Slime and Ice

You're an idiot, beloved. Don't do it now.

Puzzled, Sanchez asks, "What?"

"What do you want, fucker?"

"Uhhh ... anyone home?" Sanchez shoots a glance past Snake.

"Yeah," says Snake slowly, groping for a thought, a plan. "Down in the basement. One of my buddies in brewing something up." Not true, but Sanchez won't learn the facts.

"What ... kind of stuff?"

"We've been here before, ain't we? You a narc?" Snake's eyes glitter.

"No! Hell no!"

"I'll ask you once more. What. Do. You. Want?"Can you give me a clue, master?

The Leather Messiah is silent.

"Listen. Let me come in--"

Let him.

Snake backs away from the door, keeping his eyes on Sanchez's twitching fingers. "Suit yourself, motherfucker."

Thunder booms. Window panes rattle.

Sanchez' eyes take in the room. The blunt in the ashtray. The twittering television. The puddles of fluid--demon jism--on the floor, smelling like a locker room blended with marijuana. The open box sitting on a side table with a treasure trove of .45 cartridges. The bookcase sagging under the weight of blasphemous tomes.

If Sanchez were sensitive he'd feel the otherwordliness leaking like a heavy gas from those volumes. But he isn't. Or perhaps the fumes of demon jism addle his brain.

There's not really any cover in the room, so Snake leans against the jamb of the doorway leading to his bedroom. He can retreat. If necessary flinging himself through the window. He fakes casualness but his eyes never stray far from the sword in Sanchez's hands.

"I heard--listen--a buddy of mine said you guys got some stuff." Sanchez has one hand on the sword hilt, the other on the scabbard, as if he's ready to draw and begin swinging.

"The Disciple's got lots of stuff, kid." Snake eases the safety off the pistol.

Lightning cracks. The lights flicker. A sound echoes up out of the furnace grate.

"They say this stuff--it's like Viagra, but weirder, makes you horny like you can't imagine."

The Big O. That's what this pretty boy was hinting about earlier. "Put that fucking sword down, OK?"

Sanchez sniffs. "What's that smell?" There's a tent rising in his pants. A big top.

"Put the fucking sword down."

Sanchez lowers the sword to thigh level, his eyes boring into Snake's like prison searchlights.

"The Big O, that what you're talking about? Is that what you want?"

"Is that the stuff they're brewing down there?"

Snake smiles thinly. "You keep poking your cock into shit that ain't your business, kid."

"I know--I know some guys who want some."

"Listen, Sanchez, the Big O ain't for little high school boys. Clear? It's for men. Rich old men who want to be horny again. Who want to fuck for a whole weekend again, like when they were kids. Give it to some quarterback who's planning on boning the prom queen and you're gonna have a quarterback who sands his cock down to a toothpick and a prom queen with a cunt that's like wet catfood."

Sanchez's eyes steady with purpose. "Can I get some?"

Give him some. Do the deal at his house. Get his sword. Kill him there.

Snake takes a deep breath. "It'll cost you. Lots. Two grand for ten pills."

"What?"

"Two grand for ten pills." Snake shrugs, a salesman explaining a Ferrari's price tag. "The chemicals we Disciples need--well, they're exotic. Gotta get them from DARPA. Government boys, well, you can't turn their heads unless you gotta lot of grease for their palms. You see why the Big O's for rich old fuckers?"

Sanchez breathes heavily, his eyes on the floor as he searches within himself. "Shit."

"No money, no deal." Snake crosses his arms.

Sanchez makes his decision. "I can get it together."

"How much you looking to buy?" asks Snake.

"Ten pills. Just ten pills."

"They for you?" Snake lets his eyes drop to Sanchez' obvious erection.

Sanchez laughs nervously. "Maybe." He pushes his cock down so it's not so protuberant.

"Two grand. You get it. You get the Big O."

Sanchez nods. "Fine. Fine. Meet me in Umstead--"

"Fuck that," says Snake. "Cops watch people like me and you, you know. Doing a deal two times in one day in the same spot is bad karma. Really bad." He grins. "We'll do it at your place."

"You're fucked!"

Snake feels the Leather Messiah's slime rising and falling in his guts like the wax innards of a lava lamp. He shifts his legs. Grins. "Yeah, well, not often. So where you live at?"

"Shit, man, my fuckin' Mom is there!"

"Get the lovely lady out of the house if you don't want problems. You want the Big O or not, faggot?"

Sanchez' eyes narrow. Malevolence shines through, greenish and malignant. "Fine." He spits out the address.

Sanchez lives in a swank neighborhood. Oakwood, east of downtown Raleigh, not far from the Governor's mansion. Big oaks, big Victorian houses. Used to be a rundown place but rich Yankees found Southern plantation style homes to their liking. It's just up the street from the crack houses. And if need be he can get on a big road and hightail it out of there.

