couldn’t care. Sharon was insane now, with unmitigated lust.
She shimmied in the bed, the overhead lights blaring in her malformed face. She was a heaving, flesh-colored pretzel, her curled limbs and runneled rib cage quivering. Meanwhile, the bald man—the monk—looked insane too, the unrelieved cock drooling. If anything, Sato Masaaki was now something more than human, an embodiment of the power of will over nature. Yes, his own will was stronger than anything else on earth at that moment, as he measured his agony along with Sharon’s and still was able to say no. No to the physical. No to pleasure. No to lust.
Yes to the power of spirit.
Then a technician walked in and injected him with more Metopronil…
(XII)
Westmore watched the Englander leave the room and disappear down the hall. Bryant had suggested they split up, their goal being to find a weakness, the one bad link in the chain to exploit. Sure, the house was a fortress, but there had to be a way out. Westmore was determined to find it, but…
The vibes again.
He just had a bad feeling.
I don’t think I’m gonna get out of here alive…
He didn’t know if he even wanted to live. After what Bryant had told him, and after what he’d seen in some of those rooms? The angel was right. There’s some heavy shit going down in this house. He’d only taken a few nauseated peeks when he’d snuck down one of the upstairs hallways. Religious figureheads being chemically forced to rape invalids and deformees. Who could think of something like that? Who could possibly want such a thing?
Farringworth, obviously. Truly a madman, but then the most unpleasant notion of all struck Westmore.
What if he’s NOT a madman? What if he’s for real?
Westmore was no crusader. He was a busted, forlorn drunk. But he had to do something.
Good God almighty, he thought when he slipped into the room that the Brit had just left. A control room sort of place, full of video screens. At first he thought it was a security room, but he quickly noted that the monitors weren’t hooked up to any security cameras. They were recording the sexual atrocities taking place in the rooms on the other wing.
Each monitor was an eye looking into hell.
Westmore threw up in the corner; he almost collapsed. No, no, no, he thought. This ain’t makin’ it. Bryant’s right. We have to burn this place to the fucking ground and take Farringworth OUT…
Westmore couldn’t look at the screens anymore but he did notice a panel of buttons. He pressed a button that said GARAGE, and a monitor switched to that: a garage facility somewhere on the premise. A Rolls Royce White Shadow, several BMW’s, and a couple of those pharmaceutical vans. Another button read UTILITY. Westmore pressed it, looked.
Then he had the answer.
He left swiftly, and it’s a good thing he did. Otherwise he might have seen what was going on in the room with the bald monk.
(XIII)
Just when Sato Masaaki had reached the ultimate level of spiritual perfection—the point where the power of his will defeated natural drive—the next dose of Metopronil kicked in. It seemed like a dream, or a vision from some very high place. Was someone with him? A barely embodied light seemed to whisper to him, grinning.
Then this being, this entity or whatever it was—touched him, not so much physically but in some discorporate way, and then all the evil of history poured through his mind like a black waterfall. From the beginning of time, he saw it all, the endless dark kaleidoscope that was true human nature. Lust, greed, gluttony, wrath. Hatred.
Yes, he saw it all, the true realities, the true components of mankind. But if those were the true components, where did that leave his own ideologies? Did that mean his own truths were really lies?
Sato Masaaki no longer cared. His resolve collapsed like a demolitioned building.
He would spend the next several hours fucking the hypo-osteopetic girl to
She shimmied in the bed, the overhead lights blaring in her malformed face. She was a heaving, flesh-colored pretzel, her curled limbs and runneled rib cage quivering. Meanwhile, the bald man—the monk—looked insane too, the unrelieved cock drooling. If anything, Sato Masaaki was now something more than human, an embodiment of the power of will over nature. Yes, his own will was stronger than anything else on earth at that moment, as he measured his agony along with Sharon’s and still was able to say no. No to the physical. No to pleasure. No to lust.
Yes to the power of spirit.
Then a technician walked in and injected him with more Metopronil…
(XII)
Westmore watched the Englander leave the room and disappear down the hall. Bryant had suggested they split up, their goal being to find a weakness, the one bad link in the chain to exploit. Sure, the house was a fortress, but there had to be a way out. Westmore was determined to find it, but…
The vibes again.
He just had a bad feeling.
I don’t think I’m gonna get out of here alive…
He didn’t know if he even wanted to live. After what Bryant had told him, and after what he’d seen in some of those rooms? The angel was right. There’s some heavy shit going down in this house. He’d only taken a few nauseated peeks when he’d snuck down one of the upstairs hallways. Religious figureheads being chemically forced to rape invalids and deformees. Who could think of something like that? Who could possibly want such a thing?
Farringworth, obviously. Truly a madman, but then the most unpleasant notion of all struck Westmore.
What if he’s NOT a madman? What if he’s for real?
Westmore was no crusader. He was a busted, forlorn drunk. But he had to do something.
Good God almighty, he thought when he slipped into the room that the Brit had just left. A control room sort of place, full of video screens. At first he thought it was a security room, but he quickly noted that the monitors weren’t hooked up to any security cameras. They were recording the sexual atrocities taking place in the rooms on the other wing.
Each monitor was an eye looking into hell.
Westmore threw up in the corner; he almost collapsed. No, no, no, he thought. This ain’t makin’ it. Bryant’s right. We have to burn this place to the fucking ground and take Farringworth OUT…
Westmore couldn’t look at the screens anymore but he did notice a panel of buttons. He pressed a button that said GARAGE, and a monitor switched to that: a garage facility somewhere on the premise. A Rolls Royce White Shadow, several BMW’s, and a couple of those pharmaceutical vans. Another button read UTILITY. Westmore pressed it, looked.
Then he had the answer.
He left swiftly, and it’s a good thing he did. Otherwise he might have seen what was going on in the room with the bald monk.
(XIII)
Just when Sato Masaaki had reached the ultimate level of spiritual perfection—the point where the power of his will defeated natural drive—the next dose of Metopronil kicked in. It seemed like a dream, or a vision from some very high place. Was someone with him? A barely embodied light seemed to whisper to him, grinning.
Then this being, this entity or whatever it was—touched him, not so much physically but in some discorporate way, and then all the evil of history poured through his mind like a black waterfall. From the beginning of time, he saw it all, the endless dark kaleidoscope that was true human nature. Lust, greed, gluttony, wrath. Hatred.
Yes, he saw it all, the true realities, the true components of mankind. But if those were the true components, where did that leave his own ideologies? Did that mean his own truths were really lies?
Sato Masaaki no longer cared. His resolve collapsed like a demolitioned building.
He would spend the next several hours fucking the hypo-osteopetic girl to
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