☆34. BUGS TO LOOM IN THE PENS OF THE BLOOD PIGS | Part One.

 

…from [E  P  I  S  O  D  E    E  I  G  H  T] of The Aqueous Transmission by [MIKE EYE]

[B u g s   t o   L o o m   i n   t h e   P e n s   o f   t h e   B l o o d   P i g s]

 

“As copper is transformed into gold through alchemical practices, likewise, those who have gained Knowledge use Passions as the Key to Liberation.”

— anonymous Tantric text

 

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[chapter THIRTY-FOUR]


[THREE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-THREE YEARS FOLLOWING THE FOUNDING OF BRY DELLOWS. FUCKED-EARTH TIME.]

The foul little lazy rascal knelt lackadaisically upon the dirty, cursed surface of Fucked-Earth on her filthy, disfigured knees as she caressed her pig’s thick, hairy ear that smelt of bio-toxic waste. The young girl — who looked more like a wretched and useless rejected runt of some Damned set of Demon offspring — was deep in the midst of overindulging in her favorite two-and-a-half hours of every two-and-a-half days, a most enjoyable time routinely enjoyed by her as well as by all of her low sisters, all active in the rowdy pig farms of the dark Mother’s feral, rickety village of the shit-stained Bry Dellows.

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Amid the smelly little girl sat several very distinct, similarly-deformed smelly little girls within a fairly large expanse of dusty, twisted farmland, each Wickedly afflicted girl tending most lovingly to her very own ugly, deformed smelly little pig. As usual, all of the sisters were getting so much a rise out of the bonding with their personal pigs that their dispositions seemed to illicit a kind of passive hyperactivity that had them poised to be officially qualified to lustfully milk the wretched creatures from their tainted teats in spite of the impossibility of the feat; there was an odd air of general sexual tension settling in a thick fog over the atmosphere of the pig pens.

Perhaps ironically, the fucked swine receiving all the attention didn’t look all too different from these retarded excuses for girls — the pathetic tribal filler-material known as the Loombugs — who were obsessed with feeding and ‘playing’ with the Bry Dellows Bloodpigs most enthusiastically as had become custom of their bizarre, indigenous tribe.

A thick, heavy stench of brute blood and festering feces lingered about the chaotic piggery emitting a putrid, pungent air within the vicinity that not One girl seemed bothered by. The rank stink wafted through the atmosphere along with loud, incessant Bloodpig oinks that were interspersed with the occasional shrill shriek or elongated, off-key drone of a preoccupied Loombug who had become exceedingly excited with her personal undertaking, momentarily unable to control herself. Bloodpigs who were not presently being tended to by the Loombugs, or had already finished their meals of the hearty Space-Grain, were currently squealing and scurrying mindlessly about the stables, their disproportionate, lumpy and saggy limbs crippling their steps to weird hobbles, rendering them oblivious to their surroundings as they scampered on into and past one another retardedly.

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The hogs had not a notion that they were, at present, each subconsciously, by their present behavior, ultimately seeking to be ordained back into the Spirit Molecule that had initially Summoned them all forth to this most corrupt countenance initially overseen during the Genesis of Bry Dellows by Al Rodnam.

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The Loombug sisters of Bry Dellows perpetually seized every precious moment effortlessly during these times ‘paid’ in the filthy village pens, Ritually immersing themselves with their sisters, although each Individually divulging their own selves with their own pig, of whom each Bug would customarily pick out personally for this most cherished “pig-sty playtime.” During this special time, all of the Loombugs would always consistently carry out very vulgar molestations of the Bloodpigs along with these vital feedings of the special Grains as part of their Ritual; such sick acts of which each Loombug conducted One-on-One with her own personally chosen pig, were overtly overly overzealous, hedonistic activities that required no Intellect whatsoever to execute — mere child’s play, as it were. The Hankerhawks of their tribe never showed them how to do this; the Loombugs had all felt instinctively driven, and very strongly so, to commit such whacky, vulgar behavior all their own, as a ‘side dish’ to the Feeding of the Space-Grain.

So, this was their favorite thing to do. Well, other than become engaged with the potent power expended by Sacra-mental manipulations of their Stone Runes, of course, ‘spending’ most of their days constantly engaged in subliminally manifesting shifty conjurings amid a plane of fundamentally, unconsciously misunderstood esoterica (the Loombugs would never come to know that the ‘potent power’ of the Stone Runes was mere ‘Placebo Effect,’ the Runes’ True magic long lost over the decades as a result of, initially ignorance by Mother Magdalena, and ultimately misinterpretation by all of her sisters).

