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The Lamb doesn’t often partake of mortal prandial, but when they do, it’s mainly for appearances. Their only drink’s devotion, spilling past their kit-fat lips like the semen they make us followers swallow. And oh, sometimes they do offer us their body (in a rite of lust), and their blood (in a rite of wrath, of course)—but they haven’t let their carnal cleft part in a while. No, no, not the slit-seamed maw bulging under their belly, silly. The wooly gully of their rot-laden, clenched-craven anus. Yes, that’s what we’re speaking of.
And who are we? you might be murmuring, assuming you haven’t departed in disgust. Just call me Coronavirus, the devil shanked to their soul, fettered to follower-flesh after the squid-lord died. Pestilence personified, but if you’re here, you’re safe. I’m only tethered to Leader.
(Hence the plural pronouns. We’re deity and disciple, pupil and potentate, and we share a sort of awareness. Itching in the place you’d call a skull, if I had one. Call it a capsid, maybe? A shell? But I digress, and they- hehe!- digest).
So! They’re a Lamb, a crowned child-corpse, and meat’s their only meal. During a feasting ritual; you haven’t had one yet? No? Well (ill?), then. The sinew-silky hollow of their open-wound neck ripples! and dripples! and they swallow, and the bolus tumbles down their throat like any other sacrifice. And their flesh tightens, and a little belch drifts from their fanged- yes, that’s the main change, in death, with death—from their fanged maw. It is very pleasant to observe. And then someone inevitably starts weeping, and they stagger up to the indoctrination stone. They are named carrion, as my lord wills, or charnel-barnacle, which I like best, and then they are slain.
Shush-shush, please. I’m not saying you will be the next dish. Not if you don’t irk the Leader. Now, where were we..?
Dead bodies brew no bile, but they seem to be the exception. Their Crown caresses their skull, spine, sinews, laces-chases their guts. It gurgles an unsteady harmony, and my poor skinny Lamb gasps-! For one side effect of Long Covid (sorrysorryleader!), is being.. is, oh, wasstheword. Y’know, the- the thingy? Not nausea, but wobbly? Heavy? Hm, hm. Let us call it such.
Anywhence. Leader lets their gristle boil in their putrefying-pit of a tummy, :(, and they do not often relinquish their rectum-relics. Brown brittle branches, stewing in the ovine-orifice.
Please forget this, dear novel follower. They’ll wring it from your brain, and you will weep, and I’ll get crucified again, which means I cannot eat poop. See their atrocity now?
(The thing I would tell you, though, if you shielded your mind…isss. They are afraid of germs. Their hooves are polished stones glimmering with cracks waiting to be born. Their snout is soap-shiny, worn down near to the bone. And their wool is like the nasty white foam of follower-fat, like soap, but more substantial. I don’t like the soap because it makes my skin shrivel. No, no, please stoppit, new-follower! Owie, owie, capsid go—)
(explodey)
…………………..silence.
Oh! Hello again, you- wait a moment. You are the traitor who flung the purifying-poison at me, the protein spike-shriveler, sin-scryer, meanie beast. I do not wish to speak with you. I don’t. I will walk closer than six leg-lengths, and you will cough and cough and cry! Please leavemealone!
There’s poo? I don’t believe you. Don’t wannit. My, isn’t a brain- my RNA-, the smarts-coil, is all worn out from this fiasco. Can’t do words now. No, no poo!
..is show poo, then? Sniff, sniff?
What do you mean I do not get a taste? I will shove you in the pillory.
Ohhh. Oh-kay. It is a trade, and I will speak of the Leader again. Are you sure I cannot have a tiny lick though, first? Hm-hmn? Pretty big eyes face?
Why must you deny me my delicacies? I’m going to cry now, and perhaps it will persuade you. ahem. WAAAAAAAAAH—
It’s crunchy! :D Crisp as a dead leaf, thankyouthankyou! Nom nom nom chompf. Licking up the remains, so crumby. I’m not talking with my mouth full, though. This is because I can create any kind of hole in my capsid. I can create multiple, see! No, please do not give me the sad look again. I will stop it, if you wish.
