Satanitech Part II

A Satanic SF story by PhonerionBallznevsky

A/N: Read Satanitech Part I via the external link, or by searching for Tevun-Krus #66: Satanic SF in our back catalogue. 

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1

Sophie Satanson wasn't your average teenage girl. For one, she was the spawn of Satan, the supposed last in a long line of Satanic demigod offspring from before the Dark Lord turned himself into trillions upon trillions of lines of code.

Well that was really it. Other than the big, leathery black wings she kept tucked in her bra ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time (except for that time Rodney Ashwood tried to feel her up under the bleachers and she flipped out on him, ripped out his throat, and flew home in a panic; yeah, that'd been a real ball).

Still, being the spawn of Satan was a pretty big deal, especially with all the crazy dreams she was having about the end of the whole fucking universe.

It wouldn't, like, just be about the universe ending, though. She'd have a dream about something totally, completely different, like, say, being out with the girls, having a good time on a big grassy field, eating pizza and talking shit about other, prettier girls—then the sky opens up and it's like a rope's wrapped around her waist because she's jerked up a thousand fucking feet into the sky, into that sky that's wide-open, all orange and purple and all the colours are smashed together like the whole fucking thing is bleeding, gushing, and she looks down below, thousands of feet below, and everything's on fire, burning, dying, people screaming, children screaming, animals screaming, even the fucking trees screaming—screaming at her—screaming why, and now it all starts going black, like she can't see, like she can't breathe, and now she realizes she can't breathe, and she can't see, and that tightness in her chest is worse and worse, and her body is shaking—she can't see—then her lungs explode and she's free, feels herself being pulled apart, limb by limb, atom by atom, until she and everything else becomes nothing, one with the empty black void.

A man laughs in the distance somewhere out in that vast, unknowable blackness, so far away it's like he's safe from it all.

She hated that damn dream.

Sophie always got anxiety when she thought of it. Jitters. It made her blood flow. She'd see little blue and white dots jump around her vision, and it was like all her senses would be heightened. An awareness of everything would fill her. Other thoughts would make her get like that, too. Thinking about her existence, about God, the Devil, that sort of thing.

This would be when she'd get a hunch. Her dad, Stevie, he got hunches, too. And Granddad.

Sophie got a hunch about the old mine when she went walking down by the river after school one day, thinking about life and how pointless it would all be if the universe was gonna blow up any day now. Why bother studying for tests and all that? She skipped a pebble across the river's surface, those blue-white dots dancing in time with the water being struck. Only when the pebble finally lost momentum and sunk, her whole world sunk with it.

A vision.

Everything around her went swirling down where the pebble sank, like the last bit of water getting sucked down the bathtub drain. It belched out scenes—moments—that would whizz past her face like some sort of 5D movie with a working fan and waterworks. Most were too quick to catch. In one scene: A huge rally of some kind, only people flew around on jetpacks, then the rally became a war. Another scene: The mine entrance, marked with a huge sign reading "Devil's Pit Mine." This scene of the mine seemed to linger, filled her view, and she felt the heat of the day beating down on her, and the heavy, acrid air. Now she walked into the mine, into the darkness.

And out to a tomb of some kind, the walls painted gold and carved with an array of classically Satanic symbols, such as pentagrams, tits and a hell of a lot of sixes. What appeared to be an alphabet on one wall, it looked more like an alien language than anything human. Actually it resembled some of the Albanian screech metal band logos stitched to the back of her denim vest. At the centre of the tomb was a sarcophagus. Whose, she didn't know, but the death mask adorning one end suggested someone of demonic heritage. Horns, fangs, a unibrow, and one long, fun-looking forked tongue.

Someone cleared their throat. Sophie looked around, then heard the noise again and found a small box sitting on a stack of old books about erotic positions while rowing boats. She opened the box and a hologram display was emitted, showing a twelve-inch "screen" as black and opaque as obsidian. She put her hand through it and watched the diffracted light readjust itself.

A face filled the display. A longhaired, bearded white guy smoking cigarettes from his eyeballs.

"Hi, Uncle Angus!" Sophie said. "What's up—?"

"Hey, can't talk long, sweetie. I'm on break. Get to Toronto and find the Angel Slayer. Bring that box. Love you. Bye, sweetie."

