Free Infernus by Mike Jones Page B

put it in a machines' slot. It only caused one thing to happen to both apparatuses at once: they sped up in their intensity. As the old souls watched this, especially the silver rods entering the sides of the man in a blur, they laughed and laughed, and quickly let another have the key. The fun would quite literally never cease.
    "My son, listen to this wise tale of one of The Milling Murderers. This creature told the world (when he believed he lived in another world as a preacher of hideous dogma) that a creator came and told him that if this world did not give him many millions of [monies] for his ministry, that this creator would take him off the Earth and send him to this place."
    "Oh Father, surely no one-"
    "Shut up or I shall scrape your soul raw, my beloved. Yes, the old ones believed this in that other dream. Actually, he was right here the whole time. So because he dared to have the dream that was nearly as mighty as The Mighty One (who is always here), he was given more pain. The pain that was given by merely blocking and unblocking his breathing was hooked to the entire sewer system of this world we love and live in and grow in. Can you imagine the exquisite delight we receive when we realize that for all [time] he is caught in that moment when someone drowns; yet, he can do nothing to make it stop? He is so preoccupied with struggling to breathe (which is a permanent, losing battle), that he, in his insanity, does not know that others here make it infinitely worse. He has always been as you see him here."
    "What is the machine behind him doing, Father? I nearly fear to know its meaning."
    "And well you should, bastard. He also dreamed he had a son that looked just like him. He dreamed that this foolish puppet-son took over his wonderful ministry and propagated even more slimy lies. The son has always been here inside what is called The Mounting Machine. You and I know that this filth had no son, but it vexes this hideous, religious creature to no end to think that he was responsible for bringing him here. We are endlessly delighted. We have permanently fused - made one flesh forever - the son's mouth over the spewing, splattering buttocks of the ancient, sweating father, and he feverishly grips all his father can give. Do you know the grief this must bring the father, to know the great gift he has bestowed on his son?"
    The father was right. The son nearly never stopped laughing over that one. His satyr sides split like rotted leather and his empty sockets burst rusty clots. The veins on his forehead throbbed and bled profusely.
    "Hey, wait, Father! He is not a Milling Murderer. He cannot go anywhere."
    "I know, isn't that priceless?"
    They laughed again until a century of leap years were past.
    "Let's go to another exhibit, my son. Even more horrible than this one, if it can be believed."
    "It cannot, my father, it surely cannot!"
    *****

In a smoldering pit - in the bottom of a cavern - there were two quivering corpses. Some would say they were dreaming the dreams of the dead. They had shivered for mere hours, but it seemed in their fevered dreams that billions and trillions of eons had passed.
    Under this intense heat, the quaking dreaming shapes were becoming ash-colored mounds. And still they slept, unable to awaken, unable to cry out, unable (more horrible still) to cease their dreaming.
    The dream they shared would go on and on and on and on...
    *****

The session was interrupted when one of the young students asked what these mounds were.
    The old man laughed in the nude. "Oh, come now, you're pulling my leg. Anyone can see what they are. Let's get back to our story."
    "Of course. Yes, of course. Let's."
    *****

[Handwriting analysis has clearly determined that this next section was not part of the original manuscript. The Greek is modern, not Koine Greek at all. The consensus is that a vindictive writer put his/her enemies in this tableau as an older type of fiction known as "revenge literature." But,