"Ten tonight," Snake says. "Have Mom out of the house." He hefts his prong. "Unless she wants some action?"

"You're sick," Sanchez says.

"You want some action?" Snake waggles his eyebrows.

"Nah," His eyes dart to Snake's face. "No."

"Yeah,, well, get out then. I gotta beat off."

Exeunt Sanchez. The Viper roars its way into the city.

Somethingglopsin the furnace vent as Snake slams the front door.

"So why?" Snake asks. "Who opposes you, master?"

I am not the only demon. There are demons of fire. There are demons of mud. There are demons of wind. There are demons of ice. My Disciples are not the only worshipers. Go to his house. Take the sword. Kill Sanchez. You're my Disciple. Obey your god. Your reward will be ... bliss.

Maybe ... maybe Snakecankill him. Maybe it won't be so hard after all.

#

Snake emerges wearing shorts and boots into pouring rain and a world split by jagged lightning. He's cold and sober as he ever is because he's going to need to focus tonight. Not just because he's going to be riding through flooded streets and pounding rain.

Something weird is going to happen.

The .45 is loaded, cleaned, oiled, ready. But Snake senses there's something else at play. That maybe he won't need it.

Kill him with the sword.

But why not the .45? Murder is death no matter what weapon is used.

Nonetheless the .45 is an old friend, and Snake wants it with him on this ... quest.

He roars off on the Varadero, rain nipping his skin like pellets from an airgun. His blond mane soaks the rain. His nipples stiffen as if an invisible god plucks them. His cock throbs with blood.

Onto Peace Street, take a right, flash past the old Cameron Village Mall. Trees thrash in orgiastic frenzy. The lights in the little houses are small eyes staring frightened at the world in conflict. Across Capitol Boulevard, a concrete canal sometimes of traffic now of water. The sterile government buildings downtown are bone-white towers haunted by malignant souls.

Then into Oakwood as lightning forks like serpent tongues in the boiling sky.

Drenched, Snake rolls to a stop at Sanchez' address. Behind a spiked fence, cloaked with ancient gnarled oaks and vines, rises a Victorian pile. Windowed turrets huddle against the storm. Ornate woodwork, painted to please Timothy Leary, dances on the timbers. A double door on an elaborate porch. A narrow driveway between hedges leads to a garage sized to house Model T's and 1930s Packards.

Most of the windows are dark. A dim light flickers in the windows flanking the front door Sanchez isn't expecting him for another two hours.

Snake's a student of history. He who gets in the first blow often wins. Worked for bin Laden. Not so for Yamamoto. Context matters. Snake hopes he's read this situation right.

He hurls himself over the fence, skidding on the wet grass. A car raises a curtain of rain as it hurtles past on the street. He hurries to the driveway. Just the Viper. Good. Don't have to worry about dear Mom and Dad. Good people, no doubt. Rich. America's finest.

Probably eat puppies, Snake thinks.Raw.

No, he's not going to knock and ask, "Can I come in now?"

Water vomits from the mouth of a gutter. Snake rattles it. Not strong enough. There! A trellis, decked in ivy. It is strong enough. Snake climbs to the second floor. He creeps across the porch roof. He tests a window. It opens easily. Idiots. They must've unlocked in to catch spring breezes and closed it without thinking.

He tumbles into a bedroom. Dark, but there is some illumination: the mirror on the antique dresser reflects orange streetlights. Smell of clean linen and tropical flowers. Soft carpet absorbs the water trickling off his skin.

This place reeks of tradition, wealth, power. Sanchez' family takes their clues from old movies. Huge wardrobes stand like hulking beasts. The bed is a four-poster with velvet curtains tied to each post with a golden cord.

He shuts the window and creeps towards the door. He draws his .45.

I told you you wouldn't need it.

Slowly he opens the door. A breathless moment as hinges squeal like copulating rats. But the TV murmurs downstairs, masking the sound.

Snake slips into the balcony. An ornate railing separates the balcony from the great room downstairs. Gilt things glitter in the periphery of his vision. Red and gold striped wallpaper. Artificial orchids. Brass vases. Enameled heraldic plaques. Classic American Instagothic.

Snake shudders. This home gives him the creeps.

There's Sanchez. Sprawled in a chair. Shirtless. His body looks like stoned carved by a river. Smooth and hard. He got a hand jammed in his boxers, and he's fiddling. He sucks on a fat blunt. Saliva glistens on his coral pink lips.

But he's not looking at the TV, where celebrity imbeciles complain about the lack of makeup in the jungle.

The altar standing against the wall hypnotizes Sanchez.

