Pineal Discharge

Short stories. Unrelated scenes of violence and bizarre vignettes.
Some(most) of these stories contain graphic violence,sexual content and drug use. Also , lots of fucking language and shit. So yeah , viewer discretion is advised? Not for children. Unless you're one of THOSE children.
Yeah , you know who you are.


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17. Lézard clergé et la fin du monde

The blazing glare of the headache inducing , fluorescent bulbs. A typical day at the office. Lawrence strolls at a leisurely pace back to his cubicle from the water cooler. He brushes shoulders with different office workers. He tries very hard to ignore this physical contact. Walking into his cubicle , Lawrence is greeted by Lars. Lars is a 7 foot tall cockroach. He's sipping a martini while sitting in Lawrence's swivelly , office chair. Larry rolls his eyes in mild annoyance. "What do you want , Lars?" Lars cocks his head to one side. His eyes the epitome of cold , insect apathy. "Come on , Larry. Is that any way to talk to an old friend?" "We aren't friends. You slept with my girlfriend and impregnated her with little roach-human babies." Lars takes another sip from his drink. His mandibles clicking with satisfaction. "Now Lawrence , we both know your girlfriend was a complete slut. I'm sorry that she died , but really , it was either gonna be this or that deadly venereal disease that's been going around." Now we all know , at this point in the story , that Lars is a scumbag. I mean , he's a roach for crying out loud. But he's right. Lawrence's girlfriend was a fucking slut. Oh and by the way , she died when the roach babies chewed their ways out of her vagina. They split her apart down there and she bled to death. "Yeah whatever." Larry replies. "So? What do you want?" "We've got a job. We're talking high priority. Big fucking cash. I mean Chuck Norris's cock big." Larry hangs his head in hesitation. He really needs the money. "Alright. Who is it?" Lars forms something that resembles a sly grin with his insect mouth. "The pope. We have to exterminate the pope." I know what you're thinking. "Oh no , not the pope he's such a good person." The current pope is a bastard. Pope Franklin S. The dickhead brought back the excessive political influence of the catholic church. In some places they've started burning heretics again. Things really suck. And while I am politically apathetic , I sympathize slightly with this choice of target. So yeah , the fact that they've been hired to kill Pope Franklin S. is not a bad thing. Lawrence stands there in momentary shock. He quickly regains composure. "You're right. That is big." "Yup. I've got the info at my place." Pope Franklin S. is a large , scaly lizard. Something resembling a human sized horny toad. He regularly feeds on willing "martyrs". They gladly let themselves be slaughtered and devoured "for the good of the church". A large altar was constructed last year for this very purpose. The female martyrs are first defiled by the pope on the altar before being slaughtered. After they have been killed , they are skinned. Pope Franklin wears the skin like a disgusting one piece bathing suit under his robes. The female hide is stretched around his sharp scales , tearing from the tight fit. These events are televised. Streamed live on the internet. Lars and Larry are walking up a side walk , towards a stainless steel house made to look very post modern and artsy but at the same time very practical. The house belongs to Lars. It's difficult for Roaches to get affordable housing nowadays. But considering his line of work , it's not that surprising that he could own a place like this. I could write some beautifully delicious , purple prose about the interior of the house. Yeah , I could do that. But you , as the reader , should contribute something to this story. I mean really. Why should I do all the work? What the fuck ever happened to using your imagination? I'm going to take the lazy route so that you , reader , may exercise your brain meat. Form in your own minds what you think the interior of Lars's house looks like. Anyways , inside the house Lars is retrieving a brown , real leather briefcase from a safety box in his bedroom closet. His spiky cockroach hand thing fiddles with the combination lock. Soon the briefcase is in said roach hand thing. He brings it to the dining room where Lawrence is going through the assortment of wonderful weapons that Lars normally keeps under his kitchen sink.    "I got the tickets and synthetic DNA in here." Larry looks at the briefcase. "We'll need telepathic camouflage too , Lars." Lars opens the briefcase. "Got that too Larry." He pulls out a large syringe filled with a thick , glowing , blue substance. "There's enough in here for both of us." Lawrence looks at the needle anxiously. "Should we do that now? I mean , will it last long enough? What I mean is-is that 1w or 2w?" "It's 3w. It'll last as long as we need it to. Now , stop being a pussy Lawrence and tilt your head back." The needle is inserted through the nasal passages into the base of Larry's forehead. The viscous goo spreads out slowly and assimilates with his tissues. Lawrence takes a deep breath of pain. Lars hands him the syringe. "Now do me." Sacrificial alters on the head of a giant goat. A three horned goat bleeding from