Chapter 1

Is it a story you wish, a story of valor, of courage, of heroes, of gods and demons; well forgive me, inquisitor, for I only have a story of death, sadness, and deceit. You seem to know a thing or two about asking, well you do have me tied to a bed - last time I was in this posture a woman was trying to cut my phallus. Oh, the good old days. Anyways, it is a story you desire, a story I shall give. But first, do you care to explain the smell of a lion’s buttocks from your crotch, is it a form of prayer? Oh fuck the gods inquisitor, every man has his needs, some like toddlers nibbling on their aroused cocks, others like beasts in the literal sense.

Don’t mistake my laughter for judgment as I have always been one to laugh. It has been a very long time since I last laughed. The very idea of mating with a wild fauna embezzles my senses, I admit I did get raped by a bird, but that was purely for my work. Hell, I even fucked an infant, let it be known inquisitor, I have committed every possible abomination. Yet, I am not a bad person. Back to the point here, it is a story you want, a story you will get. It starts off from a time ten and eight years ago. A little boy, whose name does not matter, is in a room with his drunk father. The father, who is so out of his wits sees his son as an elegant whore. Tell me inquisitor do you know the events that occur, for you must as I smell the perverse desires in the darkest corners of your blackened soul. The father moves on to touch his son, the son was used to the constant beatings of his drunk father. But this time he didn’t beat him, instead, he made his son undress, forcefully. Do you know what it feels like to be ravaged, inquisitor, do you know the feeling of your limited hubris slipping away in the hand of another, while you are hopeless. When a man pillages your soul, only for a few seconds of pleasure. The feeling of his cursed, and vile seed in your body, the sense that he owns you. The boy found out then. After his father destroyed his identity, the boy pledged never to have another. Now after this there are two versions of the story, one in which the boy runs away leaving his home. Another where the boy returns the favor to his father’s lifeless cadaver, before leaving the wretched place. The boy now free of all his bonds runs to the nearest brothel. Have you been to a brothel inquisitor, it is a house of pleasures, any and all kinds. Then again, the items you desire can be found in a common forest, why pay? Your lust for the immoral makes you attractive to me, not that I am a man lover, but I have felt a man’s touch before. The boy went to a brothel and proceeded to eviscerate his mother with his bare hands. Killing with your bare hands has a different meaning to it, it feels artistic, poetic even how sensually your hands decide another human’s fate. Always arouses me, try it, inquisitor, you will love it. That woman was the first kill I regretted.

The beauty of telling a story is how much control you have over it, you are the god. You love the god don’t you inquisitor, what with your beliefs and you’re intricately fucked culture. It isn’t wrong, oh not at all. It is not wrong to love, for that is not real. It is not wrong to fuck, which is the farthest thing from love. It is not wrong to believe, for belief gives us principles. However, it is wrong to fear, and what you have in your heart for the lord is fear. Do you want another story inquisitor? Did I not satisfy your hunger, your desire, your lust. Is it because I do not have fur. Oh, what people think of life. Life is futile, the very roots of basic existence lead to barren lifeless trees. The story I am going to tell you is not some fable, it may sound like one, but it isn’t. Inquisitor, what is it that makes people be what they are, is it religion? Is it love? No, Inquisitor, it is fear. The story I will reveal will explain why I lack fear. It will show that I fear only two things, one of which I shall reveal now. It was ten and three years ago when I was in Akumbakum. The city of beauty, as they called it, for what reason I don’t understand. In that time I was but a child, only two hundred and thirty-eight moons. In the dark streets of Akumbakum, I was alone and ready to die. I had lived a hopeless and repugnant life. The very idea of growing old was repulsive to my instincts and led me towards suicide. But, as they say, life finds a way. I found my life in the opulent palace of the town, where I was sold as a slave. My non-existent rights were stripped of me, like my clothes. I was drenched in foul milk and it was made sure I had not a single piece of hair on my body. I was, as they say, cleansed. It was then that my life found its path; the king of the palace was kidnapped and his wife was ready to blow any man that would find him. Inquisitor, I confess I started to look for him out of lust. As you might have heard, I “have a nose.” The woman gave me his sweat and cum ridden blanket. One whiff of it and I felt the small lock of nose hair burn. His blanket had two scents, one of his sweat ridden boar-like body, and another of his wife’s delicate body. Do you know, inquisitor, the meaning of a double-edged sword? It is what my gift was, a double-edged sword. Sometimes, even now, when I am in a place with a lot of identified smells, my mind goes berserk and the colours I see are inverted; my judgment is as good as gone, my body feels the high of a himalayan herb. At that moment my adrenaline seemed to flow more than my blood.

“I know where your husband is. Only I can get him out, he is not safe. The longer I take, the longer I wait for the closer the angel of death gets to him.” I said at once.

