Wrath James White presents Poisoning Eros I & II (25 page)

Gloria rolled her eyes, sickened by the noise
pouring out of this moron’s mouth and threw back her arm,
delivering a blow to his jugular that crushed his windpipe, bits of
bone splintering into his throat, spiking out the back of his head.
The force of her strike was so powerful his eyeball popped out and
flew across the room, leaving a gaping hole in his dead face that
dripped aqueous ulcerous liquid and gristly strands of retinal
fibers. He dropped to his knees, still clutching his neutered
crotch and landed on his face with a sickening crunch as his nose
exploded beneath the force of his body, chunks of cartilage
shattering his brain.

The Italian’s penis had survived but a violent
contraction of her rectum had crushed it into a bleeding lump that
resembled a tube of liver pate. He didn’t utter a sound. He just
stared at the mangled meat between his legs, dripping blood from
his urethra onto the floor, his mouth twisted into a silent scream
and his eyes bulging and quivering. Still, his presence was
distracting her from her goal, the only thing she wanted right now,
her one true love. She glanced at the Italian, who stood in a
widening puddle of his own blood, piss and shit, the veins and
chords in his neck standing out prominently, the scream trapped in
his throat. He smelled like a charnel house.

“Come here,” she said, but he didn’t move. Going to
him would be too much of an effort; too much of a distraction from
her real passion. But it didn’t matter because moments later he was
dead, or sure as hell looked like it. She doubted the blood loss
had caused it, not this quickly. But it didn’t matter anyway. She
certainly could not have cared less about his life or his pain.
This was the type of man who had used her in her past life. He was
the type of man who bought and sold women like her. She had been a
victim for so long that a bit of revenge would have felt good. It
had felt great ordering him around like her own personal sex toy.
Making him scream would have felt even better.

She inched over to the dead Italian and shook him,
hoping he was still alive, hoping he was faking. Hoping he could
still
feel
. His body toppled over, and she laid him on his
back.

Her hand moved to the mangled ruin that had been his
dick. Gloria slid one of her sharp talons into his bleeding
piss-hole, using the claw to tunnel deeper, coring out his cock
like she was seeding an apple, boring down into it until his penis
began to rupture and split. He screamed and clasped his hands onto
her wrist, trying to pry her claw from inside his cock. Gloria
smiled and resumed drilling into the Italian’s brutalized
member.

An ear piercing howl tore from his lungs as his cock
split into bleeding strips and she continued digging up into his
guts as he struggled beneath her grip.

“That hurts! Please! Pleeeeeease! It hurts! It
fucking hurrrrts!”

“Ahhh, you were faking!” she cried, laughing,
shoving several fingers deeper inside him. Shoving one of her long
sharp talons deep inside his anus, coring it out as he screamed and
convulsed. Blood poured from his rectum like rainwater through a
gutter as her claws carved out his asshole and the orifice where
his cock once dangled, now resembling a menstruating vagina, until
it was little more than a ring of lacerated pink flesh like a
half-eaten grapefruit. She clamped his hands behind his head and
sat on them.

“Please! God! Oh god, noooo!” he begged, choking,
sobbing. “Pleeeeeease!” His screams tapered off into gurgling
noises as his mouth filled with blood and his eyes rolled back into
his head.

Gloria grinned, loving the sound of his voice,
loving his pleads. She finger fucked him while he bucked and
thrashed beneath her. Her free hand trailed along his abdomen,
claws raking lightly, drawing pink lines along the flesh. She
leaned forward until her cunt rested on his face. “Suck my clit,”
she said. “Get me off.”

But he wasn’t able to do much with his tongue. He
had already begun to convulse in what were probably his death
throes, but Gloria wasn’t done with him yet.

She lowered herself until his face was buried, her
powerful legs pinning his arms against the floor. He bucked
furiously beneath her, trying to breathe. Before he could suffocate
and end her fun, Gloria dug deeper into his crotch, her entire fist
inside him now. With her other hand she trailed her claws around
his belly button, drawing small circles that widened with each turn
and eventually began to tunnel inside his stomach, round and round
and deeper and deeper, peeling away layer after layer of skin until
her hand plunged inside his body, feeling his warm wetness up to
her wrist, and deeper now, tunneling farther and farther inside his
body until her hands met inside him.