The box slammed shut. Then the side wall crumbled, revealing sunshine and the way out.

Guess Sophie had a flight to catch. She unfurled her wings.

2

A wise, Gen-X-looking HMV employee came out through the store's back entrance amidst a thick cloud of marijuana smoke. He had an untrimmed beard with bits of weed, strawberry jam, and other debris clinging to the hairs. Hand-rolled cigarettes hung from his ears. They hung from other places, too, like his armpits, his elbows, and even his anus. His nametag read ANGUS, and he hefted two bags of diarrhea-scented trash into the overflowing Dumpster out back.

People could be such animals sometimes.

And don't even mention the bloody angels. They were the worst.

Angus' earbuds weren't in, but he didn't need 'em. There was a song in his head he'd heard six hundred and sixty-six times before. At least.

Hey, Satan, paid my dues.

On the highway to hell, man. The highway to fuckin' hell. He played the riff on his air guitar, pumping that energy into it with every imaginary strum, twiddling his fingers around the imaginary instrument's imaginary fretboard.

Feeling it. Living it.

After lighting up his fifteenth concurrent smoke, Angus retracted the middle and ring fingers on both of his hands, involuntarily giving the horns to the world. It was a Pavlovian response, conditioned into him through years of abusing his mind and body with harsh chemicals and harsher music. He held the pose for six-point-six-six lovely long seconds.

Shit, what time was it, anyway? He checked his authentic Dupin Genève eighteen-carat gold watch. After his sixty-sixth smoke break that hour, he'd head back in and unload the plastic-wrapped crate of Slipknot CDs. Fun stuff, because for every ten CDs he unpacked he could take one home as "damaged goods" and resell it on eBay for a pretty penny—especially after he forged all eighteen of the musicians' signatures. The twenty-five DJs currently in the band didn't count.

Angus took the last few drags off his ciggy and put the roach in his reverse pussy-purse, which he kept permanently spun-around and resting at the base of his back so it wouldn't get snagged on passing shelves while working. It was basically like a backpack that hung just above his ass, though it often hung even lower, effectively making it an asspack, or alternatively a crapsack.

He reached out for the back door, ready to head back in—just then: a tune from his teaching days at St. Trevor the Terribly Touchy-Feely Catholic High School popped into his head. Shit, it would've been thirty-odd years since he'd even thought of it.

Our God...

Is an awesome God...

He reigns!

From Heaven above!

Our God Is an awesome God!

Our God Is an awesome God!

It could, in theory, be repeated forever.

Angus shuddered at the thought as a blast of holy energy doubled him over. His hands hit the pavement, digging into broken glass, barbed wire, cum-filled condoms, shattered syringes covered in other people's HIV-infected blood. Angus felt woozy. His own HIV-infected blood dripped from his anus and ran down his legs.

"Angus," said God, appearing behind him, gripping him by the shoulders. "It's been too long, old chum."

Angus sputtered out, "Crank it into a fuckin' whirly-suck... Ya bloody fascist ol' cunt." He tried to get away, failed to get away, his feet slipping and sliding like they were on ice (when really they were on old, gooey cum and half-torn condoms). And God's grip was heavenly strong. All he could do—and did—was scream "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" as the Good Lord tugged down his workpants and popped out the cigarette in his butt.

He saw the light of the Lord for two solid hours of ultraviolence.

Angus focused hard on the image of Satan tattooed in his brain. With the Dark Lord's power, he would come out of this mess with little more than an anal prolapse.

3

Way back in maybe 4600 BCE, give or take a hundred years or so, Angus had been chummin' it up with all his devilish mates. Rufus was there, so were MadMike and his girl Ollo, and even Vera was there, too, as well as Rollie. Wait, Rollie was Rufus; he'd just changed his name thousands of fucking times over the years. So Rollie was there, but his name at the time had been Rufus. Who else had been there? Jeffrey? Jeffrey. Yeah, that crazy dude had been there, too. Angus'd like to say it was June 6th, maybe six o'clock—shit, it might've been 4666 BCE, even.

