This is part 1 of an intended series. A title for this series is still being pondered so when I have decided on one it will be added as a category so you can see the entire work. The first two parts have been written with more to come. Enjoy!
She Dreams to be a Hollywood Starlet
a short story by Cult
It wasn't as though the icon was flashy, far from it in fact, it was but a bold red square with the word Forbidden in black letters in its center. It was intriguing because of its unassuming nature, a cunning ploy for sure in a world bursting with epic themes and grandeur in advertising even the most meaningless of object.
Seriously?! A three million dollar commercial for body wash? Did it wipe up your orgasm for you before or after you used it to scrub behind your ears?
Strange then that he could not divert his attention, his gaze was literally locked in place. The icon was plain, boring even, but still very attractive though many around it twinkled, flashed or transformed into enticing phrases.
…for a limited time only… while supplies last… bigger, better, bolder
As the digit's companions begin to slowly warm back up, to their estranged mate, the phone's screen loses focus eventually fading to black moments later. He brings the phone closer to his face for a closer inspection beginning to assume the worst, it was only in the last month or so that he had witnessed a documentary foretelling “the rise of the machines”. Perhaps it was a movie? He never really did pay much attention to details. Turning the device over in his palm he checks for any light to indicate the battery still had life.
Suddenly the device vibrates. Vibration normally indicated an alert of some sort, either a text message or an incoming email, however this one felt different somehow. There was no light showing anywhere on the phone's surface so technically it was without power or the LCD screen had somehow died. Weird then, that it continued to shake and shudder with growing intensity in his ever tightening fist. Despite his attempts he was unable to maintain his grip, the phone slithers free. It bounces from his apparently useless tightly clenched hand plummeting to the ground connecting with an audible crunch.
The messenger comes to an abrupt halt inadvertently causing a cloud of thick choking dust to envelope him. As he awaits an audience with his master his heartbeat pounds away in his chest at an alarming rate.
“It had better be important, can you not see that I am busy?” The voice is unmistakably that of the Exalted One loudly booming from across the vast dimly lit hall.
“Yes. Yes, Sir. Yes. If it wasn't of dire importance for your more than impressive audio receptors I wouldn't dare disturb you, my Lord.” He tried his best not to stutter though still very nervous.
This was after all a message for the Master. He wipes his leathery green arm across a grimy moist brow. He hopes his message was worthy, important enough, to allow him to leave in one piece. It was only yesterday that poor Enoch had been dissolved to a pulp. The rumor was that he had carried a message straight from the wastelands, a mere greeting from a relative, stating simply... “wish you were here.”
The unmistakable sound of the Master’s approaching heavy steps echoes throughout the hall. The distinct click comes closer with each hoofed footstep connecting with the intricately designed marble, centuries past anything resembling its prime.
“I'm in a great mood today, lucky you!” The thick shadows are suddenly breached by a mop of frizzled hair, the color indeterminable, resembling a crow's nest that has been dragged unceremoniously across the forest floor.
The thick fibrous mass is followed by a head, shoulders then arms that are bound tightly by the wrist at the small of the slender form's back. An ample rump covered in blood appears next accompanied by his Lord, who is still attached to it at the groin. Breaking through the shadows, he raises a meaty palm to fall in a vicious arc landing with a resounding thwack! The fleshy protuberance hanging from his groin shudders upon impact spraying a large pattern of crimson showering both the messenger and the majority of the grand entrance way.
“Smile man, it's not everyday you are blessed with the blood shower of a virgin! Well… at least she was!” A hearty chortle escapes a throat adorned by trophies of war: mummified shrunken heads, torn genitals (tied together by arteries braided by the wives of the slain) and ripped away flesh stained dark with ceremonial ink. The grisly assemblage vibrates and sways across his thick neck. He has seen battles across every dimension known to man and many that aren't.
“Watch this!” The beast leans back, his vast horns scarred and carved with countless battle wounds mere inches from scraping the vaulted ceiling.
He over dramatically thrusts his hips, the attached limp form bucking wildly back and forth in a grotesque simulation that lasts more than the eight seconds necessary in rodeo circles.
The limp naked woman snaps back and forth as his thrusting begins a second time without warning. Her head bobs up and down comically like a stuffed doll’s head on a pale neck twisted in an unnatural position not even found within the Kama Sutra. Her slack face making loud clacking noises as her jaw slams together violently crushing a once beautiful smile. Her ample breasts rise and fall brutally slapping together loudly like two jelly filled sacks slapping against each other. Her blue lips colliding rapidly as her shattered jaw is slams up and closed uncontrollably in a morbid parody of speech.
Using every measure of resolve within his tiny form, the impish messenger stands still trying his damnedest not to smirk or break even the slightest smile. He watches as, with an abrupt crack, the flailing torso's face violently kisses the dirty marble floor.
“Oh Well! She was fun while she lasted!” A slippery noise much like a removing captured fish from a hook, the virgin slides off the Master’s giant phallice.
He casually yanks her free from his monstrous meat skewer still glistening with her intestinal gore. Her abused torso having outlived its apparent usefulness, it is discarded in the blink of an eye being carelessly tossed aside with all the care one would give to a sack of garbage. The remains are claimed before they can even come to rest as the gathered unruly mob pounces clamoring for any scrap the Master cares to toss their way. The slight distraction of movement causes the imp to lose focus for an instant. He shifts his beady eyes immediately back to his Master in hopes he hasn't noticed.
“Quite the sight, huh?” The Exalted One's face now shockingly inches away from the imp’s own.
The fetid odor of fresh meat and sex hangs in the air between them with the Master’s giant genitalia sweeping side to side like a large snake leaving huge furrows in the thick dust of the floor. To the imp’s astonishment, it occasionally jerks as if in possession of its own singular temperament. It is still easily discerned what, or rather whom, was last snacked upon as shreds of cloth still hung from the multitude of razor teeth jutting haphazardly from his jawline split in twain by his wry smirk.
“So...What is this all important news you have for me?” The jangling of metal on ivory (a thick bronze ring pierces one of his monstrous horns at the base) breaks the mesmerizing spell that held the messenger in thrall.
The imp blinks his squinty eyes that are bloodshot and dry from traversing miles of dusty terrain. He tries his best, yet fails, to focus on something, anything, other than the huge mesmerizing fiery orbs gazing intently back at him.
An ear to ear upturned fissure widens transforming the weathered, scarred face before him. A landscape of razor sharp enamel daggers menacingly show themselves. They display an unnerving array too vast in number to even guess at their number (none survived to accurately count them so his attempt was just out of the question!)
The Imp sensed the distinct movement without glancing he knew the Master’s veiny club had again become engorged. It rose in excitement seemingly of its own accord from the dirt floor. He would never admit it, if asked, but in truth it tickled somewhat as it slightly brushed against his knee.
A sudden tearing noise destroyed in an instant any perceived moment of intimacy.
In unison both turn their heads towards the apparent source of the sudden, unexpected ruckus.
Part Two... Dripping Thru The Portal Of Hell