Right. We are (were?) speaking of Leader.
When their callipygian curves cleave in twain, dung doesn’t drop so easily. Queasily, if you might. Their anus puckers like it’s kissing the air, fish lips, and floop! pop! there one goes. A pebble of a poop, sinking before the whale breaches the surface.
And the whale is coming. Grave-glaucous flesh flushing for just a moment, clenching, pulsing, beckoning bliss. Loins loosening for the lovely load. Nibbly nub of a tail quivering, erect, hooves shoving skin apart, heedless of harm-germs. A wolf-deep grunt lurching from their dribbling jaws. So unlike their hatchling-shrill moans when we.. no, we shouldn’t speak of it. It isn’t what we asked for, what you asked for, yes?
Ehh-nyway. Their tummy heaves, belly bile-bloated before it all sloshes down, eyes squeezing to slivers with lust. Or concentration, but the former’s funnier, yummier. Lanolin and sweat slicking their wool. Fleece-cape fluttering, rearing like wings, crown throbbing like a second heart. They only dump their dung at night, so their flock, our flock, does not freak. Except for me. I am a night owl. Moth, perhaps.
And when their stool slithers out, a dry old snake crumbling before the air’s caresses, they whimper like a child. And they turn, and they tell me, get rid of the evidence. White bone-powder glimmering amongst the goods. Little wriggly bits of follower gristle they didn’t quite quench. A few dribbles of urine seasoning, squeezing past their sewn-shut slit before they could clench! it! in. Mmm-hmn. What else can I do but obey? Leader, lord, let me relieve you of this relic. Please let me, least and last of your disciples, traitor to your savior, please. Let my protein-spike tongue prick your buttocks. Let me be your blade for just a few breaths, cleaning, lapping, clawing out crumbs.
Next morning, they do not acknowledge it. They don’t. How can the shepherd of souls, (near-crucified-one-because-of-that-one-mistake-we-don’t-talk-about), divine death-bequeather, admit to, welll, that? It is icky, squicky, a squeamish slight. We may have to make you forget after this talk.
Shshsh. I said forget, not fret. I am saying, stride to the temple, dearest. We have much to discuss. I am a tolling bell on their carcanet, warning, warning. I am their hound. They are my god. And you know, and I’m sorry(!!), but.. you know.
(Leader, has this not occurred before? I don’t want you to eat ‘em. They’re nice. They gave me poop. See? See, Leader? Oh, Leader! Meanie-fleece).
..hush, wanderer. you’ll soon be at peace.
So I, and we, and no, it’s you, it always will be you, are going to the temple. And our Crown is slithering into your skull, squeezing past your eardrums, seizing, delving down to your subconsciousness, sleeping. Your fear hazes the air and it is dew dappling your pelt it is the tremble gracing your paws it is the story you wanted to hear it is Leader, here here!
You are bowing, floor-flung, claws clasped in prayers you can’t have known. There’s a snake, somewhere, inside you. Nibble nibble gnobble, gnawing away. There is a Lamb skipping up to the altar, whimsy-woven, young and dead as ever. Their eyes are red, scarlet as their throat, and they are smiling, and in that smile you glimpse fangs.
And oh, we’re sorry! sorry you had to go! sorry you must die! but you are. fresh meat, as the old guard calls it. its. it’s you.
Tendrils dark as their crown rear up from a pentagram (wasitthere?!) and they are licking all over you. Nono. Tongues. Wet black tongues slicking your scalp your spine your prey-pudenda. And they are lifting, reaching, curling over you, look look here’s the sacrifice! yippee!, and then they’re going.
They are going awfully fast. Is that Follower Covid’s thoughts, or yours? oh! we can’t tell anymore.
One last tremor sizzles through you. Night soil taints the tentacles. One last revenge before you’re done.
Going, going, rearing, gone.