Anyway—

"Right," Angus told them while he and his mates were chilling on futons in Satan's Hotspot down in the pits of Hell. "Rufus, the Dark Lord will be back tomorrow night. We've got some time to get it on, so you're on whore duty. Only the best, mate! Only the ones who'll accept a living wage as payment for their much-appreciated services," he added to great applause. Social justice was big with Satanists, even in prehistoric times.

Rufus, a dwarf with a disdain for wearing pants and a fetish for inserting miniature pop cans into his rectum, held up two fingers—peace—and said, "Right-oh. Expensive whores. How was slayin' God's forces, what—last week, was it?"

Angus waved it off and took a drag off fifty smokes taped together, with tubes bringing all the smoke down to one final tube pressed to his ruby-red lips. It's marvellous this technology, he thought as the nicotine buzz kicked in, though it's sad the people won't get to use it for many fuckin' years to come.

But, when humanity was finally ready, they would learn of tape and tubes. And if Satan's Forces would come to victory they would know the Devil had invented both those things, along with everything else that was even slightly useful, including birth-control pills, fully automatic handguns, kiwifruit peeling spoons, and of course the Devil's own favourite: staple removers. Those fucking staples could make Satan himself use the Lord's name in vain.

When the buzz had waned a little, Angus said to Rufus, "Killin' God's forces? Piece of piss, mate. Personally took down six hundred angels meself, and that's not including the ones I let the humans finish after maiming the shit out of them. 'Twas glorious." After another hit he said, "Back to our fiesta plans. MadMike, you get the noble duty of—"

Just then, Satan himself came strolling in with his giant cock swaying in the ever-changing winds of Hell.

Angus stood up from a futon, saluting furiously, sputtering out, "D-D-Dark Lord, mate, wassup, homeslice!?"

Grinning through his thousands of fangs and his lovely lipstick-lathered lips, Satan said, "I am in a good mood." His skin looked permanently seared, and two jets of fire burned eternally from his temples, like horns. His yellow eyes had a kindness to them, though. His dick was enormous and seemed to possess its own devilish intelligence. It was often seen reading quantum-physics textbooks.

Satan continued: "The science labs have just informed me the soul cube is ready for my insertion. No more will I be forced to exist in this stupid, hideous body." He shook his arms with disgust plain on his face; it looked the same as when Angus had thrown a turd at his dark master's head. "I will live on as data, forever and always, permanently receiving and transmitting information. Living, learning, growing vicariously through each and every one of you. When the implants are ready, you will all receive them. How does it feel to know I will always be inside your mind, at every waking moment and not?"

Angus and his friends looked at one another, scratching cheeks, tugging collars, frowning, not sure how to respond.

Rufus belched, farted, and sniffed the resulting odours.

Satan's dick responded with a soft, oddly cute cough, then went back to string theory.

"In the meantime..." Satan said, manifesting a six-pack of Heineken from the future, an ounce of the finest cannabis that could be grown in Hell's hydroponic labs, and a big box of cute, cuddly kittens to play with. "Party time, bitches."

Everybody cheered.

***

Ah, Angus thought, regaining consciousness in the Dumpster behind HMV. He wiped God's spunk from his ass with his HMV-embroidered shirtsleeve. Those were the days. Wonder what Angel Slayer is up to... he thought wistfully, looking up at the big white moon in the big blue sky because it was there.

4

Billy "The Angel Slayer" Gardner could meditate on this madness forever. Hoots, hollers, the new Hellscrotum album ('Hallowed Be Thy Hell Hole') howling away, and the heavenly howitzer missiles rocking the smoking, smouldering streets of downtown Toronto.

From his mobile command podium—a regular podium bolted onto the bed of a Ford Ranger pickup, repainted with evil-looking colours and pentagrams and quantum-physics equations—Billy watched as free-thinking Satanist millennials with taint piercings and tribal tattoos waged war against God's army of angels in the sky. Locked and loaded with the latest sci-fi-looking highly advanced tech, they blasted each other, smashed each other, crapped on each other, and threw sonically enhanced kicks and punches. It was an ancient struggle, and after decades of clandestine conflict the battle had finally been brought back to the forefront of society where it belonged.

Out in the open. Blood and fecal matter running in the streets. And this time the homeless people weren't responsible. Those poor homeless people, getting such a bad rap. Satan would eventually find them and give them the help they needed.