every orifice. Excited by the scent of fresh sinners. Taking its pick from the juicy mongrels that swarm at its fluorescent footstool. Drowning the scepter in a vat of oil. Taking this grass covered monument to a cosmic pawnshop of oozing heartache. Liquid lines roll off the tongues of sucklings and astronauts. Acid from the heavens rains down on the orgy in the streets. The massive orgy of sex and death. Pain and pleasure. The great castrator Rises from his earthly prison. Rushing from the depths of space , the procreation chamber lands in the streets to make war with the great castrator. The void of space opens wide. Like a womb giving birth in reverse to the monstrosity that looms before us now. The world is silent. Lars and Lawrence are boarding the airplane. They're on their way to Washington D.C.-the new holy land of the catholic church. It's a packed flight. Screaming babies and children , loud southern accents , some guy who ate Mexican food who won't stop farting. Frosty air conditioning crusts over the mucous in Lawrence's nose. The flight attendants all wear fetishistic outfits made of leather. Some modeled after different animals. In the air , Lars drinks various alcoholic beverages until he's in a deep slumber. He sleeps comfortably for the duration of the flight. Lawrence on the other hand is paranoid beyond belief. His acrophobia , claustrophobia , anthrophobia and haphephobia all acting up at once. He spends the duration of the flight remaining almost completely still. Keeping his eyes fixated on the touch screen in front of his face. After a long and strenuous flight , Lars and Larry are in D.C. They check into a nice hotel about two blocks from The Procreation Chamber. The Procreation Chamber(or TPC)is the residence of Pope Franklin S. Inside , orgies of excess take place. Pleasure and pain. Sex and Death. Prostitutes are brought here , and are subjected to sexual humiliation and torture until , eventually , they are executed. World leaders take part in these activities. Lars is flipping through the television channels. Little blurbs from various programs fill the air. Something interesting from one of the many news stations about a giant , mechanical head that was discovered in Colorado during the excavation of a dinosaur skeleton. They say more of it might be under the surface. Reports of earthquakes around that area. More news to come later. Lawrence is standing in the bathroom wrapped in a towel. He's applying an artificial face. It mechanically sucks onto his face. He checks it in the mirror to make sure it looks natural enough. Lawrence has a circle tattooed on his back. Just a circle. Tomorrow morning is Sunday. Mass. Sexual sacrifice. Consumption of martyrs. Televised , public executions. Dim lights hang from the pristine ceiling. Pope Franklin is impregnating a prostitute. He thrusts his rigid , bumpy phallus violently as his sperm is pumped into her womb. He licks sweat from her torso with his wide , reptilian tongue. She conceives in a matter of seconds. He lifts her by the hair. "Put her in the box until it's ready." Two guards drag her away. Pope Franklin's species can breed with any creature. The gestation period is ten minutes. The pope stands from his kneeling position. His rigid scales cast an intimidating silhouette on the poorly lit floor. He walks into a large dining room. The table in the center of the room , it's bolted to the floor. At the table , the leader of the European empire is seated. He's got a half dressed prostitute on a leash sitting next to him. The lights in this room are tinted red. Ten minutes later. The pregnant hooker is brought in on a large silver platter. Her arms and legs have been screwed down to remain stationary. Her abdomen is swelling to unbelievable proportions. "It's coming!" the pope exclaims. "My offspring is about to emerge!" He starts clawing at his genitals. He grips his member and begins to masturbate furiously in excited anticipation. A large hand forces its way out of the woman's vagina. It struggles and writhes about in an attempt to free itself. Finally it pulls back inside. A small dark dot appears on the swollen belly of the hooker. Then there's a trickle of blood. It runs down the lower part of her and mixes with her pubic hair and vaginal discharge. From the small dot there's a sound like a steak knife being dragged through a tough piece of meat. The dot moves down towards her genitals with a dark line left behind. A dark line that starts spreading apart , blood beginning to flow more freely. The excessively stretched womb starts pushing its way out of the massive opening. The uterus begins to rip. A five foot tall creature claws itself out of the trappings of the prostitute's filth. Covered in slime , the newborn atrocity begins eating the dying hooker alive. Pope Franklin , who's been jerking off , finally orgasms. His semen smells like salt based stone cleaner. A smell that gets in your nostrils and burns. His sperm look like little snakes. They squirm around on the floor searching , in vain , for an egg to fertilize. Pope Franklin picks one up and starts chewing on it like gum. The leader of the European empire drags his pet prostitute to the floor. He pulls a little , one-shot pistol out his coat pocket and shoots her in the head. Pope Franklin's abomination of a son is halfway done gorging himself