July 27, 2015 
By Eian Orange
Harvest dreams under the blood-red moon, where I spoke litanies to the gravestones in hopes that love would return to the nightmares, and the terrifying gust of wind, rain, and debris that signal my ancestors’
presence.
Has the dream held its weight amongst the depths of afterlife complication and postmortem reconciliation?
Where in the fair skies beneath the earth would one seek the treasures of their darkest hidden mysteries? Would there be false mausoleums with underground passageways leading to postmodern laboratories rank with the stench of formaldehyde and kerosene? Dim hallways stacked floor to ceiling with putrefying bodies? Yes, a travel presents itself in many forms. A projection, a journey. Discovery has no boundaries for its inflections to our madness.
Against the counsel of my guide, I penetrated the eye of the gate’s vortex through to another dimension, somewhat perpendicular to our own. I had been transported immediately, in the flash of a spontaneous wormhole like a speeding roller coaster, to a dingy space station orbiting an abandoned mining colony planet. That night I had the pleasure of being the guest of honor at a party where they were to spare no expense. I could have had no idea what lay in store for me that night as I uneasily wandered the near-empty halls of the quasi-functional stellar docking outpost.
The few doorways in these hallways led to nauseating scenes of lower-bred hybrid mammalians feasting upon carcasses that must’ve been days if not weeks old. The stench was rank. Only one room in this sequence of hallways had a door to bar entrance. It opened up into a luxurious cannibal suite. Not only were these particular hybrid mammalians somewhat more human in appearance, they also spoke dialects not unfamiliar to beta-earth tongues. These elite cannibals feasted upon the recently deceased as though they were caviar. They had live prize specimens reserved for special display cages, as props if you will. It seemed that combination of ritual disembowelment with unspeakable perversities of necrophilia, and the consumption of raw flesh and organs and the gnawing of soft bone, was the order of the night.
Invited to feast, one could not pass up the chance to indulge in such horrific obscenities as mutilating the immaculate body of a cryogenically preserved seven-year-old girl. The dead girl, who received the name Entree, was of fair skin, hairless, tender, blue-eyed, and apparently died of suffocation, so there was no risk of preserving any degenerative infection in cryostasis. Entree was shuttled to this particular feasting grounds at a high price to these humanoids, now known to me as Ulghtareens (Ull-tahr-eens) in the common tongue. As a guest one was allowed to sample the fresh meat, as it were. This began with penetration of all of this young dead girl’s orifices. Very few of the appendages on these Ulghtareens resembled a human penis.
The mouth of this vessel was desecrated rather quickly. All of her teeth were jabbed out of her gums. Her vaginal area took on the appearance of a pit-bull attack victim, and her anus was severed completely through the perineum area into the uterus. From clit to tailbone this little innocent girl looked like a forklift raped her.
In a short time, after it appeared that the creatures had climaxed and grew weary of fucking this corpse beyond recognition, they began pulling all of her organs out and placing them on special silver dishes.
A dish for a guest is completely different. The guest dish receives the healthiest portion of intestines and the heart. The guest dish was made of turquoise and had a hole through the center where the excess blood could drain off into the table edge gutter to be collected into barrels for mixing with some strange drinking mead which resembled liquid horse manure. Funny how well they treat guests down here. Tripe, heart of child, and equine shit. My favorite.
My hosts offered me the next full package of intimate pleasures with one of their necro-popsicles. I graciously accepted and took up my selection at the cryo-tube housing unit. There, a full range of beauties awaited my every sexual desire and grotesque glory. Little did my hosts know I had other designs in mind. I requested a private room with my dinner corpse. I thought the bold gesture would both impress and confuse my entourage, now gathered as a steady number of welcoming party attendants. Seven of them. Beyond description. Sagging elephant trunks with some sort of waist to declare with the cinch of their robes.
They granted me the room. All I needed thereafter was time to get my equipment in place without eliciting too much suspicion from the crew. I pinged my guys and they started the unloading process. Reanimation is a delicate enough business without time constraints to make it all the more intolerable. My apparatus were in place and it had come time for me to flip the final switch before elevating the cadaver to the heights of consciousness. Did this empty shell have any apprehension of what I had in my arsenal? I couldn’t attain the joys of sin with a dead plaything. No, I needed something with more anxieties attached to it.
I didn’t pick a child, myself; the Ulghtareens have their appetites, but I prefer something with a bit more maturation to it. I chose a twenty-two-year old female who died of a drug overdose, but whose parents were so rich they wished her cryopreserved for some morbid reason. She’s unique, if you know what you’re looking at. Not a cancer patient or elderly person, you know what I mean? A bona fide freak show. No real reason for cryo—just because. Because they could memorialize her the way she was.
And, now, she was mine. With the junkie revived, my team attended to her the best they could for someone who has just been brought back from the threshold of mortality. She was shaking and said she was cold, and asked what was going on several times. We wrapped her in a blanket and I told her everything would be OK. The true sadosexual thanatologist knows how to comfort just as well as he inflicts misery upon his subjects. You can’t have mastered one without the other. Pain and pleasure are but two masks covering the same face. To not realize their equanimity is a dire naivety.
To excel at any craft one must have a practice, and mine is that of knowing what a person really fears more: dying or suffering. Death or pain. It always lies between the two, as almost every neurosis can fall in one of those categories. For example, when you cut someone’s foot off at the ankle with a circular saw and your patient is fully aware, you’re bound to have some outcry and backlash. However, if you do it fast enough and clean enough the surgical precision is allowed some leeway.
You have to know how to calm them down enough to carry on with the next step in the procedure. Otherwise it’s a big mess of a situation to deal with the whole time. You let them smoke after the foot has been removed. You take a blowtorch to the stump to prevent further bleeding. You pretend to give them painkillers when in fact you’re giving them an amphetamine laced with a moderate amount of sodium pentothal. It’s the little things that eases their minds yet keep you in control in the long run.
I waited a good ten minutes for this subject to compose herself before I started in with the questions. Do you know who you are? Do you know where you are? The perceived trouble of these queries set her up for what she was about to endure at the mercy of my instruments. My team put her in some clothes that were to my liking and helped her put on eyeliner to take away from the cobalt blue which now surrounded her eyes. After we attired her, she looked more human, almost as though we had picked her up off the street instead of having brought her body back from the dead.
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