Black marble veined with crimson. Two translucent candles flicker like burning cocks of ice, emitting greasy tendrils of smoke. They flank a statue of what seems to be clear glass.

Snake struggles to make out the statue's shape. In the mad light of the candles and television it's difficult. The statue shimmers like ice under a strobe light.

Suddenly it's clear.

It's something insectoid. Two legs. Four arms. Elongated skull. Wraparound eyes, all knowing, all seeing. A curving spike for a cock like a New Guinean phallus sheath.

What the fuck?Snake thinks. Then, more cogently:The sword. Where's the fucking sword?His eyes frantically search the room.

Sanchez rises, stubs out the blunt.

His cock tents his boxers. He shucks them. Naked buttocks gleam, oiled with sweat. Smooth and creamy, eminently breedable.

Snake's cock lurches towards erection. He can't help it. It's just his way.

Sanchez pads across a Persian carpet rich with mysterious designs as a fragment of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. His eyes are so bloodshot they seem pools of blood embedded in his face.

Sanchez kneels before the crystal insect with the hardon. He blows smoke at the statue. The hallucinatory vapor enfolds it, a ghost embracing a nightmare. A long moment passes as if Sanchez listens to some strange chant. He bows, presenting Snake a superb view of his buttocks, showing a bruised anus that looks as if three football teams have pounded it.

Then he wraps his succulent pink lips around that hard, curving spike.

Snake has to remind himself to breathe.

The blowjob is perfunctory. Sanchez releases the minuscule cock, sits back on his legs, his saliva gleaming on the tiny phallus. Kneeling before the insect, he again bows his head, murmurs.

Sanchez chant electrifies the air.

Snake knows that power. Life in the Disciples has attuned him to things of this nature. Sanchez works a spell of summoning--powerful magic to rend the veils between the universes so that nameless entities can cross.

There's a shivery sound, like a hammer busting a frozen waterfall.

Sanchez laughs.

The crystalline insect flexes its arms as if waking from deep sleep. Its head turns from side to side, scanning the room. It moves, strutting around the altar. It whirls its arms as if stimulating blood--or some fluid--to flow again.

With each step it enlarges.

Now Snake understands why the Leather Messiah was obsessed with the sword.Where's the fucking sword?Snake feels the tick of an unseen clock counting down towards some unknown catastrophe.

He can't see clearly in the dim room, especially since the statue has now grown to the size of a small child, brandishing his cock, and its unnaturally jerky movement distracts Skunk.

"It'll happen tonight," Sanchez says.

The crystalline being leaps off the altar, scuttles around the room like a grass crab on all limbs. Its cock drops black fluid like crude oil.

"He'll be here in a couple of hours," Sanchez continues. "You sure you can get his demon to show?"

The crystal demon is now three quarters of Sanchez height. It hurries to him. Four claws seize his head and force Sanchez's face into its groin. Delightedly Sanchez swallows the crystal demon's cock. The demon's head rocks back in ecstasy. Teeth chatter. Its hips churn.

There.Snake sees the sword. It's cradled on the pegs of a wall display about ten feet from the bottom of the stairs.Shit. Now how am I supposed to get it?He shoots a look at the coupling pair.Are they busy enough?Snake rises, his fat prong thrusting out of the top of his shorts, and he thinks of Sanchez's coral pink lips.At least someone's enjoying them.

He begins to creep down the stairs. Odd. It feels as if he's descending into an invisible cold fog. His nipples spike. His skin goosepimples.

The crystal demon now looms tall over Sanchez's worshipful form. Its skin is hard like armor but subtle structures trace through it like veins. Its eyes shimmer, focuses on the kneeling form blowing its cock. And that cock--Sanchez's lips strain on it. It's thick as his forearm. Saliva drips from it. The nutsack resembles a cauliflower: knobby and textured with tiny bumps.

As the demon moves, thrusting slowly at Sanchez's throat, a crinkling sound echoes from its joints.

It gets colder and colder as Snake pads down the stairs. He carefully tests each step before putting his full weight on it to ensure that nothing creaks, that nothing betrays him. The sweat in his armpit and groin feels freezing. His nipples are hard turrets.

He's down. The huge room looms cathedral-like. Snake glances at the two. Both are lost in the blowjob.

The silver medallions on the scabbard draw Snake like an owl's eyes shining in moonlight.

Heart hammering, Snake reaches for the sword.

A blast of supremely cold air stops him. There's no wind. It's as if some force sucked energy out of the molecules of air.

Trembling, he turns.

The demon stands ten feet from him. The phallus drips saliva and black precum. It must be a foot and a half long, curling upward like the horn of an ox. The demon's stance is wide, as if a phantom Sanchez still blows him.

It beckons to Snake.

