Demonic Techno-Warfare

Standing on the rooftop of a building high enough to showcase the landscape of the whole city, I am distracted from the speckled city lights and depressed colors by the sound of police sirens and gunfire. At a street corner blocked from my view I see police lights accompanied by additional gunfire. Soon, three convicts, chained together, roll into my vantage point; one of them writhing in despair – the heaviest one. The other two try dragging him down the abandoned city block but his heavy carcass doesn’t gain them any favor. A second convict is then shot and immobilized. The third fleeing offender is left alone to contemplate what this frightened attempt at a mistrustful freedom is truly worth.

Miguel, the wounded prisoner, is shipped to the nearest hospital for treatment. While in recovery, three flashy individuals enter his hospital room. Two of them appear to be the entourage – a man and a woman, both dressed in black; the woman fashioning a tight dress, the man in a fine leisure suit. The head of this mysterious trio is wearing a black three-piece with a red long-sleeve underneath; his hair black and slicked back to a fine point. All three of them bore the flesh of sun deprived statue.

The main man handled a briefcase which he slammed on the wounded Miguel’s legs, rudely awakening him. Before Miguel could shake the cobwebs from his i.v. drips, the main man established the trio as representatives of a private company hired by Miguel’s father to look out for Miguel’s current best interests. Main Man opened the briefcase, revealing built-in functioning laptop with a hi-def monitor. It played a video recorded by Miguel’s father explaining that if he signed with this organization, all of his medical bills and legal issues would be dealt with and absolved if he were to attend a dinner seminar. Naturally, the morally feisty Miguel agreed and signed his name on the electronic writing pad.

That evening, a fully healed Miguel and I arrive in a cul-de-sac of a slightly upscale neighborhood. We approached one of the less flamboyant homes and awaited our hosts. As we waited, we were soon joined by three men dressed in prideful leather western gear from the tops of their freshly steamed cowboy hats to their shining, horse-kicking boots; thick mustaches sprawled across all of their upper lips with the thinnest one draping the peripherals of his cheeks and lips with a Fu Manchu style.

“Don’t think they’re gonna be servin’ tacos at this shindig, fellas,” said the shorter redneck, directing the discouraging remark towards Miguel and myself. Neither of us responded, which left him a window to add to his racist tirade. “Whatsa matter boys, no speakin’ ze Engless? Well, you know how to wash a dish you’ll do just fine in this place.”

Before I could stab him in the throat with my fountain pen the door opened. We were greeted by Main Man. He welcomed us into the home, delighted we could attend. While his two assistants prepared the seminar he led us to the dining room. The table was sprawled with delectable entrees, foods and fruits of all kinds – turkey, apples, oranges, and dishes filled strawberries and various assortments of nuts, cheeses and crackers. Certainly I had never set eyes on such a delightful smorgasbord, and judging by Miguel’s drooling mouth neither had he. However, the three rednecks saw fit to ruin all pleasantries before any of them could even begin.

“I don’t need no picture show,” spoke the same one that heckled Miguel and I outdoors with his thick, southern country boy accent. “What’re y’all sellin’ here and what’s it gonna cost me and muh buddies, because, frankly, this is all a little too fruity for us. So, what’s the deal?”

“The deal,” said Main Man through snow-colored lips and increasingly infuriated black eyes, “is that I do not like rude people, sir. And ever since your arrival, you have proven to be anything but.”

While the four men stared one another down in a game of commercial cat and mouse, from down the hall of red carpet and red walls approached a staggering figure untouched by any light. It moved as though a sordid will overpowered its broken legs as it stomped and slid its way towards us.

What were once three rednecks had mysteriously become two; no one aware of what had happened to the third, but there was no time to ponder as this ghoulish creature continued creeping its way towards out location until finally, it’s true form showed itself in the light. It was an undead duplicate of the Fu Manchu redneck dressed in a gray, tarnished and torn space suit.

“What the fuck?” gasped Fu Manchu Redneck.

“What fuck, indeed,” said Main Man, stepping closer to Fu Manchu Redneck. “Your sexual tastes are no secret here, nor are the methods you practice in acquiring your sweet, sick treasures.”

Main Man swooped into Fu Manchu’s personal space with enough nervous force to knock him into one of the kitchen seats which immediately produced black leather straps, binding his arms behind the chair, spreading his legs wide and in welcoming fashion.

“How bout a taste?” asked Main Man.

Zombie Space Fu Manchu Redneck lunged at Fu Manchu Redneck’s crotch, tearing into his pelvic flesh and proceeded to administer a bloody, gore soaked oral sex session.

Racist Redneck stumbled in shock and horror while Miguel and I looked on, slightly frightened but definitely astounded more than anything else.

“You aren’t without your own faults,” Main Man switched to Racist Redneck.

With a summoning blink, Main Man’s two assistants took hold of Racist Redneck by his arms and in the blink of a hummingbird’s eye, he was transformed into a mutant frog the size of a baby pig, with horns protruding from its head like those of a bull.

“But before we can cook the meal, it needs stuffing.”

With that, Main Man’s assistants each grabbed a hind leg and pulled heavily, splitting the frog’s backside wide open, blood spilling to the neatly polished white tile floor. Main Man dipped his hand into the stuffing bowl and began applying it to the insides of Racist Redneck Frog’s posterior, sampling a bit of bloody stuffing every now and then; even feeding his two assistants a crimson handful.

As this happened, Fu Manchu Redneck achieved his climax from Zombie Space Fu Manchu Redneck’s violent crotch play, and as he ejaculated his head exploded with an uncontrollable volcano of semen erupting from his neck, spilling all over the dinner table and its delicacies.

Miguel and I were devastated. Then, Main Man turned his attention towards us, converting our devastation into outright fear because it was at that moment that we eventually realized we were in the presence of wickedly demonic forces, possibly Satan himself.

“This way,” directed Main Man towards the sliding patio doors. Stepping through them threw us into a different dimension. We were now thousands of feet above land on a castle’s tapestry reaching above storm bearing clouds occasionally flashing lightning and crackling thunder.

Main Man went on this diatribe of how they were gathering the pieces necessary for the annihilation of everything touched by heaven – Earth, space, technology – everything was to be damned, and they needed right minds and bodies for the job. That’s when Main Man grabbed Miguel and tossed him over the ledge, but to no one’s knowledge, Miguel’s form shifted into an albino insect-like creature. It clutched a piece of the tapestry’s brick and swung to safety, securing itself to the side of the tapestry’s neck. He was then blanketed by a white aura and vanished.

I, on the other hand, was led within the tapestry’s dwellings. Long gone was the suburban household with the scrumptious spread and mutilated rednecks. Now, we were in a scientific warehouse where silver lined every inch of walls and floor, and silver computers filtered information while researchers studied lab results.

Main Man walked me towards a testing box. I was placed within, clueless as to what was about to happen. I heard machines gearing up and suddenly the box began tearing my skin from my body yet I felt only a tinge of pain, like getting a tattoo, but then more tools – saws, scalpels, and tubes emanated from the damnation box and began boring into my very soul, slicing at it, stretching it inside and out. All the pain was in my mind. I went numb.

The door to the damnation chamber opened. Weakly, I exited the same as I had entered, if not for a lingering buzz in the back of my head. There was something different though – the room was brighter than before. Main Man and all of the scientists were nowhere to be found. A blinding light had sprouted from outside and all of the computers were downloading new information.

Miguel had come back. He had been an alien angel sent to lead his platoon into this dimension. The buzzing in the back of my head grew larger and louder, and continued doing so until I awoke in my bed.