The Batifol Swine
Prologue
Slakers sighting surly swines
seek s’pporting strength from in,
and le sanglier à sang chaud,
sources same to save its skin.
Succour from the sinners’ sire’s,
a certain source of sin,
and survivors of such sinfulness,
should sin to save their skin.
“You humans…how I despise you, your weak minds, your self-importance. Yes even you…dear reader…your irksome existence coils my insides like an orgy of erotic asps. Your optimism clogs my veins, your love burns my skin, your mere presence torments my mind. But your raw animal instincts, oh yes, your true desires, your Id, that is my emissary, for I can sway it, manipulate it, enslave it.”
“When? When you’re alone, of course…close that door…linger a moment, allow the loneliness to fill your mind, the stark silence to enhance your flaws. Let the madness of your disassociation entwine with your thoughts; the weakened solidity, diminished conformity, nobody watching, nobody knows, nobody cares. That’s when evil thoughts strike. Embrace that untimely thrill exploding inside you as it does in me, the apprehension unbearable, evil palpable on my tongue. What sins will you conjure? What malevolent acts will you realize? In the beginning, the thoughts are just specks, chromosomal. But linger on and feel them grow like tumours, deathly, relentless, yet natural, liberated, almost furtive. Just once you will fall like this enveloped in darkness, tormented, alone, just once, and when you do, I will catch you, take your wretched self in as my own, taint your soul with squid-ink blackness and nurture your mind. Turn that speck into a deed. Then, then you will please me, pleasure my body, entice my mind as the fires soil the earth, the screams shatter the bonds of sanity, and fear incapacitates the mind.”
“You may know who I am. I am a servant of the one whose name you never speak. I am the ever-present darkness in your enigmatic mind whispering the truth, your desires, wants, needs. I am the hunger that accompanies your masturbation. I am the desensitisation of death. I am the raw selfishness of survival. I feed at every rape, every demonstration of power; every act of terrorism, relishing in the hatred, the human disparity, loving your work, loving your evil. In fact, you know who I am…yes, you…we’ve met before, haven’t we? Think back, your darkest moment, our finest hour. Remember it? Oh yes…oh the succulence…that was me…us! We did that together. We’re old friends you and I, BFFs…habitual. I know what you’re capable of doing. I watched you do it. Now I’m looking for someone like you, someone enveloped in darkness, tainted with a squid-ink soul. Yes, you’ll do nicely…I’m coming for you, you’re in my sights.”
“Just remember, time is my ally, loneliness is my web. You should try it, linger a moment, just once…you will fall. And I will flouri…wait!”
“…what is this…yes, oh yes…Mmm. I sense an easier prospect, one whose fledgling thoughts have ripened and swollen like the very apples of Eden; one whose loneliness has distended the Id, engorged the instinctive mind and charred his thoughts. And while I anticipate your fawningness with unquenchable longing, I hear him calling me, inviting me to his abode and I am helpless to answer. I am being drawn, the image becoming defined, sharpening. I can make out sunshine in an autumnal scene, perhaps some trees, an austere silence, nothing stirring. Perfect.”
“And now I am there and I see it, a pine tree hut, small and simple, but unkempt, unloved and uninviting. A verandaed front holding back the forest, furnished by a bloodied table, a tree log fashioned as a chair…and…imminent death. Yes, now I feel the thrill, there is death in the air. It’s not the dried death of the hunted animals hanging from the eaves, neither that caused by the animal corpse, skinned and hacked, that rots outside the hut’s uninviting, open door. This is a moist, yet unfulfilled death; a different, more exhilarating kind. I cannot wait a moment longer, I move up the stairs and through the open door.”
“The main room is cluttered and smoky – a hunter’s lodge. Traps and snares hang from the walls below prize kills that gawk back, the floor has a bloody tarnish that’s flaked into the dust now inhaled by those inside, the main source of light is a furnace that burns at the far end, so hot and bright it makes me feel totally at home.”
“He is here. I can sense his mind, the scale of his bloated Id, his instinctive needs.
I can see the veins bulging on the side of the skull, his eyes dead, his anger a deluge. In his giant hands he clutches a hunter’s knife, nothing more than a sewer’s needle in his mighty paws. I can feel the loneliness pouring from his soul, the apathy inviting me in. At his feet, a small human body, bound to a fallen chair, tenderised beyond recognition, but still aware, still sensing, still seeing.”
“I hear a moan escape the victim’s lips. He is old and frail, a walker perhaps; his backpack leans against the wall, placed tidily, purposefully.”
“‘Stop…please’ the utterance is desperate.”
“I feel the hunter’s resolve waiver, hesitation, a sense of guilt beginning to return, his human morals over-riding the Id. This is why I despise you humans…you are all too weak. I know what I have to do. In his moment of distress, it is my time, my moment to appear. I move on in and possess the giant; it’s easier than penetrating a succubus. The victim thinks he’ll get the knife, thinks he’ll have a quick death, thinks the end is close.
But I have a much better idea.”
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