"Fuckstick!" Sanchez wipes black oil from his lips. His cock drips slime. His flesh doesn't look cold. No, Sanchez looks like he's been in the middle of an orgy. "I told you--"

HE WANTS TO KILL ME.

The demon's eyes roam Snake's flesh. His hands are an array of claws, and they snap like knives.

I WILL KILL HIM. BITCH OF THE LEATHER MESSIAH. AFTER I FUCK HIM.

"Let me kill him!"

SHUT UP, BOY.

The demon beckons.

Snake is frozen.

COME HERE, BITCH.

Snake reaches for the pistol.

IT DOESN'T WORK AGAINST MY KIND. YOU KNOW THAT. COME HERE!

Shit. Where's my Messiah now?Snake stumbles towards the demon.

The claws entangle in Snake's golden hair. Immeasurable strength forces him to his knees. Hot tears cloud his eyes.This is it, man, this is it, I'm gonna die, killed by a freak from some other plane--

Snake knows what he's supposed to do. It would be fatal to resist. He opens wide--

The black fluid tastes like blood.

The demon's cock is beyond cold. The contact sears Snake's mouth as if he's jabbed a spike of dry ice down his throat. But the ice-like rigidity is an illusion. The shaft bends, worming into his mouth. The demon pauses there, savoring the feeling of Snake's lips stretched taut on his cock. But not for long. Smoothly it enters Snake's throat, the black precum numbing and lubricating. Snake's gullet stretches and stretches, but there's no gag reflex.

The demon chitters as his huge knobby scrotum presses firmly against Snake's chin.

GET THE SWORD.

Sanchez, who's been masturbating as Snake absorbs his master's cock, hurries to the wall, takes down the sword, rushes back to stand at his master's side.

YOU PLEASE ME, SLAVE. I'VE BURNED TO FUCK A DISCIPLE SINCE BEFORE YOUR ANCESTORS CRAWLED OUT OF THE SLIMY SEA.

Saliva boils from the corner's of Snake's mouth. He looks up. The transparent eyes glitter at him, crystal balls in which no future can be seen. The demon's mouth yawns open, revealing a cavern thick with needle-sharp teeth. His exhalation flows like air from a mortuary freezer.

Don't kill me.Snake pleads with his eyes.

The demon laughs, draws his cock backwards, embeds himself again. His pincers needle into Snake's skull. He fucks Snake's mouth.

I've not forgotten you. Please him.

Like trumpets blowing in the darkest heart of a battle it's a relief to feel that voice vibrating in Snake's pineal gland. He's not lost. There's still hope. There's cavalry out there, on the way, charging across the plains. He just needs to old out.

Please him, you idiot!

Snake works his tongue over the icy shaft plundering him, tearing his mind away from the icy burn the demon's flesh inflicts upon him. He throats that gargantuan phallus expertly. The coppery taste is heady, crackling with energy. The hair on the back of Snake's head shivers as if a lover breathes on him.

Damn. This demon is a stud.

ENOUGH!

The demon rips his cock from Snake's mouth. Sanchez licks his lips.

YOU'RE GOOD. NOW I UNDERSTAND WHY THE LEATHER MESSIAH LOVES YOU. YOUR FLESH IS PLEASING AND YOUR TALENTS ARE SUBLIME.

Staring down at Snake's kneeling form, the demon strides around behind him. His footsteps clatter like ice cubes rattling in a glass. A brief moment as he examines the focus of his desire. Then his claws seize Snake's hips and draw his ass up into breeding position.

GIVE ME THE SWORD, SLAVE.

Sanchez hands the weapon to his master. The demon draws the dark gray blade. Strange cursive symbols glow a sullen crimson on the blade. The writing isn't Asian, the writing isn't Arabic, the writing isn't European. It's hard to say what it is. Strange curves, following a chaotic mathematical pattern. But the words themselves, whatever they may be, are malign, a curse against the existence of the Leather Messiah.

Snake awaits the blow, shivering.Don't kill me don't kill me don't kill me...

Clutching the blade in a claw the demon kneels. He shoves Snake's legs open. He covers the blond haired biker like a stallion, his claws resting in pairs on either sides of Snake. The sword shivers with the urgency of the demon's passion.

The demon doesn't wait. There are no preliminaries. Smoothly, inevitable, like a frozen slug the demon's phallus presses inside Snake's butt.

Snake arches up into the demon's bitter chest as his sphincter irises open. It's huge, but not like one of the Leather Messiah's phalli. He can take it without that sense of being stretched to the edge of rupture. The demon enters slowly, a stately procession of cockflesh up Snake's back alley. No sensation of heartbeat, of breathing, throbbing against Snake's back. Just a cold being of devoid of all purpose but the cessation of motion.