Deep sleep so soft and dark, dark without remembered dreams. I woke up drooling remembering another bloodlust, a hunt for a crazed fucker, a beater of women. Women he couldn’t subjugate or dominate by virtue of presence and appreciation.
They remain a pleasure to send to dark demise, not without grievous torture.
This is a torture without hands on, a series of awful occurrence. I sent the entity of my own making into his deep mind to find his greatest pains and fears. The entity absorbed them and grew. It injected them into his emotional source and its deepest triggers. I had no desire to know what they were only to have my creature find them, trigger them and make them cause him great anxiety and pain. He spent sleepless nights and dragging days of little accomplishment filled with remorse and insecurity. He made mistakes at every turn. He sabotaged every relationship and person dear to him. He fumbled in his career and alienated his colleagues and customers. He wrecked his car and his truck. He appeared like a child to his lover. She left him in disgust. She craved his punishments and now he could no longer give them. She insulted him unabated. She lied to him and he did not try to catch her in them. She hit him without his counterpunches and beatings. He cried like a child and whined to her and pissed his pants. She could take it no more.
He got more and more pathetic. He hurt morning and night. His days and nights were torture. He longed for death and fantasized killing himself or driving someone else to kill him. He imagined himself a target of the angel of Death.
And so once again the dank, cold pleasure of the drawing of a death curse filled me like a sweet drink of cold nectar. Black and thick, sickeningly sweet and bitter at the aftertaste. Pleasing until the end like the intromission period after a long orgasm. Cold, cold, cold like the best quietude on a moonless night. And so I remembered all the energies of entropy that surround the deaths of the guilty and deserving of their murder yet never done by another person or by suicide. More like getting hit by tumbling debris from a demolished building or getting hit and run over by a convoy of trucks, feeling pain long after dismemberment and disbursement of his remains, like living hamburger with raw nerves exposed and turned up with pain.
In a cold decided demeanor I called the runes, vibrating them and feeling their export to the ethers with attendant dark colors. I stood on the bind rune, the sigil of this target’s demise in the center, calling the Gods of death and entropy visualizing the target’s engulfment in darkness while stabbing him in effigy in the heart of the sigil. The Gods came cold upon him, sweeping him into the terror they invoke in others who do not understand the fruition in destruction and death as the pathway to rebirth or oblivion. It passed, cold, and black, blind in the opaque flatness of it.
“Die, die, die, die, die…” the chant went on and on fading with the burning of the incense and burnt parchment. Robe removed and folded reeking of Saturn incense I went into the night to drink tea and listen to death metal dirges droning me into the early morning towards sleep again at dawn and an amnesia of the night’s events.
In the days which followed everyone who wished great harm upon the target seemed to accumulate wishing him imaginatively greater and greater demise.
Finally, one night on his way home he drove past his neighborhood to a street leading out of town into a mountainous part of the desert. Low peaks of broken basalt adding to the overall darkness. The road faded to dirt. He drove up on a ghost town looking set of structures until finally a small bar appeared as a corner structure drawing him inexorably toward it. He parked, went to the doorway and walked in through a short corridor. The bar was low lit mostly from the floor. The bar stools were nearly all occupied except for a stool on the far end. Lowered volume droning music gave a depressed drone. Our target sat down on the end stool and noticed all the customers were hooded, dressed in black, faces obscured. He noticed a painting on the wall of a demonic Ulysses with eager expressing slaying all of Penelope’s suitors with the bow only he could string. The painting seemed to be oozing blood onto the floor. A woman walked up to him from the back of the room, came up to him, stomped on his toes with pointed heels, drawing blood. Another man walked up and stabbed a needle like long dagger into his shoulder to draw the most pain. Soon a crowd formed, kicking him, cutting him, bludgeoning him to submission then picking him up, waking him and beating him further, finally the crowd took him to the alley behind the bar and they chained him to four cars, one for each limb, waiting for the signal to pull him apart. And so they did, very slowly tearing his already agonized form to pieces and finally shards mixing their blood and his guts into the desert soil.
I saw the entire terrifying tale in a special report on the news the next day.
A cool, dark gloating came over me. I had been gone from these enchantments too long.