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As per the Mother, the Loombugs were only permitted to ‘pay’ such gleeful times in the pig-pens under One condition: it was strictly mandatory that the Bloodpig Feedings always be followed by one extra final task of which the girls were all sworn to their pathetic lives to then Ritualistically endeavor upon: after the allotted two-and-a-half hours’ time with the Bloodpigs, the Bugs were then required by the Mother, à la Solaria, to each take their own recently skyfallen personal Bloodpig, of which they had been feeding and doing strange shit to, over to the nearby salty shore for a High dedicatory ceremonial Bloodpig drowning sacrifice. The Loombugs were hardened to this most sacrosanct sacrament on account of compulsory custom (not to mention genetic programming and human-hybrid perceptual multidimensional interferences), and so always underwent the Ritual Addendum without any difficulty, despite the general lack of well-functioning motor skills crippling the always sweaty Loombugs.

Upon arrival to the edge of the sparkling and slowly wavering, salty and bubbly azure shoreline, the Loombugs would customarily begin thoroughly scrubbing their Bloodpigs in the Water, proceed to then hack them the-fuck-up with their super sharp trusty daggers always kept within their loincloths (that were attached to the loincloths with some string) until most of the horrid hog blood was Spilled in the Ocean, then finally hold them Underwater for several moments thereafter while holding Visions of Solaria within their Collective Mind’s Eye for the duration of the ‘under’-taking.

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The Bugs would thereafter customarily each grab as many pieces of pork as they could carry, and fill up their wooden flasks with the extra-salty ocean water before scrambling themselves promptly back to the main dirt paths of central Bry Dellows, as a group, to go cook the hog pieces around an open flame and thoughtlessly eat (storing some of the meat in their loin-cloths for whenever they got Hungry later), thereafter habitually coming to absorb themselves with their Stone Runes and come to mumble mindlessly to One another as well as to any unoccupied Hankerhawk who was momentarily willing to put up with their shit.

Strange fact: the few rations of brutally brackish Water the Bugs gathered from the only ocean on Fucked-Earth was all that the dried-up, deformed bodies of the Bry Dellows Loombugs required. And the only food the Bugs of the tribe would eat would be Bloodpig. And lots of Bloodpig. And more of lots of Bloodpig. They did so many times a day, unceremoniously, and did so defying Mother Nature Herself by amazingly being able to survive normally on far less Water than Earthen organisms living more symbiotically in an ideal Vision of a world with its Land masses far, far prevalent geographically over its ever be-shrunken Seas. This was another reason the Loombugs of Bry Dellows always put so much effort into their routine Feedings of the Bloodpigs. Bloodpig was indeed all that they wanted and ever needed to eat, and it did them well. And yes, there was certainly a great deal of hog-shit that went along with that: most of the village’s grounds were strewn in it. The stench had come to garnish the Mother’s village in a subtle, familiar undertone that richly added to the community’s overall aesthetic.

Interestingly enough, although the Loombugs were constantly filthy from ugly Head to fucked-up toe, they never thought to wash themselves subsequent to the Bloodpig Sacrifices; in fact, they seldom ever washed themselves at all.

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And so, three-hundred-thirty-three elongated years after the Mother, her pet Amrita, and the elusive mystic Al Rodnam had established Bry Dellows under the subtle command of the mighty Lachrylon, the village’s tribe had grown to include roughly 85% Loombugs, 10% Hankerhawks, 4% Gilded Grunts, & 1% Godhed. The Loombugs, with their own scheduled mundane activities assigned by the Mother, were only slightly larger in size than the hideous hogs they would each so come to make their own at High Noon during playtime. The Hawks, always having to be the Ones to order the dumb Bugs around and remind them of this as well as other things — because the Bugs all had trouble focusing their frames of mind with their lines of thought — had no clocks (or any other machines for that matter) and would only know it was Noontime when the Sun was directly overhead, the Sun’s seeming path over the planet’s horizons taking nine [72/8] hours in all, which was one-third of a day, Fucked-Earth time. The Bry Dellows Loombugs typically never gained a developmental functioning capability beyond that of a four-year-old not bred with such Wicked, Balanced, Tantric Intention the likes of which the mighty Solaria had mandated for these doomed Loombugs. In all, the Loombugs pretty much greatly resembled the ever-so-precious, wretched Mandorla, as she had originally been born, beside the mystical pond that was the trippy window of the Aqueous Transmission, except that the Bugs of Bry Dellows physically grew, in average, to be about four-and-a-half feet tall by maturity.

