclaim his corner French café, this sixth day of revelations, I am probably most likely certifiably and viciously insane, depressive and manic and nothing in between, except the screaming heads of martyred lambs... How long, O Lord Marduk, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth, Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani? On the first night since he came back to the café, I was angry but composed. On the sixth night, I was probably certifiably and viciously insane. I will kill him. That is all. I hate Gregarious Lechenstein. I declare Jihad on Gregarious Lechenstein. I will find a weakness that he possesses, exploit that weakness to lure him into the dungeons under my castle. Vielleicht prides he himself in a connoisseurship in wine, and I will ask him to visit my dungeon to sample a cask of Amontillado. Vielleicht prides he himself on being the ugliest abomination of desolations on this great and divine earth, and I shall tell him that Barbra Streisand partially gave birth to a mutant Manassesite through her sagging bosom and the two melded into one being, a being which I keep in my dungeon and is much uglier than he. I must find his weakness. Tonight I shall accomplish these tasks, so that tomorrow I may kill Gregarious Lechenstein. I went to Mr. Lechenstein's pyramid, observed him for one hour to find his weakness, then exploiting his weakness by use of reverse psychology and mind games, lured him back to the dungeons of my castle where I swiftly proceeded to strike the back of his head with a two-by-four, a baseball bat, a crowbar, and a Torah; chained his fat arms to a wall in one of the cells. I buckled every part of his body to the wall. Many of the buckles were too small, for despite trying to overcompensate, I had nevertheless underestimate his true size. I went to the termite king and he gave me the incantation to make the gerbil queen give me some bigger buckles. I buckled down his hands, elbows and shoulders. I buckled down his waist and put a buckle on his forehead. I added another clasp around his chin to immobilize his head. I've been sitting on a green mushroom beside his limp body for a few hours now. It's a nice mushroom, a sturdy mushroom, although its domed top, while quite large, is not concave in shape, like a seat should be. Vielleicht should I have stapled a dozen bibles to make a comfortable chair. Nevermind, he is coming to, no time. I will figure out the meaning of the tenth Sephiroth later. The sun is setting; the Sabbath has begun, and I have work to do. Time to torture this bedelugma until he dies. He is surveying his surroundings with what limited mobility he has, and does not appear frightened or confused. “Ah, I see you have exploited my single weakness to lure me into your dungeon, where you probably plan to torture me to death, because you have an irrational hatred for me. But please, can a hungry man get some food please?” “I was hoping you'd say that. Eat this, you pig.” I give him some specially prepared gruel, through a funnel into his mouth. “yes, finish it. Did you... like it? Did you like its taste?” “I did indeed.” “Then vielleicht should I inform you that I just fed you your Jewish money-changer and part-time investment banker, Eli Mosha Rosenbloomgoldbaumsteinherchelberg - ” “Hah! How typical of you to feed your victim the appendages of those who he knows best. Hmm, well at least you had the courtesy of preparing for me a Kosher meal.” Oh Sister Marie-Amélie Ishtar in the Kingdom of New Philadelphia, this man he is a cunning one. Shall I continue with attempting to destroy him psychologically, or should I begin to smite him? Sister Marie-Andrée Ereshkigal of the Kingdom of New Laodicea, three civilizations tremble in our arms, my face is growing livid and my lips grow black, filled with the rage of the winter of the air, pixelating into snow and building the machines of war. I light a cigarette and I am blowing clouds of blue-gray smoke into his face. You see? This is a true cigarette. this a Virginian cigarette, this is a man's cigarette, not the filth you put into your lungs. I rip off his cape, I rip off his shining armor, and I shove my lit cigarette into his chest, so that his lungs may taste of a truly fine smoke. “Ahhhhh!” he screams. Yes, you bastard son of the Whore of Babylon, scream for mercy, beg and plead so that I may spare your life. “Mercy!” he screams. I knew it, he was only trying to look unbreakable moments ago, when he had woken up, and even when he realized that he ate a Jew, but he is afraid, this bedelugma, he is a coward, yes, a coward, and I declare Jihad on Gregarious Lechenstein. Time to employ more strange looking metal tools designed specifically for torturing infidels. I mounted my winged unicorn, and we rode back upstairs into my Torture Chamber #2, to pick up wrenches, spikes, hooks, pliers, scalpels, drills, corkscrews, knives of every size and shape, flaming swords of cherubs, dirks, picks, wires, Kaballahs, scissors, needles, morning stars, tongs, ceremonial daggers, barbs, razors, nails, meat grinders, and boxcutters. Countess Erzébet Báthory, eat your heart out, for I shall surgically remove it from your bosom and feed it to you in savory stir-fried