He spasmed once, his bowels evacuating, and he
finally lay still. This time she knew he wasn’t faking.

“Selfish fucker,” she said, pulling out of his
quickly cooling body, bloody chunks of entrails coating her hands.
“I didn’t even cum.”

She sat beside the dead Italian and took in her
surroundings.

Across the room the dead prince lay in a ruined
heap, a puddle of blood surrounding his body like a chalk outline.
Blond Boy had managed to escape with everything still attached and
was hovering in a corner, his arms wrapped around his head. He was
shivering and sobbing, saliva and snot dribbling down his face.

But Gloria ignored him for now. She had pressing
things to attend to. Her addiction was calling. On hands and knees
she scuttled across the floor, dragging the little paper bag along
in her bloodied fist. She squatted against the wall, bringing the
bag up to her face, her exceptional sense of smell detecting the
contents of the bag before she even opened it. She was beyond
salivating now. Head pounding, palms sweating, mouth and tongue
slick with a coating like moss and decay, remembering those days,
remembering it all, remembering the incredible highs, the
exhilarating sense of freedom. Remembering what she had been
denied, what she had been missing all these years.

She would have that again. Finally, finally! After
suffering in hell, after suffering
through
hell, Gloria
would be free, just like old times, just like she used to be,
exactly like—

Exactly like she used to be.

She glanced at the Italian, suddenly aware of what
she had done, of how much pleasure she had experienced while doing
it.

And the room
was
a charnel house: the odors
of death, reeking of quickly rotting body parts, of swiftly
coagulating thick and pungent blood mixed with excrement, bowels
evacuated in terror and demise. Ruined bodies, ended lives. And she
in the middle of it, her beautiful ebony skin ruined by the tattoos
of misery and tortured deaths. She had truly become a demon after
all. She had become something she despised. She had become
Vlad.

Inside was an array of pills and powder-filled
baggies and balloons, and she could easily identify each one. And
each was tempting in its own right, even now, even after she saw
what she’d become, or what she was fast becoming. The realization
scared the shit out of her because she wanted to be in control. But
what was she doing? Fucking around. Obeying Vlad like a mindless
drone and going through the motions, pretending to play the part of
some demigod demon when she suddenly realized she had no control
whatsoever. Why? What exactly had he promised her? W
hat did it
even fucking matter
what he had promised?

She squeezed the bag, clutching it against her
chest. What did it matter, indeed.

Inside was a buffet of uppers, downers,
psychotropics, hallucinogenics, amphetamines, and opiates, and
whatever the hell else Vlad had thrown into the mix. She considered
and reconsidered her options, knowing this was her chance to break
free, her chance to finally redeem herself, regain control.

She parted the edges of the bag and glanced
inside.

“Fuck it,” she said right before she plunged her
face in, her tongue scooping up half the contents and sucking them
back into her throat.

*

It was one of those tragic realities of life that
victims inevitably became victimizers, that they find some way to
transfer their pain and humiliation onto others. There was no
longer any reason to resist. She was beyond addiction now. She
existed for no other purpose but to consume, corrupt, indulge. She
was now, thoroughly, a creature of hell.

She didn’t care.

She glanced over her shoulder at Blond Boy. “It’s
your lucky day,” she said to the shivering, cowering mess in the
corner of the room. Thoughts of eviscerating him fled her mind. He
didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing but this incredible
feeling of ecstasy flooding her brain.

Blond Boy slowly looked up, his eyes squinting, his
body trembling and covered with the splattered blood and gore of
the dead. “Wha-ut?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Get out!” she screamed, feeling guilty for what
she’d done but wanting so badly to do it again, to feel that power.
Resisting the urge because of a sudden overwhelming feeling of
empathy but knowing the feeling might not last. He would be wise to
get the hell out while he still could.