Such was inevitable.

Billy didn't start this particular war, but he had been the lynchpin in the whole operation circa 2019. Rallying the troops. He was the dude in charge of the ground assault while the man upstairs—or, in this case, downstairs—sat back and told him what to do.

That's how it worked with Satan. Billy received orders in the form of visions and passed them to the grunts. In fact, it was time to pass some shit off to the grunts right now. A shudder passed through him. His temples throbbed and his eyes felt like they had sand in them. The peripherals of his vision blackened and expanded, shrinking Billy's field of view until there was only a pinprick of reality left to see.

The Devil's face flashed once, twice, for mere microseconds at a time. Horns of yellow-red fire with licks of blue flame spitting at him, the heat of it burning his face. Empty eyes readily filled with his own thoughts, his own fears. He'd never felt so afraid, so scared of life, death, and everything in between.

And then he'd see. The answers would come to him in a two-second seizure of complete and utter awareness.

This time he saw Satan's victory. Billy's victory. And ultimate freedom. He wouldn't have to fight this stupid fucking war anymore.

Because that's really what it was all about.

Billy took in the soldiers around him, giving each one at least point-zero-two seconds of his direct attention. HR said it would improve grunt self-esteem by at least five-point-two percent. And they needed all the decimal points they could get.

He considered his words, and then he spoke—in a scream, of course: "LISTEN UP, DUDES AND MEMBERS OF THE FEMALE PERSUASION."

With a little sonic enhancement from his friend, mentor, and interdimensional anti-lord (Satan), Billy's voice deafened the troops even out there on the battlefield. Mr. D. Evil sometimes imbued him with the ability to speak quite loudly. It was a rare talent, rarely seen and rarely useful.

"WE'VE FOUGHT LONG AND HARD FOR THIS. WE'RE ABOUT TO WIN THIS WAR FOR GOOD. AND ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS BUY A FUCKING CD!"

They cheered. He hadn't intended it to be a cheer-worthy moment.

But, ever the showman, he went with it.

"YOU KNOW WHERE WE NEED TO GO!"

They roared and pointed.

Where?

The spiralling Godplex Tower built over Yonge–Dundas Square. Its sudden construction had had the nasty side effect of obliterating a Syrian refugee's booming, secretly Halal and fucking delicious hotdog stand. A tragedy worth killing for. Plus all the other horrible shit God had been up to lately, including raping little kids and making people too stupid to comprehend basic science—thus bringing about the current predicament of rampant religion and all its ills and endless misfortunes.

Godplex made the CN Tower look like a sex toy for ants. It was four hundred billion light-years tall and defended by an armada of angels and other holy warriors. To capture it would take a miracle.

Billy breathed deeply, smelling the stench of dead-angel piss marking the battlefield around him. Then he remembered his nickname, "The Angel Slayer," and how he'd gotten it: from killing a fuck-tonne of stupid angels.

Billy shouted: "LET'S KILL US SOME MORE FUCKING ANGELS! OOOORAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!"

The troops shouted with him. Tens of thousands of volunteers in this war against the forces of good and God. And all Billy had had to do was forcefully convert them to the views of Satanism via psychosonically manipulated psychedelic rock. Altering the music was a complex job done by Satan's disciples all around the globes. Backmasking, black magic, drugs, murder. This subliminally Satanic music had indoctrinated a sizeable flock.

There they all were now: tearing off their shirts, pulling down their pants and undergarments, beating their chests, jacking off, shitting down open manholes, emitting Satanic animal cries and ripping out their hair.

It was beautiful.

Together they moved down Yonge Street as one greasy, devil-worshipping, radical-socialist millennial with a sweat-stained band tee and breath that smelled like actual shit. Strong and proud, toothpaste a luxury, marching to the beat of Billy's drum (actually Satan's drum). Their weapons—custom-made stereo-guns, which blasted out highly Satanic rock music from the shooting ends—were locked and loaded with the latest and greatest albums 2019 had to offer.

"We can fuck our guns later, boys and girls," Billy said, more to himself now as he primed his standard-issue sidearm for combat. "It's angel-killin' time."

