Bored Beer-Induced Apocolypic Prose

I’m a fiend. I’m a devilish incarnation of spite and hatred. I have long black scales and a fine covering of ash colored hair. I take pleasure in the pain of others. I snicker at the chaos that unfolds before my eyes. The struggles of honest men are my comedies. Tragedy is my favorite pastime.

I see a flowing river of cool clean water, a mountain stream breaking itself amongst the limestone and wet earth. I see pure green foliage sucking that deep moist life from the edges, a garnish on the naturalistic banquet. Like children they come, innocent and helpless, visual imagery and bucolic intoxication.

The rocks are the young men of the hillside, hearty and bold. With rough-hewn edges and obtuse textures they populate the incline, ignoring any semblance of solidarity or order. And yet they are in harmony, planted like seeds in the field, aligned with the grace of chaos.

A crystal pool parallels the sky, and like a mirror it returns the sight of the beauteous heavens. Unfathomable depths contain hidden wonders, or perhaps sinking blankets of blackest murk.

And then there are the automatons. The civil people of this wilderness. They make imitation caves for shelter, hardening the elements of the earth in the sun, forging the iron cores of stone into metals and ores. Like joyous ants they scurry along their grids of activity, swirling patterns of perceived relevance.

Their heads are swirling chemicals and organic mush, and miraculously they obtain consciousness. A twisted sort of meaning made of metaphors and edifices of reason. Like the pistons and engines of the east, they are driven forward by an indescribable force.

I can hear the pounding of the underground soul, the music at the world’s core. It’s a solid beat pushing a bittersweet melody in a rickshaw, round wooden wheels clacking and clattering on the cobblestone street way. A turn in the path drives through a mulling crowd of automatons, grimacing in horror yet grinning nonetheless. But we are through, one harmony, eyes closed and erased vision, find that fantasy.

Out of the city and into the forest, waterfalls of hatred spilling down. The trees are ancient beings of otherworldly greatness, bark like the parchment of a thousand tomes. Their black skin seeps with love for the earth, baked in the soot from the skies. I begin to cry with uttermost pity for their kind, and wish to see their limbs torn apart into chairs and tables and playthings. Their kind will silently suffer, blemished and faltering, and they will fall. I will see to it.

Disease like a rising tide seeps into the forest. A black scum of filth coats the forest floor and gums up the waterworks and streams. Rocks melt to gelatin, dirty pathetic things. Lazy and incompetent automatons are sucked into the slow maelstrom of disgust and are melted away. My domain is a bubbling cauldron of meaninglessness and despair.

The automatons do not believe in death. In their twisted minds, they will not be destroyed, but be remade. A great creator, which transfixed the motions of their madness, will wait for them till the end. No laughter of mine can match the insanity of such a notion. Like the dark stone and flowing water, they too will be slowly consumed and digested in my maw. My putrid belly will bulge from my gluttonous feast. Flesh will coat my horrible visage, and the maggots of decay will sing. Like a grinding pulse, the oceanic symphony of the earthen depths, all will meld into homogenous brown.

I welcome you to continue your pathetic plights, foolish conquests and feeble economies. Like automatons, your society of machines will march to the edge of the cliff and fall into the fire. I await the day when like bloated bacteria, your societal excrement will clog your aqueducts and roadways. I await the day when the monumental stagnancy becomes a ferocious crumble.

On that day devils will worship and reclaim the earth.

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