Blond Boy wasted no time scurrying to his feet,
fleeing the room without bothering to retrieve the clothes that
were in a heap somewhere in the room.

*

Vlad had been busy preparing the room for her. An
ornate glass and gold hookah filled with opium and marijuana was
within arm’s distance. She settled in against a stack of throw
pillows and took a hit off the ever-lit hookah. Then she scooped a
long claw into a bowl filled with heroin and brought it to her
nose, snorting the drug now dusted with dried flecks of blood and
small intestine. Until now she had managed to avoid the drugs,
believing they would be the final unraveling, the catalyst to the
ultimate depths of perversion she had tried to avoid. Sex was one
thing—hell, sex was something warm and familiar and indulgent,
another high, another of her many addictions—but drugs were
something else. Something beyond the chemical high, beyond the
ephemeral psychedelic feeling of want, of need, of the pinnacle of
understanding. Drugs were a life force, a purpose, a sense of being
unmatched by an army of mindless, suffering parasites that
surrounded her when all she wanted was to actually
feel
something
. Drugs gave her that. Drugs gave her a sense of
purpose. Drugs made her forget everything she never wanted to
remember in the first place. Like her stupid bitch of a
daughter.

*

Above the basement chamber Vlad had turned into a
gaudy sanctuary for Gloria’s worship and worshippers was the rest
of a church, St. Bernadette’s, one of the oldest on Manhattan’s
lower East side. Closed down for years now because of ruin: a
crumbling back wall; the stations of the cross—imported from Paris
in the late 1800s—defiled, destroyed; a carved marble and Caen
stone altar built by a Benedictine monk cracked and ruined by man
and weather and apparent neglect. But it proved the perfect refuge
for Gloria’s followers, a place for squatters to worship
undisturbed, forsaken by the very neighborhood that once fought to
keep the doors open. But the city abandoned it, and Gloria’s legion
now called it home.

Those who hadn’t been killed by Gloria believed they
were safe, untouchable, that she had for some reason spared them,
making them more loyal. They brought her new recruits daily,
extending their own longevity that much more. They adored her—this
demon, this goddess, the beacon of light who would deliver them
from the mundane, who would deliver them to the depths of hell and
beyond.

And she was an incredible fuck, and quite generous
with sexual pursuits. She was insatiable, she was perfection. She
was their god.

Gloria, stoned out of her mind, wandered the
basement hallways, searching for something elusive, something she
had been thinking about just moments before but was no longer
accessible in her mind. That didn’t matter. She figured if she
wandered around long enough it would come back to her. She marveled
at how closely this corridor resembled hell, with its dank, steamy
atmosphere and dark, almost tarry walls. Vlad outdid himself this
time, though she found it a bit depressing, found herself somehow
longing for the familiarity of hell. These surroundings, this body,
being back on solid ground … it was all somehow unsettling. She
felt lost, without meaning and purpose. The drugs helped fill that
void, but even that was lacking. The mindless, suffering, unwashed
masses waiting for her upstairs had become tedious, more like work
than pleasure. Gloria would never admit to an existential angst,
not in this form, not in this reality. She knew she didn’t really
exist, didn’t belong anywhere no matter what Vlad told her, so what
was there to be existential about? Or angst-ridden for that
matter?

Her followers were forbidden from entering the
basement unless invited. Gloria climbed the stairs and entered the
narthex, waiting in the shadows. The crowd was restless, aimlessly
wandering around the church or huddled together in makeshift beds
on the pews.

No one noticed Gloria when she first approached. In
their presence, she felt omni-conscious of her inhumanity, the
strength, the lethal power rippling beneath her glistening black
skin. For several minutes she stood silently in the back of the
church, observing the nonchalant arrogance in the room. How stupid
of them to be so cavalier, as if no one in the outside world would
object to what they were doing. They were lucky not to have been
assailed by the pious overzealous fools who fear and despise those
who oppose the Christian church. This was more than careless; this
was painfully foolish.