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.