Ondskefull och depraverad litteratur

Scenen med kattungen är bland det starkaste jag läst till denna dag...

Dogstar Pact.

Those with soft leather skin and fur entrails have little need of clothing.
In orgasm, Philbin envisaged metamorphosis as a mosaic of spasm, whose leitmotif was an inverted, slit cross of rancid meat. This system of mutant flesh was dominated by a white sun-face shooting bloody rays, dissolving as he ebbed into cataleptic sleep. These visions had begun with his wife’s pregnancy.
As the months progressed, she could no longer tolerate sexual intercourse. Philbin expended his energies on the land. One evening, his raven-blue mastiff, Sodom, returned home from harvest with a dead dwarf clamped in its jaws. The pray was badly mutilated, neck bitten right through the bone. Philbin was fascinated by the slick, glistering vertebrae on show; he cut out three of them, and carved them into dice. From the top of the dwarf’s deformed oval skull he hewed a cup, and wiled away the long summer night by casting his new tarot-cubes against the shithouse door.
On the eve of his daughter’s birth, a whirlwind flared in the darkling haze of the North, inaugurating vertiginous insurrections against Nature. A netherworld pageant unfolded in rapid time. Mandragora sprouted from an unmarked grave; bees with human faces sprinkled pollen over the head of the slumbering Sodom. The dog collapsed into a violent, unstoppable bout of sneezing, its whole body convulsing, and died with dark blood foaming from its snout and penis. These tarns captured the image of the setting sun; in overwrought crepuscular arcades, cannibal scarecrows clashed. Ghost-drums hammered in the bleak cornfields. No matter how many times Philbin cast his dice, they turned up triple six.
A screaming breaks the spell; screaming that endures while Philbin runs across neverending fields to the farmhouse. It ceases, finally, just as he vaults the porch. Wading through stacks of new green corn, manure-sacks and dog-chewed harebones, he bursts into the gloom of his wife’s bedroom.
There is something wrong here. This should be a shrine of new life. A bright, joyous place.
It says so in the Bible.
But it is dark. So dark, and quiet. And it reeks not of life, but of death; something like an abattoir. There is even a carcass. A carcass that looks, in the wan light, ridiculously like his wife. Halved, lenghtwise, from within.
Halting sharply, Philbin skids on her cooling innards; falling flat at the feet of his newly-born child.
She stands at least a yard tall on the bed, with black hair clotted in afterbirth down to her knees, the opaque eyes of a shark, and shining, coral-white skin. A lenght of steaming spinal cord is looped over one shoulder like a lariat. She is kneading her dead mother’s dugs with both fists, gulping down the curdled cheese that comes squirting forth. In the flickering lamplight, her pelvis throws a canine shade. Between her open legs, glowering mutely scarlet, the cruciform vagina of the Beast.
Horrorstruck, Philbin is aware only of a swelling, drum-beat without; then, the revving of chainsaws in the old barn, and a rising high-pitched babble. With a feral grimage, Coral-White springs past him and is gone. Slipping in his wife’s intestines, Philbin skates over to the window in time to see her vanish into the corn, flanked by a group of tiny, twisted saw-bearers.
Silence.
The world did not turn. Philbin sat on his porch, staring at the negative sky, for months. Or was it years? He could not tell, nor did he care. The mists of Time were fermenting, slowly, in his occluded soul. Still silence. Not a sound, save for the ceaseless clicking of the dice in his fist. No birds sang, not a single leaf grew on the tortured trees. The bleached, infertile soil was nothing more than a sarcophagus for the sun.
Finally, noise. The snapping of the brittle grey corps. Then the low sputter of motors ticking over, and gentle but off-key singing. The first deformed heads, swathed in nauseous ricks of hair, emerged from the fields. More followed, and on there shoulders Philbin could see borne a huge, symmetrical cross. Lashed tightly to its beams, a naked, pale-skinned girl with jet-black tresses.
Coral-White.
Older. Much taller. And unmistakeably, human. Philbin could see that her eyes, imploring him to reclaim her, were wide and limpid blue: her mother’s eyes. He scanned the body. Althrough dark fur now covered her pubic region, it could not conceal the straight groove of her sex. Little caring by whatever magicks the stunted kidnappers had lifted her curse, he arose joyously to greet her. The pocession ground to halt.
A club-footed, chanting freak hobbled to the fore. The dwarfen king, nude save for a leather belt with pouches, his mad body all humpty and buttered with stumps, his scalp ejaculating wild ringlets of enbalmed crabs. In his left hand, an oak wand. He flourished it once. The arid earth at his feet cracked open, grinning, and spat back the bones of old Sodom. They spun aloft, then formed a pentagram around him as they settled. His right hand beckoned Philbin into the arena, then fished around the largest belt-pouch. There, nestling in his hairy palm, a trinity of dice honed from a widow’s backbone. Philbin at once understood the troll’s intent. They were to play for possession of poor Coral-White’s soul.
For hours they fling their bones, the winning a losing going back and forth. Dwarfs surround them, jeering and firing up their chainsaws when the king prevails, plunging into silent menace if Philbin regains the lead. The moon reaches its zenith; they stand even at the final throw. The dwarfen king casually flicks his wrists. The dice roll forth, and his minions erupt in a frenzy of guttural cheering, saw-blaes zig-zagging through the smoky night air. Seventeen. Philbin needs the maximum score to win, and it has yet eluded him.
Jiggling the dice in his skull-cup, he tries to imagine the certitude of insects. They way the wolverine sniff out gristle. The magnetism of cobras, the unerring swoop of blood-drinking bats. He becomes entranced. The tarot-cubes launch themselves of their own volition.
Six. Six. And triple six.
Without ado, the dwarfen king rises to his feet, shrugging his buckled shoulders, turns and limps away into the corn that begat him. Glumly, his entourage follows suit.
Philbin is roused by a pathetic whining. He rushes over to Coral-White, ripping away the braided reeds that bind her to the cross. For an instant, he sees his anamorphic reflection in two soulless, shark-black mirrors, before the talons of the Beast tear off his face.
His winning dice twinkle, once, in the moonlight.

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