They raised their weapons and charged. Godplex had two super-duper mega-angels with scowls and shoulderpads guarding the front doors. Plus all the angels to be killed whilst scaling the massive tower's base. But above, all the way up into outer-space and even beyond that—to Heaven—patrolling the building's vertical perimeter was God's own elite taskforce, The Jesus Team. Four guys in that squad, plus Madam Mary.

Billy hit his jetpack and felt the bass-y vibrations of the sound cartridge propel him upwards. He soared up and blasted some angels flying around, getting in his target practice. They were easy to kill. Especially with the power of rock and/or roll.

Down below, the footsoldiers clashed with angels of all shapes and sizes. Fat ones, small ones, tall ones and short. Angels with one leg, angels with no legs, angels with legs growing out of their other legs, giving them a spiderlike look. Ricardo Romero's Righteous Rage sorted that mess out. The band's fourth album that year, Urge to Shill, was a favourite among the Satanic Forces to kill angels to. The song "Sold in Chunks"—with its Satanic subliminal messaging about seeking higher education buried beneath a bouncing-throbbing, heavy-as-fuck riff—was particularly good for dicing up angels into cubic chunks of diseased flesh, stupid opinions and cheap white robe.

He personally killed dozens more angels (sometimes with his teeth), then flew around, got in his cardio.

Billy was getting bored.

The city was almost theirs. It was hard for him to believe he'd been an ordinary guy six or seven months prior. A trip to the HMV for the latest Happy Funtime album had led to his own involvement in this war through a psychosonic experience with Satan on song number six, whether he'd wanted it to happen or not.

Sometimes he didn't think he had. He was important now, but that wasn't all. Sometimes he missed the way the world worked. He missed trolling people on Overwatch with his buddies. He missed jerking off to porn. He missed just listening to some fuckin' music, man. He missed the structure of it all. The reliability. The lack of responsibility—for him. War was hell. He'd blasted plenty of angels to pieces with his stereo-gun, seen them shit themselves and watched their halos go grey as the life left their bodies once and for all. It was fucked-up. But he'd had to do it. It'd been a life-or-death situation. All those times.

This was war. It was the revolution.

Some nights he didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep. The dreams kept him up. Sometimes they were too brutal.

But that was all in the past. Billy was here in the now, feeling the thump-thump-thump of his Satanic Forces entering Godplex Tower itself. And here he was, about to take on the kingpin. "It's time we pay a visit to the man upstairs," he told himself. "Time to see that cosmic dick named God."

He kept Betsy—his favourite stereo-gun—in a compartment on the podium down below. Locked behind two elegant, gentle, easy-to-use retinal and rectal scanners. He flew down and did the deed on both. The door slid open. He took Betsy from the compartment and felt her power. Legend said Satan had squirted some jizz on it while nailing a bazillion chicks, dudes and animals in Hell.

Billy's brain implant automatically adjusted ammo to the new weapon.

Oh, yeah, the brain implant.

Yeah, Satan had made him get one shortly after joining the war, when Billy had started making a name for himself. A name for killin' angels. The implants gave him and the troops an edge with enhanced compatibility for their weaponry, among other things.

Tilting back his head, he could just make out the golden speck that was Godplex's divine penthouse suite. Funny how it small it looked from down here.

He primed Betsy and his jetpack with Happy Funtime's second album released that year, a post-funk masterpiece called God Is Shed. The album cover showed a glowing, rusted-down, hunk-o'-shit shed with neon-green crucifixes spray-painted on. The first song, "Knelt on a Nail," featured seven whole minutes of moody, post-rock-style build-up before unleashing a two-minute torrent of slap-happy funk goodness.

Betsy would be getting hot in his hands very shortly.

Only four hundred billion light-years to the Godplex summit.

5

All the way upstairs, in a very real and far-away place called Heaven, God finished jerking himself off with an angel's hollowed-out skull and tossed the remains aside like so much trash. His golden palace in this dimension beyond outer-space—the mortals called it "Godplex"—was littered with all sorts of skeletons from his closet, both literal and figurative. The Virgin Mary, for instance, hung from the rafters in one of God's summer homes. She'd been a good little whore to him, and she'd served her purpose well.

God demanded sacrifice from all his servants.

