Solstices Obscurity "Dusk" Ch. 01

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Let the Bastard speak.
1.7k words
4.14
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Part 1 of the 4 part series

Updated 10/08/2022
Created 01/20/2015
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"Oh, how ironically, fucking appropriate. I'm in Hell for sins of the flesh, and with my flesh I must record my sins. Delicious."

~snick of a knife to get blood for ink~

To begin with, introductions are in order. I am Viscount Reynold Alexander Volta Chanticleer, called "The Bastard" by most.

And the very first thing you need to know about me is, most of you are going to despise me. I look upon that near universal-contempt with an equal level of contempt returned. In life and certainly in this unwished for unlife, I never wanted, nor sought out...universal approval.

Give me vile condemnation any day. It tastes far sweeter.

Now for those of you reading this that are still clinging to that retched mortal coil I offer only this bit of advice. For fuck sake die already. Your pathetic whining about wanting to live forever would turn my stomach, if I had one. You're hardly worthy of one single lifetime of years above the flowers let alone your dreamed of "Eternal Soul" that will live on forever, even after death.

Death?

What do you know of death?

I stop the movement of my quill at a scream. Looking up, I see a dog-headed beast drag a black-skinned woman from the gathered souls nearby and pull her to the ground. I smirk when the other condemned huddle back from the sight, as if such will soon not be common to their daily lives. When the horned beast rips and bites at her ebony flesh, they cry out. As if their bodies, not hers, feel the pain. When the thing drives its cock into the orifice of its choosing it is amusing to see the other lost souls cover their own bare genitalia, as if to shield them from such ravagement.

I watch unimpressed the rape of the woman's body, of her bare soul. When a second demon joins in and they began to take her in both holes her pain-filled cries became...unamusing.

"How, quaint," I mutter to the emptiness inside me.

Dipping the quill into the pool of blood, I go back to my scribbling.

YOU, want to know of death? I'll tell you about death. It sucks. End of story, but alas not the end of me, or certainly not of the hellish misery that is my life and my story.

Before I left life I was a man, much like some of you, only I was powerful, beautiful, and without remorse. I shed not a tear in life at the death of another and none were certainly shed for me when I parted ways with the living. I walked the world with it as my banquet, and oh...I did feast! I hunted among the sweet and innocent, and the old and decadent, equally. Sparing none the touch of my cock should I so desire to touch...well, whatever part of them I wished. Beggars and thieves, whores and kings. Actresses and nuns, priests and lawyers. How similar those all are without their refinements, both genders begged for my seed to fill their bellies. Oh, and fill bellies I did indeed! My non de guerre came not, as some would think and spread vile, malicious rumors of, from my birth but rather from the huge numbers of squalling, sour-milk-mouthed brats I left in my wake.

But my life wasn't without conflict. The world would often fuck me. And I fucked it right back. I fucked it and sucked and made it suck me. I made of life my whore. And like a whore it stank and ran wet at the end of the night, but it none the less reveled in its ill-gotten coin of the realm.

The night. Solstice night. Had I know what waited after death was an endless Solstice night, a night with no dawn, would I have lived my life even more reckless than I did? Oh,yes! There were cunts I left untasted, cocks left unsucked, asses left unplundered. How many more maidenheads would have broken under the thrust of my uncarring lust had I known that an endless night of boredom awaited me. A living death, with the feted stench of the river Styx to forever fill my nose with its rank putridity. Oh yes, had I known then what I know now, I would have fucked the world far harder. I would have raped it into submission! Branded it my slave and milked it for every gilded penny's worth of pleasure.

Another scream interrupts me. Looking away from the page, where letters in blood dry to a sickly brown spidery-script, I notice that the first woman is now either dead or fucked to unconsciousness. They left her to lie in the stinking mud and now visit their lusty greed up on the body of a man of middle years. By his fat belly a Bourgeoisie of some modest wealth.

Leaning back and grinning, I watch them as they introduce his anus to a cock the size of my arm. How so very much like the cries of the people he fucked in life do his screams, now in death, resemble. He looks my way, as if seeking Au secours from the likes of me.

