From Amber’s point of view, the mutability of his own flesh causes his sense of physical reality to be somewhat tenuous; he feels he can create horrors just by thinking of them. (His favourite early nightmare: visitors arriving to blow down on him with shockingly elongated faces like cones, on an altar-like construction, swooping down at Amber’s face to champ and coo and nestle…)
Climbing on upward, the Jaymi Beast turns his face to gaze across the city’s span, and feels the Platinum Raven turn her own face inside his, shafting up his image in the way that she alone can do. Rising transcendent through the angles of her face in semi-profile, she floats upon the sky above the hills in his mind. She waits until he reckons she has floated to a finish, then she fires off a last trick: glowing like a vaporous angel of light, she clasps her hands in prayer and emanates a saintly halo, Virgin-Mary-hued in a blue of flaming methane and a white of frozen moonbeams.
A mere two metres from his prey, the Jaymi Beast draws Scorpio’s gun from his pocket. At the touch of its black metal, he feels a final Beast infusion, from the weapon’s owner. Within him, Scorpio coils out from beneath the powerful bulk of Amber, then rises in fierce beauty, sexy gun-person and femmy goth-boy that he is, with the moisture shining on his canines and a pin-star squeak of light shining off the silver earring in his right ear. From down beneath those canines comes a blood-voice, amid the rest—Armenian, from two thousand years before the genocide. Incarnate in Scorpio, the basis of life is a union of dying and erotism, with a foretaste of death in the anguishing nudity of each erotic spasm that passes through him like a current every night. He feels himself descended from an ancient time, buried in obscurity but flavouring his cells with the dissolute fever of the priestess-slave he once was. A sacred creature in that former time, he carried an unbreathable heat and febrile glow of death. Enflamed with a flicker both wicked and divine, he casts a spell of dark seduction, embodying transgression, invitation and forbidden fruit—and a walking negation of the crass oaf tied to the metal tower overhead.
Thus infused, the climbing Jaymi Beast luxuriates in his own aloneness. Alone in a grand internal darkness—far removed from the city full of humans in their hidey-holes across L.A. Alone in his own charismatic black midnight, high above the sky that yawns tame upon the suburbs.
Alone with the grinning of his own cells, enclosed in claustrophobically vast vaults of space and self inside his skull.
Such sensuous, sumptuous aloneness!
Looking up, the Jaymi Beast sees sporadic raindrops falling through the sweaty floodlit air towards him.
Close overhead now, Dud is lashed tight to the metal framework, still uninjured, yet writhing on the red struts in a posture of diseased meat.
The Jaymi Beast centres the prey in his sights. He contemplates his own and that monkey’s respective positions and resources here … and power flows through his insides, rich and smooth and mineral, like petrol pumping through him.
How quiet this moment is.
How exhilarating are his own capacities.
How delicious to be the Jaymi Beast at this moment, so far outside that monkey’s narrow world!
How infernally beautiful, to inhabit this particular destiny, outside the limitations of the Dreary Ones…
Once he dreamed of a book whose cover depicted a close-up human eye. There was nothing wrong with this eye at first glance. After a few moments, however, it became clear that its stare was somehow too open, too hard and assaulting, its surrounding flesh too used-up from within, for it to be an eye capable of humanity. In his dream the book’s cover stayed shut; but now, as he pictures it here on this mast, it opens at last. And what he sees next, on the pages inside, is his own rising-up from the uncanny valley.
The Jaymi Beast feels vertiginous horror and a sensuous drunkenness mating inside him. And yet within this, at the final instant, he elects to continue minimising the dreary monkey’s physical pain: he aims the gun at Dud’s heart, and shoots him there, with a calm satisfaction … then he aims it at Dud’s forehead, and shoots him there too.
Two clean bullet-holes appear in those places, and the monkey slumps.
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