And now for an entirely different bit of fiction....

I, Prophet

I awoke at dawn when KUTULU spoke to me. I finished a pack of cigarettes while I listened to the thrum of His power. It was a sound like the moon being unscrewed and dropped in a vodka martini. With a twist of lemon and a good, mid-shelf brand of vodka. Grey Goose maybe. I'm not quite sure, I wasn't listening very closely. From the fractured images I slowly piece together a narrative while my crystal stank and smoked black smoke on it's shrine.

Below the red, fecund loam of my grave, my own private host of gods and demons stirred irritably. It has been a long time for them, even in nonlinear equasions. "Shhh, shhh," I urged them, though my lips came apart when I uttered the words. "You've been so patient. So patient. Just a little longer. Enough to juice the body." They rustled, a chittering seethe, or a seething chitter, indicating their displeasure. But I was the Prophet, and they had no choice but to straighten up and march with my linear timetable. Poor bastards; they were mostly cannon fodder anyway.

The fact that I cannot see the stars is hampering my calculations. I can compensate some by listening closely to the tick-tick-tick of certain strange, low frequency ions that radiate from those stars relevant to His cause. However, there are inconsistencies in the mathematics that I cannot account for.

At the highest levels of chaos theory, all strange probabilities become likely.

First I reach for a mind, a fresh sentient life force to take the edge off my fast. The first I sense is heavy with cancers, praying for an end to conciousness. His anguish is hot and sour, but I drink it in greedily. Turgid brown liquid fills my cavities; it swells and expands to the limit of my conciousness. It is not enough for me to rise through this cursed dead damp earth, but I can at least smack my lips and crave further.

The next I sense is purer, a savory cornucopia of pulsing essence-one life draped in another like a burial shroud, adrift in amniotic fluid. It has a refreshing fizz to it-like a newly uncorked champagne, and like champagne it brings a sensation of warmth, of zest. Slowly it stops moving, the spark gone dim. If all the variables are accounted for properly, it will be three days before the mother goes to the doctor to ask why he is so still.

My hands-my good strong hands!-begin to pry at the dirt above me. The insistent chittering grows louder, in anticipation. My work is outside of time; I do not even follow it's progress. Only up, up into the cursed light of YHVH. My erudite master pulses hard in my thoughts, my lungs, my throbbing death cock.

I can taste air now. A little starlight is starting to show through.