WWSP's Shadow of th Marigold

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

The Little Black Incubus.

The little black Incubus has my number. He watches my every move. He reads my every thought. He is a dark cloak and a shadow that I can't shake. He is waiting. Holding all the evil inside his ravaged vessel. He accumulates ungodly, uncounted numbers of sins in his belly. He refuses to let go. He is waiting. Waiting for me to leave. When I do, he will run down to the basement, squat in the middle of the cold, concrete floor and unloose his dark stream of evil. He will unloose a steaming, rancid, pile of shit. The shit of the world. Shittier than any shit you can imagine. He will howl with delight. A furiously happy little black Incubus adding another pile of his sweet misery to the Universe.

He resembles a meth addict in the depths of his desecration. He is electric. Always on. Humping, thumping, wheezing, tongue dangling from his lips like a dead worm. His energy is corrosive. Wears the edges off things. Tears holes in the people, and the things around him. He is all appetite. Everything is sex. He humps. Constantly humps. Humps objects, animate and inanimate. He doesn't eat, he swallows every thing up in big sloppy gulps. Things disappear inside him. He doesn't reside in the Universe, he nibbles on it's edges. He takes pieces of it into himself and turns it into evil. Evil which he unleashes like a concentrated pile of mass destruction. Even when he sleeps, he is on; wheezing, huffing, puffing, a series of odd, spooky noises rattling around in the air around him. He speaks an unholy language, the language of the dead, the desiccated, the mummified. His breath is razor-sharp, cutting, fetid, overwhelming, over-powering.

He is happy to see me. I light his fire. He feeds off my energy. I resist him, and even as I do, I can feel his energy leach into my body. I can feel it enter me like a deadly black fog. He can't get enough of me. He surrounds, envelops. A dark wraith wrapping around my very heart. Every moment I am with him is a slow, steady, dribbling death. I have developed a dead, rattling, black, coffin-cough.  There is a darkness in me too. That's what he smells, sees, loves, wants. He is working me, breaking me down, cell by cell. He dreams of licking and nibbling and ripping with his shattered, broken, nubby teeth.  He dreams of licking and nibbling, lulling me to sleep with his dead-worm tongue. He sends me psychic pictures. Puts them in my head.  Shows me a future of  deep, ravenous, unquenchable oblivion. 

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