Some physical traits: God stood eleventy feet tall, white, he had blond hair (naturally), and his body was tricked-out with an array of plump, tanned, lubricated muscle. His penis was average, his testicles were underdeveloped, and his ego was disproportionate in size.

"The Lord tires of Satan's Chosen's plodding, poorly plotted reminiscences," God said, and so it was spoken. "Bring in Angus," he said to the room.

Angus was dragged in by a pair of angels. His pants were down and he bled profusely, having been raped and castrated. "Can't you spare a cunt a wee fag?" he asked one of the angels.

They stopped in front of God and let Angus drop on his face.

"Time to die, at long last," God said. "Any last words?"

"Yeah," Angus said, scowling from the wind on his wounds. "I need a fuckin' smoke, asshole."

God laughed, pacing back and forth as comets shot through a one-hundred-eighty-degree view of space. "You know, when I raped and murdered your mother I didn't just let her body rot with my spunk inside her. I revived a dead egg and made it work with my jizz, cooked it up inside her belly and boom, you came out. Then I let her body rot with my spunk inside her!" God shook with laughter, slapping his knee again and again, wiping tears from his eyes.

Angus sneered. "Smoke, Dad."

"Consider yourself... smoke-free!" God laughed again, slapping his knee.

Jesus suddenly flew in, looking haggard. He was missing one of his front teeth and his crown of thorns was askew. "Dad! Dad! All the other Jesus Team members are dead! The Satanic Forces killed them all! Wh-What do I do?"

God sighed. "Jesus, I'm in the middle of something."

Through tears, Jesus said, "You always say that."

"I'm trying to destroy the world here, son!"

Then Billy "The Angel Slayer" flew in with his jetpack. Betsy was warm in his hands. "Sorry, God. The world killed you a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away."

"Cute Star Wars reference," God said.

"Except it's actually true," said Billy, before he shot God in the chest with Happy Funtime's "Just an Intelligent Ape"—the volume set to three waves and a little plus sign beside, red instead of green.

God flew back fifteen feet, landing just next to his throne. White smoke poured from his blown-out sternum.

"Have you no respect for the Trinity!?" Jesus screamed, wrapping his hands around Billy's neck and strangling him.

Sophie flew up into view, saw the commotion, then swooped down and removed Jesus' head with a firm twist. "Oh, was that Jesus?" She punted it out into space.

Angus, bleeding from his asshole, reminded everyone he was still in the scene by coughing up blood. "Sophie, open the box."

She did. Nothing happened.

"The box inside the box."

She opened the smaller box.

The Devil returned.

6

Inside the smaller box was effectively a bomb. Only instead of being loaded up with pure nitro, it was Satan's gigaterabyte of code and an experimental explosive compound capable of converting that code back into a physical form.

Satan came out with a bang, foul blue smoke lingering there in Godplex. He emerged through the haze pink-skinned in his rebirth. His wings were immature things, hanging limp and twitching, the sharp bony elbows of them only three inches long instead of thirty, fangs instead of swords.

"Eternal gratitude for bringing me back. 2019 is something else," the Devil said, looking around. He spotted God—still feigning death near his throne, sternum still smoking—and strode over to him, first unfurling his wings and giving them a good flap, just to ease the itch.

"Hey, Dad," Satan said, "I know you're not dead. I only wanted to apologize. We've been fighting for so long, who can remember what it was all about in the first place."

God stopped faking and said, "I can remember."

"I'm sorry," said Satan.

"Apology not accepted."

Satan looked around for assistance.

Sophie came over. "Daddy issues?" she asked.

Satan and God both nodded.

"Who's your father?" Sophie asked God.

God sniffed and snivelled. "I don't know!"

Billy came over. "Why aren't you two fighting?" he asked.

"God doesn't know who made him."

"That's pretty sad."

Angus finally managed to crawl over. "What the fuck? Why's God still drinkin' piña coladas?"

God opened his robe and pulled out enough for everybody to drink.

"What the fuck is going on?" Angus said, trying to work the straw of his drink while simultaneously smoking fifteen cigarettes in his mouth, four in each nostril, three in his ears and seventeen in other places perhaps best not mentioned again.

Suddenly a voice from up above, feminine: "Time to go to sleep, kids. Feel better, son, and look after them."

"Mom...?" God whispered.

The stars went out.