“I will do anything for my husband, bring him from the depths of inferno.” With that, the queen owed me and I had my first job. Inquisitor, I don’t mean to stroke my own cock, but I am capable of smelling things across the sacred lands of Nigiki even. I had tracked the husband to an inn not more than two lands away. I have to say the king often was confused with an Ogo. Do you know what an Ogo is, Inquisitor? It is not a giant, for a giant has an empty head, giants go around fucking horses just because they’re long hair seems like womenfolk, if they kick they consider it a good sport. No, Ogo’s are a different breed, they are abominations. They are experiments of the evil white scientists gone completely wrong. The women who were cursed with the foul seed by the white scientists are all dead with a man-shaped hole where their womanhood should have been. Ogo’s aren’t bad, Inquisitor, but then again what is life if not mistaken. Anyways, the king was at a whorehouse raping a little boy. The boy seemed more dead than a corpse, his face was that of a helpless father that found out his infant daughter’s innocence was violated. His eyes were lifeless, his arms ripping from his shoulder because of the king pulling. All the while the only sound heard were the king’s satisfied moans. I was a young child, I didn’t know what to do. I pulled out my knife, and with all my strength, I dug it deep into the king’s hairy back. He stopped humping and looked back. “You filthy, lowly, nasty faggot. How dare you touch my royal body.” he roared and spat in my face.

“I do not care about your royal blood, for it comes with centuries of crime and incest. For all you know you are an abomination and a product of siblings.”

“Keep your words to yourself, you fungus of the cunt”

He took the knife out in one motion with barely a moan. He then grabbed my throat and squeezed it the way a dominatrix would squeeze a man’s testicles. My throat aches to this day, if the pain wasn’t so arousing I would actually cry. I held my breath and proceeded to kick his groin with all my strength, all I accomplished was to please the man. From behind him, there came a sword stuck cleanly down the king’s throat. The cut was so clean, my trousers got stiff. Yet, his hands on my neck wouldn’t budge. The same mysterious hands slit the kings with so much perfection, I felt orgasmic. As I fell upon the floor, I laid my first eye on the beautiful creature in front of me. A man about six and three satchels tall. His eyes an aquis blue. Where a fat man would have a paunch he had muscles thick as stone. Legs with the girth of a bull, a chest so perfectly defined as though the gods carved it upon him. The movement of his brawny arms was so graceful, it brightened a blind man’s vision. And that was the man that made me lose the last bit of faith I had in humanity.

Inquisitor, do you have hope? Do you believe in other things this world offers? A wise half-man once told me that nobody loves nothing. That can’t be true, nobody loves children more than our local fetish priest. Nobody loves food more than the corpulent. Is this love or is it raw desire, lust, an itch that cannot be satiated. The third story I shall tell you is of the man that taught me this, my teacher, I called him Simba, others called him Takha, the god of vengeance. This story takes place the day right after I left my identity. I was lost and excited, even as a child, the killing had me desiring for more. I had to cross the dark forest to reach the city of opportunities, Mweru. Do you know of the dark forest, Inquisitor? The dark forest is the womb of trickery, of lies, and of deceit. It is said that the dark forest is the only land close to as dangerous as the land of the Umhlaba Wamaphupho. In the dark forest, there are specters, there are spirits with intentions worse than that of a rapist, and worst of all there are tricksters. The common trickster can cause you to hand over your children as harlots and your wife as a cook. I have traveled there only two times, and both times I’ve wished for the goddess of death to come to take me. In the dark forest, a man could swear that time goes months faster; the time it takes to cross over is usually a month if you are alive. It is fabled that the dark forest once swallowed a whole army, and instead of death, they were transformed into women. The creatures that did so did it so smoothly that no one would believe they were soldiers. The soldiers did not die once but died every minute for the next few years trying to convince the others. These are the ways of the forest. The forest swallows in whole and returns meatless chunks, that do not fit in the shit-like system, created by anus sniffing, child cunt eating politicians. I knew all this before my first trip, yet I plunged in. The dark forest had a curvaceous landscape, the dollops of dew on the succulent grass gave the place a seductive appeal. In the entrance, there was a horde of trees that seemed to be ingrained in the soil. The awe producing structure in my vision gave birth to the thought that all the tales about the forest were just that, hearsay. But I was blatantly ignorant, the foolishness of my fecal thought cannot be forgiven, as it has got me in many situations where my head was in line. This was one of them. Grandeur aside, the forest seemed like any other in the lands. It did, however, have an effect on it. The effect a crying infant has on its mother, the effect a dying man has on his well-wishers, the effect a rapist has on its victim. It is one and the same. As I entered the forest, I noticed a strange increase in the number of times my heart throbbed in my chest; the involuntary perspiring of my palms and the apparent butterflies in my stomach. I understood why they called it the dark forest, literally, because the gigantic trees stopped sunlight from penetrating. In the forest, there was nothing but dense woods in view. It was colorful, yet bland. It was pungent, yet dull. It was comforting, yet distressing. I walked on close to a thousand paces without a single soul bothering me. Then came the anomalously big oak tree. Its branches were as thick as a well-fed elephant’s trunk. Its roots were dense enough to pass off as little trees. The trunk of the tree was as tall as a raft. On the highest branch, I could hear a sound, so abominous, I still remember to this day. It was the sound you get when a human is getting something grand stuck up his anus, forcefully. The cry was so loud, a man in Kalingor could hear it. It was followed by a blood-curdling laugh, “Heh, thoo, you’re manhood seems to have left you, faggot. I have never had a man that cries like a lady before. Ummm. You make my blood boil you man-lover, I’m in so much euphoria I smell more food.”