I make them into a massacre. Chop chop chop chOP chop CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP
Up the steps I climb, a river of blood flows. Behind me a mountain of body parts.
At the top, sizzling gold, the demon Magician waits for me on his throne of skulls, amused by the spectacle.
He squirms, considers me for a moment. “Perhaps we could come to some sort of arrangement?”
I am saturated in blood. It has become my skin. I have no more words for him.
He raises his staff and casts a bolt of black lightning at me which fizzes and crackles. Achieves nothing.
“Stupid bloody thing!” He curses his staff and tosses it down the steps of his temple.
What is that I can smell? Under the mask I smell fear. Under the mask I smell shit and the stink of cowardice. Under the mask I smell you, little sorcerer.
I decapitate him in one swoop of my blades; hold his head aloft to the gods and then boot it into the air. It frazzles up in the sunset.
I sit on the throne of skulls, on the heads of my grandfathers. I use the headless corpse of the Magician as a cushion for my feet.
Part One
June, 1889
Houses of Parliament, London
Yes, Prime Minister
I am Zedock Heap.
The prime minister of England.
A cannibal.
A killer of women and, of course
A DEMONIC MULTI-TASKER.
I gaze at your little London. The vein of the Thames throbs. The ooze glistens. Is that a bloated corpse floating past? Beauty they say is in the eye of the beholder.
SO BEHOLD!
What beauty is this! What filth, what wondrous sludgy intestines. Underneath you are blood-works, pus and a slippery quivering squash of brain. Wretched amusing creatures you are: flopping, eaters of shit. Criminally incompetent. Turds in top hats. How you ever survived this long is beyond all reason. Beyond all stars.
London, London, London. I hold your heart in my hands, my love.
I SQUEEZE YOU.
The framed picture of a map of London explodes behind me under the pressure of my love. Pieces of glass ZOOM through the air: impale the wallpaper.
I’m shuffling paperwork on my desk, thumbing through a catalogue on dungeon equipment. Sigh. Aha! A spiked Iron Maiden, a horse whip with an electrical current running through it (how inventive!). And on the very last page, my favourite, a simple garrotte. Slice a salami with it. A foot, perhaps?
TORTURE EQUIPMENT. TORTURE EQUIPMENT. Torture equipment. TORTURE equipment. SAY IT IN AS MANY WAYS AS YOU WANT. It always boils down to the same thing.
You invented it.
You make me smile and you make me so very, very sad.
What use is there for devils like me, when you are so keen to DISSECT one another?
HELL is under your feet. It has always been under your toes.
Oh! A knock at my door, and it creaks open. An eyeball peers through; a nervous shuffle.
“Ah, Mr Evening-Star, do come in.”
He enters smiling nervously, “Morning, Prime Minister.”
I close the catalogue of torture equipment. Shut the lid on your toy box. “How can I assist you?”
“Erm, well it’s about tonight’s preparations.”
“Yes?” and I lean back in my chair and put my feet up on the desk. I’m a big man. My feet dangle off the end, knock off the paperweight. Mr Evening-Star throws himself to the floor to retrieve it.
I can’t conceal my smile, it spreads. Reveals teeth.
He puts the paperweight back on the desk, restores the balance within the world. “We have a little problem,” he squeaks.
“Which is?” and I stare into him. Apply pressure to his ribcage.
He trembles. Forces the air out, squeezes out the words, “Please… stop.”
He falls to his knees. I’m fascinated by the noises he makes, the possibility of a crunch.
The violence in me bubbles; it is a form of weird alchemy. If you peel the skin off me I am a landscape of hell underneath. I WOULD MAKE YOU MELT INTO ME. I WOULD INGEST YOU into my terrain. Come, put your finger in my mouth; feel the sizzle. Feel things from my point of view. Take a vacation. CROSS OVER THE LINE INTO ME.
I let him go; he collapses to the carpet on his knees. Shuddering, he finally stands back up, adjusts his spectacles.
“Get to the point, Mr Evening-Star; I am, after all, a very busy man. I have an appointment with the Queen later and if you think I’m a challenging employer, SHE WOULD REALLY UNHINGE YOU.”
“The women,” he stutters, “One of the women escaped, jumped out of the window.”
“That is unfortunate,” I sigh. “Those cages really aren’t up to much are they?”
“No,” he agrees and shuffles backwards a little. Subconsciously. It’s quite endearing really. “I… I could speak to a welder?”
I burst out laughing and take my feet off the desk, stand up and pat him on the shoulders.
He actually squeaks, flinching violently. Mutters, “It was only the one, I will make sure it doesn’t happen again, sir. We have plenty of them for you to… eat.” His lips quickly press into a submissive line.