on his "mother". The pope looks towards the European leader. "You are quite succulent looking." Franklin's mouth is frothy with saliva. The European leader knows what's about to happen. It's morning now. It's sunny and bright. Lars and Lawrence are taking a taxi to mass. Crowds of shrieking zealots fill the street. Slicing pieces of their flesh off and trading them for indulgences. A piece of muscle for a ticket to heaven. A group of inquisitors in bright red gimp suits are torturing a heretic on a makeshift stage in front of a Starbucks. They stick bamboo skewers into his Adam's apple. When they finally reach mass , a massive orgy with excessively religious overtones is taking place. Several muscle bound priests are stationed at different corners of the orgy. All of them toting large machine guns. Their mouths and eyes are stapled shut. These priests are telepaths. They shoot anyone who does not wish to participate in the orgy. Lars has several silenced pistols hidden under his wings. Lawrence is armed with a custom made pair of gloves. They are small exoskeletons that deliver a massive sonic pulse when activated(when he punches someone). They pass through the crowd unnoticed. The telepathic camouflage works quite well.  The stoic guardians with guns begin to break down and participate in the orgy. The Procreation Chamber. Like a chunk of lusty granite it protrudes from its earthly foundations. Lars casually strolls up to the guards at the gates(also fetishistic priests with no eyes)and chews off their faces. They squirm about on the pavement in dying passion. They step over the lifeless clergymen on the ground. Through the gates and the first security checkpoint-which , for some reason , is deserted. When they reach the second and main checkpoint they see why the first one was deserted. The staff are all over the place. A giant red mulch covering the walls , floor and ceiling. Like a giant weed eater shredded everyone up. Bits of flesh and guts. Limbs and genitals stuck to everything.  "Well damn!" exclaims Lars. He turns his back to the marinara of bodies. "This is going to be much easier than I thought. A Cakewa-" His sentence is cut short. A tall muscular creature with bizarre scales and a throbbing , barbed penis rips off Lars's head. This creature is Pope Franklin's son. Larry yells in furious disbelief. He lunges at the abstraction of genetics. His mechanical gloves bash away at the beast , delivering sonic blasts that gash through its flesh. He lands a final blow on its face. The head explodes in a shower of ludicrous gibs. Covered in black fluid(blood I guess). Lawrence's artificial face is peeling. He helps up the carcass of Lars. The body still living , retaining memories but unable to speak , hear or see. The roach's body hands Lawrence a large shotgun. Larry nods and pats Lars on the shoulder. Lars pats back. Tall cylinders of clear fluid. Suspended are various holy relics. Floating around in the viscous atmospheres surrounding them. These cylinders line either side of a long corridor. The red light bulbs illuminate the room. The walls are painted with the blood of martyrs. The darkest hue of red is at the midpoint of the hall. Lawrence can hear the bloodthirsty screams of the masses coursing from the outdoors into the crimson interior.  At the end of the corridor is a large steel door. Larry makes ready his 12-gauge and crosses the threshold of existence. Through the door. The pope is defiling a martyr on the altar. He's wearing the skin of the prostitute from the night before. He looks at Larry. "What the fuck?" That's all he gets to say. Lawrence slams himself against the pope and forces the barrel of the shotgun into Franklin's mouth. When the trigger is pulled , the following mess seems to occur in slow motion(or at least for Larry). Particles of rigid scales are the first elements to be shot into flesh orbit. They make a whistling sound as the air finds its way through the many corrugations and seams. Soon the volume of his skull is ejected in all directions. Large red nuggets of face muscle. Clods of tissue and brain getting in Lawrence's mouth. Before he can see the rest of it happen in fucking awesome slow motion , Larry gets gunned down by the telepath priests. He kneels down , smiling as the bullets rip through him , violating his body with lead. He leaks blood and organs knowing that he accomplished something. They dump his body in the street. He is being approached by zealots who want to take pieces of him away. The ground begins to shake. The sky sours from blue to a different , violent color. No color existing in the spectrum of preconceived hues. Earsplitting noise. Bodysplitting noise. People rupture at random. Their innards expand and split open , spill all over the place. Buildings crumble. The pavement cracks. Gravity begins to turn off. People begin floating. People's organs begin floating. In Colorado.  The Great Castrator emerges from the earth. It looms over the planet. Its face is cold and expressionless. No feelings for the pitiful creatures dying left and right on the face of the world. The world who's time is up. A great , swirling vortex appears. It consumes the moon. The earth is slowly ingested by the ever hungry wormhole.  The Great Castrator ascends into the black void of space.  

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