"How little you know me, you fat fool. I'm more likely to help in your rape."

When his screams are choked off, by the second demon's bloody, cum-dripping cock, I go back to writing.

No coins for the ferryman.

I look over towards the said ferryman, Charon or Phlegyas as some would name him. He silently pushes his oar into the feted, purified mud of the river bottom, bringing him closer to the screaming souls that beg for him to hurry. Oh, how they want him to hurry to get them away from the two demons that rape and claw at them. Hurry...to take them to where thousands just like these two dwell.

"Fools."

A leather bound journal for my atonement?

And you lot for my only audience... groveling, sniveling peasant-born souls, more lost than my own! Lost in their own flesh and its simplistic needs. Who still think their strutting and endless preening upon the Stage of Tears has some greater meaning. That a higher power looks upon them, HA! What a fucking great joke on all of humanity that one is.

THERE IS NO GOD!

And if there was, why the hell would he care about you? Oh, what was that? He cared enough to give his only son to die for your sins? Sins...what exactly are those again? Oh, yes to fuck. Because of course, it must be a sin to take a piece of yourself and shove it rudely into another human's body for your own pleasure. And of course it has to be a "sin" if they, should somehow, gain some small pleasure in return for being so impaled. My question about this though, is this...why the ever-living-fuck would a being, so powerful he could create the whole of creation in seven days, give a shit that you're wanting to spew your pathetic teaspoon of spume into the orifice of your choice?

Why?

Why would he care?

No. No, I hate to be the barer of grim tiding...no, that a lie. I'm laughing my sick, dead-ass off...but you are alone in the dark, and no dawn is coming. Not for you.

And certainly not for me.

Which is all to the good. I have no wish for one. No wish for a sanguine-handed Savior, to forgive me. I have more use for the wood and nails of his cross than I have for him. What a lovely little bed is a Crux decussata. A perfect fit to tie an unwilling morsel to, her legs all a sprawl, her breast press hard into bloody, splinter-rich wood, her most delicate of delicates agape for my perusal. My touch, my tasting should I so wish it, certainly for my ravishment and eventual painful degradation.

Ah, the dark and twisted path I am going to lead you, my most humble of sexual accolades. Tortured and shadowed trespassed into places your mind would shrink back in horror from but that I leaped into with gleeful abandonment. To those places I will take you and to so many more in the coming...well, what is time here? There are certainly no days, weeks, months, or years in this marshy stench.

Looking over, I raise a glass of vinegary wine to the ferryman Charon as he loads another boatload of passing bags of anal gas to be taken to their eternal torment or to a mindless, plebeian Paradise. He ignores me, but then that's fine. I care no more for his opinion...than I do of yours.

As the two demons are left alone on the dark shore one glances my way. For a second only does his fanged mouth break into a grin. When he starts towards me his equally blood-soaked companion fiend grabs him, forcing him to take a longer look at me. The first's bloody-red dog-like eyes go wide in fear. He gives me a low bow of respect. I nod that I saw it. Then then both shrink back away, to go hide and wait for the next boatload of lost souls to come trembling to the dock. Their Viaticum clutched in tight fingers.

I notice movement. The woman they raped is still alive. Of course she is fool, nothing can die here! I ponder if I have any itch that needs to be scratched. She looks up and see me, sitting on my dead tree stump with my book and quill. For a second, her dark skin a glint with specks of mica, her face has that same hope the fat man showed. Such a lovely face. A face bearing all the dignity of the kings of Africa. My eyes follow the naked curves of her body, such midnight dark nipples must taste of chocolate. Such plump hips, that are crisscrossed with claw marks from overly eager hands. Her dark rose must be agape still! And her cunt must reek of demon spume. When I look back up, she is cringing back from me.

"Remember Madame Noire, things are never so bad that they can not get worse."

Remember, I am Reynold the Bastard.

Your personal Virgilius, to lead you through my own delightful levels of Hell. And I must warn you of two things. One, I have not Dante's companions maiden-like modesty. And two, that before this little sojourn is over...

...you will despise me.

"Par la mort de dieu."

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