Satan's Rumpface “… let you fall” (?); I missed my cue, while waiting patiently for the Hack to put his pulpy prose on paper, to relieve himself of the drivel he calls ‘Art’—“Were I an oak…” To think that I need the likes of Malcolm Poole to have My say adds INSULT TO INJURY and smacks of disproportionate penance for being uncreative—My sorry state. The whole shebang was His idea, of course, from Inkling to Creation. Not the Hack’s; I mean, Jehovah’s; Yahweh’s; World without end, Amen… Well, mine. But I have other bones to pick before I lay bare that one—with precious little ‘fluid’ to transcribe my retort.”


An all-pervasive stench belies the pretense of gentility that exudes from “fair skin opalescent,” “naked as mother-of-pearl,” while She / He plies what would appear to be an over-lengthy pen, its pointy nib and tapered barrel unconventional but less so than its girth which swells to serpentine dimensions past the dainty hand inscribing letters curiously translucent in the margins of a text entitled RORSCHACH (Malcolm Poole’s intended ‘magnum opus’).


“Cast Me out, He did, expelled Me, with My legion of dissenters, for the principle offense of contradicting Him—Gospel truth. Our Most High-and-Mighty could not tolerate any challenge to his Goddamn ‘Omniscience’—fucking Know-It-All. Would not budge, much less agree to disagree. Whatever God hath spoken got transcribed as Holy-Roller Writ, no questions asked.”


Nineteen-year-old breasts with “nipples upturned” subtly jiggle from the force with which each pent-up phrase is hurriedly scrawled, a sense of urgency conveyed by She / He posing as a female, the epitome of Malcolm Poole’s prospective “heart’s ideal,” replete with hair “on the verge of curly,” “buttocks buoyant,” pubes “bald”—the latter serving as a reservoir for what flows in viscous spurts once it gets siphoned by the implement doubling as a tail.


“At issue was ‘Free Will,’ a veritable whim when He conceived it. God’s peculiar brand of vanity was that All Things worshipped Him. To make exceptions, to generate options, was to manufacture choice, which might liberate us Angels from our mandatory ass-kissing. When I took pains to point this out His-Nibs nearly had a cow... or was it an ox at that stage (?); Adam got to name things; Eve got to roll her eyes. In any case, my two-cents-worth nearly cost my exile then and there. I had to think fast, redirect the Hothead’s autocratic ire; to wit: propose He put His decree to a celestial show of hands.”


The “O of plentitude” issues a smoke-ring like a saintly halo smudged.


“‘Who among you wishes to be free of My Dominion?’ asked the pious Megalomaniac of his erstwhile Rubber-Stampers.”


Torqued, the supple spine erupts, nape to coccyx, with serrated vertebrae. Scapulae bulge as shoulders broaden to support what sprouts as stubby wings; uselessly vestigial, they inflate to full-fledged span, their droopy pinions bracketing a rubicund posterior whose bifurcated globes converge to form a familiar face, the mug of Malcolm Poole (asleep on his Murphy bed) said spitting-image spolied when it grins a ghoulish grin—out from which escapes a noxious fart of laughter.


I was the solitary soul to take a buck-the-system stand, until His Majesty dissembled, feigned to welcome a debate on issues set in stone. Whereupon My less than brave constituents raised their soon to transmute paws.”


Zooming in on the Devil’s rump cum replica of Poole, ruddy features forecast the author’s stir from…


“Drat, I’m out of spunk, and the Hack’s about to wake.”


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