The King of the Monsters

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The King of the Monsters

Postby Gexistentialist » Sun Jun 10, 2012 12:07 pm

“History shows again and again how nature points out the folly of man.”
Blue Oyster Cult



The dark vacuum that is space is notorious for its vagueness. Nothing is solid, save for the drifting planets or rocks. A veritable menagerie of shapes suspended and glued to a black background like the handiwork of a retarded child. It was a boring sight, and maybe, just maybe, disgusting. He was resting now, passing through this stream of nothingness, and yet at the same time, he was growing impatient. It had been awhile since he had last done it, and in his half-awake haze, he wanted more.


In this darkness, his slant eyes scanned the surreal surroundings. Nothing. Whatever life was here, they had probably done the job themselves and succumbed to the truth of it all, or some fool had taken advantage of his absence. He wanted to close his eyes and keep on going. He was beginning to think he had reached another dead end, like he had a few times in the past.

The woman at his foot, laying on her stomach, touches him and asks: “Why?”

Ah, yes. Something in him had said that he had been here before, déjà vu. His eyes widened in the darkness. He then began to remember the wind and the bodies and the sky that he had raped. A pity; it was one of the most beautiful skies he had ever seen in his many eons of spreading the word.

Looking down on the woman, he curled his lips. “Do you want to know why?” She nodded yes. He responded by sucking her out. “That’s why,” he said with a scoff.
Poor skreeonk,” he mumbled to himself. “She was begging for it like a whore.
“Well, why can’t I?”
The woman’s planet passed by. He suddenly felt nostalgic. But wait… there was something up ahead. Something teeming with what he desired. He could sense it. It was coming closer. And closer. And closer. He was getting a good look at it now. Back when he sucked the life out of her, he saw it, but wasn’t interested. Looked to him like a viscous swamp of pond scum, perhaps a looking glass of what was to come. There was something truly special about that ball of underdeveloped slime, in that it was now blue, and was glowing in the section where he was headed.

His mouths opened wide in anticipation. This wasn’t just hunger he felt. It was joy.

He wouldn’t just rape the sky and the sea and the people this time. He will teach them. And they will learn.

Closer still.

Even closer.

And then, darkness again.
At last…


Another dream, thought Ichiro Tanaka as he lay in his bed in the early morning hours. The other students at the Tokyo School for Gifted Psychics were most likely still asleep. They’re probably thinking of lambs in the field and cotton candy. Maybe those pesky little snow monkeys up north. Cute stuff, just as the doctors ordered. We don’t want any of that Armageddon stuff spreading like the flu around here, now don’t we? Ichiro rose and sat himself on the side of the bed. In the distance, beyond the concrete walls, there were sirens. Police, definitely.

In his head, Ichiro felt two things. The first was a headache, the second was a foreshadowing of nausea. This had been the third time this month he’d been having the nightmares again. Just reflecting on them was enough to bring the nausea to a peak. He cleared his head, got off the bed and stretched. He took a seat at his desk, facing the window. As the dread drained away from him, Ichiro contemplated his dorm room. It was nothing out of the ordinary for a Japanese boy of fourteen, save for the essays he had written, the books, the multiple journals… and the drawings. poop, the drawings. Ichiro turned on the lamp which hung over the table like a psychopath’s dagger. With the table illuminated, he noticed a blank sheet of drawing paper. The doctors recommended that in the event of “peculiar visions, dreams, hallucinations,” and so on, the student should create a portrait of it. Ichiro had honed his skill in his years here, ever since… No. Not now.

He wanted to forget the nightmare he had just had. The problem was that they had stuck with him like super glue for years. He did not want to pick up the pencil beside the paper. He had a habit of hiding the more unpleasant sketches, or even better, destroying them. They love the art. They love looking at the train wrecks, and the disembowelments, and the crying children. Hey, it’s for science, right? Anything to save the world.

Outside the window, rain was beginning to fall. Last week, some of the other kids predicted that. Better than television, Ichiro thought. We’re a part of the action, not witnessing it on our asses. Maybe television’s better.
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