Prologue
As a coat hanger lingers towards the jaws of creation.
It turns its wire into the mainframe brain of my place in this situation.
She screamed and I do not remember. The walls, the gates to Earth.
I was still connected by a chord to her. The abhorrent aliens here cut our connection.
Tremble with me in the shivers of my serotonin censored mouth.
Censored by the sores of youthful contorted pout.
Still with me in the robes of adult. Still going throughout the hordes of manifestation.
Trying to hold onto the tiniest of a child, floating in the brain of potential isms.
Lest you let your child slip, and fall into what others misguide of you.
Then your inner child is the seed. That is eaten by the jaws of creation.
And all you have left, are the kisses of years until death.
Lest you forget your childhood dream.
And let it slip into the depths of aped monotony.
From the womb falls the filthy unnamed infant to the cigar factory floor. In a flood of blood it becomes one with world around it, screaming. A product of the Mother’s repeated molestations from her Brother, Butch and the Factory Captain. It becomes a rare child to escape the abortion line of Mothers to the furnace. It becomes a burden and reason for Mother to prostitute from her teen of age ’till her mind melts into the chaos it was born into.
The infant, Seymour, named later at the helms of a place where he grows to become the source of her will to manifest, her will to go on. Long after she has forgotten the words to exact what keeps her adjoined to her Seymour, as her skin with mind rots and grows wrinkled and sheltered pale. She will never leave Seymour. And he will never leave her, like leeches with no satisfaction, joined at each possible suckle.
The new embryo becomes his name, Seymour, at the helms of the Gentle Place of the society where all will feel and undress you without a line upon moral grounds between who deems one more human than human. Mother becomes a walking piece of meat for all the men to pillage at her selfless beliefs.
And when Seymour has grown to be the age of something to be sold, his innocence shall be more than lost. Butch shall come for his talents and meld them into his own. A deal for a life with brotherly love, full of promises keeping their lives locked on the verge of low.
Making it to Church each Sunday on time, is that shackle of grace. Everything has already happened, universal rebirths within millenniums countlessly without cease. Someone is watching it unfold, someone knows they cannot stop its natural fated course of grit. This is an insight into a cog in the unchallengeable fate machine. It is not God who is watching, it is not the devil.
Club the infantile into the hydra.
Howling, peripheral shrieking of others here. Echo across the hard bars. Crying in its staggering linger, across the floor. Umbilical cord of young Seymour trails across the floor, grey and stained brown from the former chap in the cell. This is the Love Club. Butch has been caught. Butch has been put back to work. Butch was caught carrying this Nephew toward the Cannibal Butchers. Butch pleaded that he was only there to show Seymour as a gesture of joyful elation. To the valium HQ inspectors, this looked rather different. As the child’s Mother, work-less and of fragility’s vile embrace. She lingers outside the bronze-doors, a young teenage girl wrapped in brown attire. The smell of cock on her erodes the nostrils of all near. The smell of factory fumes stains her hair green. Her face pale, she wipes it repeatedly with her snotty nose to clean the grit to see her boy.
A large, fat man, barely big enough to fit down the corridor of Love Club cells sluggishly forth toward the crying infant Seymour. Hands from each cell do not reach for him. Each little boy, old man, little girl and so forth huddle in their missing digits and eye-sockets to the corners of their painful lullabies. The fat man wears a shirt. His cock, covered in the brown blood, swaggers back and forth to arrive at the cell of our little character.
Sitting by the stepping stone outside the Love Club entrance to Valium HQ, Mother straddles a basket made of fine wood she has worked on for 9 months with her pixie fingers, sobbing and shivering. A clunk, a swing of a noise, silences the sounds of the lunatic streets. The door opens, and there, the fat man, delivers unto her, little Seymour.
He held the infant as if it were something of a beauty his brain never had a space for. His eyes, teary. His sweat, dripping. “Thank you, Sir”. He nods and slams the door, swinging the chamber lock shut. A hatch opens to show the fat man’s mouth. “What will thy call it?”
She looks down, tracing her finger down the centre of his forehead, its eyes red and stinging, wailing. “I..” she shudders. “I will know, some day, Sir”. The fat man grunts. “Butch, he fucked you, did he?”
She steps back. Looking down at her child, hands shaking. The eyes of the fat man descend to take a gander through the Love Club door hatch, and he closes it.
Past the great statue of the Valium, past the Doctors, past the roaches and mud. She lingers forth, climbing with each step, toward the first Brothel she can find, before the acid rains bear down upon them and turn their skin to a cinders in the snow.
Other Mothers, they remember.
Dr. Milarlok’s appearance is of a stand-up vagrant today. He looks like this since he hasn’t changed form for you, the reader’s eyes. He is paranoid. He is brilliant. He is dirty, a hypocrite, but a ghost to those outside his manor, who would frighten them before lulling them. No, he is not a Deity or Demon. Is he of this realm? Perhaps. And his soul itself, all its abilities, rest upon his skin’s surface. As does his mortality. As does his memories with his hopes of a cease to his infinite regrets.
Dr. Trebor Milarlok was born in the 5th of December, 1785. He remembers his Mother. When he does, he feels nothing quite like remorse, but rather a grandeur certainty of guilt and ever illusive ambition. A certainty he knows is that her soul is out there in the iterative cycle of souls in this city of recycled immorality. He knows where her soul is and he feels has approached her in many bodies before all the atoms of false lords fell to create this purgatorial Cult State Industrial City. The technology is what litter of gears and words and sounds and smells one could tolerate to bound all together by the hands of millions over the centuries up to this moment.
So what is Trebor doing right now? He’s wrestling the nerves of all the centuries of wars of sinful and saintly driven monarchies of finance, that he’s seen the end and the beginning of which led to this hell.
He stands before a sphere of black metal. At the top of this structure and on its sides, and around its central equator are gold rings. It hovers above a gold ring below it in a concave wooden base, likewise, but facing downwards does a copy of this from above. He takes a seat and opens up a book. The book is the bible, but inside – it looks like a radio. His pale clammy fingers fumble around the circuitry made of gold and rusted copper with wood. Taking a glove from his chest pocket, he places it on his left hand, and attaches the device inside the bible onto the lover palm of this glove. The needle structure of the device pushes into the glove – into his blood. The dripping slivers down and pools at the old veins at his wrist.
Looking up at it he mutters to himself. “Hmm, and let this Owl craft open.” Pushing his hand outstretched to aim at the centre point of the sphere device. It spins briefly then stops. He giggles. “One more generation and a half, until they come little boy.”
Next to him is a glass container containing a brain that has rotted itself green.
His eyes lock to it, and glow slightly in a white haze. A humming sound purrs in a sine wave and the veins on his middle forehead purge to a circle.