This One Loombug of which we now follow — inconsequentially named Loomy — was a very young girl of four years (Fucked-Earth time), currently coming to most deeply delight in, as did all her sisters — who were all also named “Loomy” — her cherished time with the Bry Dellows Bloodpigs. Yes, each Loombug had the same name, not One of which was ever able to figure out its correct pronunciation. They all looked remarkably similar to One another, were gravely mentally retarded with all Bugs having an identical genetic makeup, and had an extremely limited vocabulary that mostly consisted of a few faintly recognizable sounds and frequently used buckled bodily mannerisms ordinarily exchanged among the Bugs so dysfunctional.

During the Bloodpig Feedings, however, the Bugs would each ‘pay’ time connecting only to their own loud and smelly consort, the girls remaining focused completely on their own individual task at (deformed) hand. They each enjoyed the company of their sisters around them during this special time, but were each unwilling to ‘pay’ the others any mind or communicate with them by any means. Full focus was had on the Bloodpigs.

The ultra-vivid sheen of the brightest midday Solar beams now flooded the dusty, drab atmosphere of Bry Dellows, throbbing its radiance in a strange pulse, and the incessant beat-down from the sky it brought upon Loomy struck her as it struck all the others, and in such a way that made her feel as though she were being pressed in between two giant, red-hot stone plates that were somehow continuously conjoining against one another despite a consistent pressure from either end.

But it was okay; Loomy was used to this weather.

All the Loomys were.

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And now nearby the smutty piggery, we see a few seasoned, expressionless Gilded Grunts trotting on forth sluggishly to dump the precious Space-Grain from their big bushels into the long troughs that ran lengthwise all along the stables. The Grunts would perpetually keep these troughs filled with Space-Grain, which they would bring through a stargate linked to the Andromeda Biodome. Despite the troughs lining the whole of the pig pens, the Bloodpigs therein would not — could not — eat from them; they had all been somehow neurolinguistically manipulated by Al Rodnam during the Genesis of Bry Dellows in such a way that they always had to wait to be fed by the Loombugs, no matter how hungry they became. And they had no patience.

Despite all the commotion surrounding her, Loomy, the dreadful youngster now totally preoccupied with her favorite activity, entirely numb to the intense heat, nevertheless lay mostly motionless in her shadowy corner of one of the stables, very overly excited as she held out her stumpy little wart-wrecked arm with a handful of prized, magical Space-Grain for her darling vile swine who disturbingly bared a most uncanny resemblance to herself.

As she continued to feed her Bloodpig, Loomy the little Loombug maintained an over-exaggerated smile that seemed forced, but wasn’t; her smile was, in effect, an unremitting affliction affecting her countenance that became comfortably settled upon the subject of her interest, stuck in a state of At-One-ment.

Time ceased to exist for Loomy as she lost herself inside the Ritual.

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The left half of young Loomy’s fat lip so moistened with drool would raise higher than the right half each time she flashed her hideous, mostly-toothless smile to her present personal pig — which was quite often throughout playtime, but for no apparent reason. She had several hairy-ass warts and large, distinct birthmarks all over her mostly naked, disproportional black, hairy body. A horrid smile now cracked her face in a flash as she uttered a few exaggerated cooing sounds with her mouth and nose, the latter of which had a great deal of rich snot dribbling out of it. The temperature was a sizzling 111˚ F, and Loomy was not bothered by it in the least as she sat distracted, completely covered in her extra-salty sweat.

There were precisely sixty-nine Blood-pigs present at the Bry Dellows pig-pens at all times; just as soon as One pig was Ritually Sacrificed on the specific day it was meant to be sacrificed — along with all the others — others would replace the spots in the pens of the previous pigs, having flown to Bry Dellows from some mysterious, undisclosed location. By this time along the Bry Dellows tribal ‘devilution,’ the flying pigs had all been genetically trained psychically by Al Rodnam to land at the pens at Bry Dellows on their own, so the old man no longer needed to shoot them down from the sky with his trusty handmade crossbow.

At any rate, the mystic had been long, long since gone from the dusky land of Bry Dellows.



Categories: Ascension, Consciousness, Cosmology, Current Events, Epic Fantasy, Fiction, Folklore, Goddess, Horror, Literature, Metaphysics, News, Poetry, Reality, Sci-Fan, Science Fiction, Speculative Fiction, Visionary Fiction

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