Orgy of Souls

He lowered the Olympian’s head to his penis and let out a moan as it slid easily down her throat. He pushed the skinny girl’s head down and soon her tongue pressed on his scrotum, and then squirmed its way up the crack of his ass. In minutes he was baptizing their young faces in his seed. He knelt down and kissed them both.

“That was beautiful, girls. Do you want more?”

They both nodded eagerly, tittering again. All of them reached out, kissing, caressing, and sucking every inch of him as it was revealed. Samson fell down amongst them, indulging himself briefly in their mouths and vaginas before unsheathing his blade and cutting them open one by one. They were so high, he’d already killed the first three before the others even noticed. He hamstringed one before she could run and tackled the other two as they made for the stairs, slitting their throats one at a time before going back to finish off the one he had crippled. He slit her open like a fish and tore her heart from her chest. One by one he cut out each of their hearts. He then picked up their blood-dappled contracts, and shoved them back into his jacket pocket before dropping it back onto one of the suede couches.

He dragged their bodies into the closet, and waited. It wasn’t long before two more girls ventured upstairs to join the party. Samson still had a dozen more contracts left in his jacket and the night was young. If God really loved these worthless sacks of flesh, then perhaps Samson would have plenty to bargain with for Samuel’s life; maybe even enough to get himself into heaven, or at least an exalted place in hell.

The girls smiled wide, obviously new to the club and happy to be there. Unlike the rest of the club goers they hadn’t yet learned the airs of apathy. Eyes glowing in the black light, they looked like two demonic nymphs. The room radiated from his earlier party, the air thick with the scent of sex tinged with blood.

“Hello ladies,” he said. “Do you want to party with me?”

20

Requiem was in an older industrial section of town. Historically preserved and then reclaimed by the young, its thin streets congested at all hours of the night. Samuel had only a vague sense of where he was going. Dark alleys veined the city blocks. Shops stacked upon shops, night clubs piled upon night clubs, cramped and claustrophobic. At well past midnight, there were more people out than he would have imagined. Usually in bed by nine o’clock and fast asleep no later than ten, he had led a rather sheltered life. College students tumbled out of one bar, staggered to an alley to puke and piss, then stumbled into the next. The party never stopped.

Samuel focused his thoughts on his brother. He wondered if this was how his brother lived. This bizarre nocturnal existence of night clubs, alcohol, drugs, and sex. Everyone around him carried a quiet desperation, an insatiable longing—all appetite and lust—so powerful that it pained even him. Suddenly, something moved in his spirit, a whispered alarm that warned him that he was in danger. A scream was forming at the base of his throat even before he started to turn, and two pairs of hands grabbed him from behind and pulled him into a narrow alley between two warehouse buildings.

“What are you doing?” Samuel cried out.

Two men dressed in expensive silk shirts and with hair perfectly coiffed, stinking of hair spray and expensive colognes, seized him and dragged him further into the sunless gloom of the alleyway. Despite their frail, effeminate appearance, he struggled in vain within their tremendous grip. A wave of nausea, like an attack of dizziness, hit him. His mind reeled. Their faces began to warp, melting and reshaping, running like wax, layers of reality peeled back for his inspection; the pretty feminine beauty masked an ugliness that rattled the young priest. He had seen their faces before in the old non-canonical texts he used to read in the church library back when he was first ordained—the ones that described demons and other fallen creatures. Truth be told, part of him considered them a myth, nothing more than fairy tales to terrify children.

Samuel had consulted with deliverance ministries, huddled old men telling what amounted to spiritual ghost stories in hushed voices, as if sharing secrets kept even from themselves, because to give voice to them too loudly would be like dragging a nightmare into waking reality.

“Help! Somebody help me! They’re trying to kill me!” Samuel struggled to break free from the two hell-spawned GQ models. He knew it had to have something to do with Samson. What the hell have you gotten yourself into, my brother?

“Scream all you want, they can’t hear you. They won’t hear you. The sheep have to maintain their illusions.”