Two stone angels are facing each other, their heads missing. The stone next to them shows what may once have been a family crest of arms; now is a green-tinged evil head.
Two stones that should have heads have none. Two creatures of God, two lovers of order, two insipid traitors who bow to obedience, unthinkingly, selfishly. And now they are anarchists.
One stone that should betray the last prayer of the man, and his wife; those panderers to hierarchy, those worshipers, now headed by the Green Evil.
It seems like the place at which to practice my magic.
I take the cloth sack slung over my shoulder, grasp it around the neck, and smash it, once, twice, against the roof of the dead. It tinkles and shatters and crashes, the sounds most beautiful, like rabid dogs and the sound of my throat falling out of my neck after a grizzly has gorged my skin with its ferocious claws, with a fearsome growl. I sigh in joy. Carefully I lay down the sack upon the stone beneath my feet, allow the neck to open a little, to breathe the chilly night air. Tenderly I reach in a hand, caress the shards in there, cautiously enough not to hurt too badly, with enough abandon to nip myself a couple of times, and my gasping at the slight intrusion makes my cock throb a little. I reach into my trousers with my non-bloodied hand, and with the one I tend to the pain, and with the other, I tend to pleasure. As I work up a rhythm and my breath becomes hitched, I discover the delight of fidelity: I find a single shard of glass and grip it tight in my palm, so that as I come hard into the air and into my hand, at the same time a spurting of blood trickles over the other. The magic substances are here. I call to my helper.
She has been hiding in silence, eyes and mind closed to the world, behind a tree over there. At my instruction she has been concentrating all her energies on fantasy alone; every depraved thought she ever had, every sexual dream, every lusty encounter, everything she liked, everything she didn’t like, reliving them all, hands-free. At my call she stumbles over, aflame and wild, shivering. She sits before me, cross-legged. I hold out my hands. In the daylight she looks at the one, at the other, back at the one, and the other. Tenuously she licks the bloodied hand; tasting metal, she takes the antidote, and devours the hand sticky with semen, finishing up by kissing my worst wound, sealing it. Finally she takes my mouth, jumping at me like a stallion.
The Green Evil glows, and angels fall down. It is working.
She is on top of me. My hands, the tools, lay deadly still by my side; hers are the powerful ones now. She uses them both to render me stiff again, and, straddling me, she eases me into her, wincing slightly as her cunt stretches to take me. She starts riding me, and as her pace grows and quickens her little gasps evolve into frenzied breaths, then grunts, and screams, as she throws back her head and calls for Sou-ha-ha as her entire body shudders and she throws her orgasm out of her body onto my penis.
Immediately, before she can collapse onto the ground, I simultaneously leap up and slam her body back onto the stone beneath us, clasping my bloodied hand around her neck, and my spit-covered hand grabs the discarded shard of glass. She is almost unconscious as I thrust into her, and as I spill my final seed into her and her final breath escapes her, I take the glass, and, shouting “Brou-ha-ha!”, I plunge the tip into my heart.