Sunday, April 3, 2011


A Miserable Intro to a Painful Thought
By Joe Jones

He was born of Misery's stale, blight-infected womb, the only one born of such a palmy seed. It had come from a sunken-eyed tormentor, and that father, that tattered-minded individual, impregnated the witch of the fuzzy bosom.

This father needed no introduction, and he said nothing to that unfertile beast—that witch known as Misery in the City of Dark Scripts. All in that city knew her as Misery, all in Vouor, and all in that city strayed from the balding thing, that humongous, too-ugly-to-be-called-such thing. But, this father had a burning in his loins, and he saw flesh that could be handled, an able husk that wouldn’t shred easily under his sky-reaching hands. This and more he saw in the beast, and he went to her, stomped to her, growling under his breath, breathing out fumes of sodomy, breathing in the sweat-streaked, blood-stained odor that was the scent of Misery’s ivory locks.

They stretched out underneath the jagged, hanging cliffs of Gnaw, the undead, spiky leeches of the carnivorous breed as their bed. And there, right on top those spiny vermin so-called sulks, right beneath the craggy claws of Gnaw, that grey-haired, white-eyed thing—that which shouldn't be described as anything other than a thing, a detestable creation, spread her thighs as if they were mountains and allowed for that dreadful, flame-toothed father to inject his will into the hardened, crust-covered valley of fur and fleas so revealed.

For nine days, from sun-up to sun-down that father—that seared-lipped father, plunged his furious desire into the willing savage of a mother—that Misery. And during those nine days, that witch thrashed as she was bashed, wailed as that vicious, saliva-covered father bruised all of her tail.

Her moans were quakes throughout that dark-windowed city of Vouor, truly horrid cries of desperation, of shrill temptation, and of twisted passion. The union of the two—that tick-covered thing and the punishing father brought the city—that dark-windowed city, to a silence. As the father forced in his will beyond the bruised and bloody entrails that his forcing had encouraged, the tide in that towered metropolis forever changed. The witch's screams that were sirens of hellish pleasure rang out in the still night that was the non-moving night in Vouor at that time.

And as Misery, that whale of a mutated ocean, that bitch of a broken breed, conceived, all of the wide-eyed insomniacs of Vouor, those Vouorors as they were often called, knew that the child would be destruction incarnate. So, at birth, the lust-covered, placenta-choked child was seized by those Vouorors. None of those eagle-feasting Vouorors found rest in the wake of dawn until that child, that embodiment of wrathful passion, had been dumped into a warping pool—the portal to only the Lord knows.

Who cared where the boy, that bastard son of Misery and the father—the flame-toothed father, ended up? Certainly not the Vouorors, not the never-sleeping, dark-scaled Vouorors.

Poor boy, poor bastard son of Misery. Poor unfortunate spawn of that singed-lipped father, the one that all in Vouor call Pain.

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