morsels. Actually, I have no surgical experience whatsoever. I presume now that when I write down my seventh Revelation, I will not be able to describe various surgical maneuvers, technical names of various arteries or muscles... but it is seriously no loss to me. If the slaying of Gregarious Lechenstein should be messy due to my inexperienced hands, it will make little difference. Let us start with the meat grinder. Now, the problem of slowly killing Gregarious Lechenstein, is that he may die all the more sooner should he just simply bleed to death. So, on the night before the Sabbath, I took some sandpaper and dulled the blades within the meat grinder. This meat grinder has a grinding rate of 22 pounds per minute for the first grind, and 13 pounds per minute for the second. I couldn't care less what these figures mean. I just hope it's bloody painful. Bloody. I remove the guard from the auger and placed the green mushrooms into the tray, I turn on the grinder and tiny mushroom parts flew at Gregarious. I could have used a live animal, perhaps one of the elephants from my underwater zoo in the other dungeon cell, but I am a professed lover of animals. Gregarious seems to understand my intentions, look, he's trying to break loose, to run away, he's panicking, he's.... sweating. the smell, I cannot stand it, I will have none of this. It's too complicated. Oh Marduk, Marduk, there's rice everywhere! Rice on the floors, rice in my hair, rice everywhere! Make it stop! My ancestors have come back to pass judgment! I fumble for the keys, help me Mother Superior Adélaïde Tiamat of the First Seal, I must run to the alchemy lab to grab a few jars, run back to the smell, open the canister of lye and splash the powder all over his foul and vile sweating arms and face, the parts not covered by his cloths. Praise be to Mother Superior Aurélie Zaltu. He screams, it is delicious, let me savor his pain, it rejuvenates me, it sends me into Rapture. And above his pleas for mercy, I hear the sound of ram's horns and an orchestra of boiling and cackling skin, and I ejaculate into my black robes. Praise be to Mother Superior Anaïs Mammetum of the Third Seal! He is still squirming about, his fat rolls bobbing up and down and behold, he breaks through the buckle on his right hand and forearm, but I am ready. I grab his right arm and into the meat grinder it goes. Praise be to Mother Superior Agnès Dumkina. Seconds felt like raving hours of ecstasy, I turn the machine off, so that grinder has not taken all of his arm but grinded just enough so that his bloody, fat-laden fingers were protruding out the other end, not quite severed, but one more spin should do it. Oh he screams oh he cries and I am savoring every moment as I lick the tears pouring from his eyes. And now, it appears that his bowels are loosening from fright and pain, but I worry not, for on the morning before the Sabbath, I had stapled his anus and genitalia shut. I thank Mother Superior Adèle Belit-tseri Of the Fifth Seal for my wisdom. Taking my morning star, I chop off meat grinder from his arm with my morning star. My plan had worked. His hand was severely mangled; there were a few cuts and oozing blobs of fat, but nothing that would be consequential to his blood pressure. Many thanks to Mother Superior Amélie Ishtar. Yes, the meat grinder has crushed every bone in his arm, it is so easy for me pick it up, turn it around, and force it in the mouth of Gregarious Lechenstein, which by now had become egregiously blistered from the lye. Eat it, eat it, I say, So help me Marduk, I will feed you your mother if you do not eat your hand, by the power of the Allmächtige, I command you! Beast! Septuagint bedelugma eremoseos! SEPTUAGINT BEDELUGMA EREMOSEOS! EAT IT! EAT YOUR MANGLED ARM, YOU BASTARD SON OF THE WHORE OF BABYLON! CONSUME! CONSUME! He consumed his right arm. And by the same fashion and within the course of the next two hours and extra meat-grinders, I also made him consume his left arm, his right leg, Oprah, and his left leg... my oh my, I believe I may have just contributed to the weight gain of Gregarious Lechenstein. I lit a cigarette, smoked the majority of it, and made him consume the still-lit cigarette as well. And he consumed his small intestine for dessert. Praise be to Mother Superior Andrée Ereshkigal of the Seventh Seal, the sounding of trumpets has begun, and my heart is perfectly at rest. Praises to the hallowed name of our Lord Marduk, who has forgiven us our debts so that we may forgive our debtors and be delivered from evil. And as the seventh trumpet sounds I take out my sawed-off .45 shotgun and blew out both carotid arteries in his neck. His throat as well. That was after I had gouged out his eyes, fed them to him on the same golden spoon that I used to pry them from his sockets. Or was that before? No, After. Before. After. Lollipops. Before. Vermont. It makes little difference. Finally, Gregarious Lechenstein had endured more pain than he could handle. He died. I smiled. Then I laughed a bit. Then I smiled again. I threw a trashbag over his body. Tomorrow I'll clean up the mess. The End.
Written by Dinah Cheshire |
Welcome to Apple Sanity Sunshine Ecstasy
“May Jesus have mercy on the soul of Kip Kawley.”
