The Master Race, Chapter 7
It’s full, a full moon. In a distance, the baying of a Lycan can be heard. The partygoers seem not to notice, or maybe they notice but they just don’t care. But, the drunk conjurer does.
Unseen, there is another participant in this outing. There is another participant in all of the fiendish prostitute’s “picnics”. That unseen participant is Fisher, of course.
Fisher no longer dreams. When Fisher sleeps, whether The Master is awake or not, she wears The Master. But, unlike when The Master wears her, she remains a person, she remains herself. As if she is The Master, she sees, hears, feels, tastes, etc–she experiences everything that The Master experiences. And, her husband Hawk, who shares a bed with her, is none the wiser.
Stage One. Having slipped on The Master. Thusly trapped inside of The Master, she dreads the anticipated holocaust. Ultimately, in the aftermath, when she no longer wears The Master, she knows that she will be disgusted by the atrocities committed. She knows that she will feel unclean. She knows something else. Every time she wears The Master, the hole in her soul grows just a little bit bigger. Eventually, that personal abyss will be all consuming.
At first, there is always only dread and disgust. The dirtiness … And, that’s to be expected at this early junction in her transformation from living to undead.
Then, the darkness cometh … Z’ha’dum, the Shadows. In contrast to the Vorlons, whose philosophy is represented by the question “Who are you?”, that of the Shadows is represented by the question “What do you want?” centering towards desire rather than identity.
Fisher’s conscious goes dormant and her sexuality twists, rendering her a sociopath and a homicidal manic, as well as a sadomasochist. As such. Her initial dread gives way to feelings of maniacal glee and an inhuman craving for the sordid doings and depravity that will soon ensue. Such is the ever growing paradox that is this transient state of her incremental conversion.
Ying and Yang. Vorlons and Shadows. That moral seesaw. In the later stages of her metamorphosis, there will be no such pangs of conscious and conflicting emotions, when she initially slips on The Master. Because, by then, none of her precious humanity will remain.
Stage Two. She now revels in the anticipation of the expected holocaust. In the immediate aftermath, when she is still wearing The Master, she knows that she will wallow in graphic remembrance [her rekall] of the atrocities committed. Reliving them over and over again in her mind. She knows that she will feel unclean, and cum to the dirtiness of it all. She knows something else. Every time she wears The Master, the hole in her soul grows just a little bit bigger. Eventually, that personal abyss will be all consuming. That day can’t come soon enough for her darkened Id.
Stage Three. Fisher soils herself. What depraved acts shall I commit, tonight? She cackles to herself. Yet, she is still Fisher, albeit an ever darkening version. The evil progresses like a cancerous malignancy, growing within her with each debauchery of The Master. Growing steadily and surely, but slowly, per The Master’s intent. The inch that is slowly becoming the mile. She is rotting from the inside out.
They make their way through the narrow winding streets of the sprawling slum. Fisher recognizes the navigation. The Master is leading them to Chandler Lane on the lower Northside, where she and her beloved husband Hawk slayed The Master.
Although there is many a bravo about, as one would expect in this part of town, none of them gives the party any trouble. In spite of the fat purses that dangle from the belts of the drunken partygoers. Prime pickings that are inexpiably ignored, or so it would seem.
Wanton eyes have watched the harlot with the lady’s semblance come and go with many a customer through this very way, night after night. But, this looks to be the windfall much hoped for. The bravo aren’t ignoring the pickings, they are merely baiting a trap. Sure, they have heard the sinister rumors about the whore, but greed has finally gotten the best of them and swept away their caution.
There is the other reason, which also sweeps away their caution. Yes indeed, these are professional criminals, but they still have their needs in that way. Their needs for that kind of [sexual] release. After all, are they not still men and women?
Yes. The whore is quite a prize indeed, in and of herself. Forty something. Dishy. She’s a walking pheromone. To look upon her, is to gaze upon something that you must possess; something that you must worship. A flawless, creamy-white complexion. Smooth, velvet-soft skin. Generous breasts that strain against the fabric of her torn, flimsy dress. A large loathsome mouth custom-made for the oral pervy and a hard pretty face. Long legs. Slim hips. A slender, mature [as in, stacked] frame. Slim, stacked, and matronly [as in, buxom]. Keen features and thin lips. Blue eyes. Long, thick, golden hair. And an ass so tight that you can pop coin off of it. All women should be such as her to gaze upon.
Ripe. A pungent odor. Infestation. Adjectives which pertain to her garment. But, which have nothing to do with the woman herself. A telling epitaph in itself.
And, for very little coin, anyone can fuck her. She will have any man or woman. Old or young. Healthy or diseased, even lepers. Whether they are low or high born. She will have more than one at a time. She will dish out pain to her clients for their pleasure and hers. And she’ll wallow in the pain dished out to her by her clients. Sadomasochism. Humiliation. Degradation. Bondage. Discipline. Corporal punishment. Sinister eccentricities. Completely immodest. Adulteress. Sexual manifestation. A total whore. Completely whored out. Sexual manipulation. She is the personification of a two-legged, sexual malignancy. Slut. None are refused. And no perversion is objectionable to her. She will even fuck beasts. She will even fuck the dead. Then again, she is dead.
Déjà vu. Flies hover over piles of garbage and swarm around the open sewers. The squat, ugly buildings are black with soot from the nearby tannery, and the muggy air smells strongly of smoke and tannin.
The Master’s bare feet make no sound whatsoever on the pavement as the tattered hem of her black dress sweeps the filthy cobblestones. Frayed cuffs of sleeves that out her elbows. A dress that is so ragged that it is more of a rag than a proper covering. Indecent clothes for an indecent wench.
Heavy pancake makeup. But, no eyeliner, eye shadow, or mascara. Yet her complexional affections imply such cosmetic trickery of a painted lady. Chocolate brown eyebrows that are perfectly arched. Long, thick, black eyelashes. Long, blood-red fingernails; shiny, wet-look glossy, as if they have been dipped in fresh blood.
No strong game odor about her. No smell of sin. No effluvia. Not the faintest scent whatsoever? No head lice, fleas, or crabs, and none of those other infestations which a low practitioner of the world’s oldest profession would be expected to harbor. No scum covered teeth. No foul breath, in spite of the depraved acts [of the flesh that] she commits routinely. Cunnilungus. Fellatio. And … of course, anilingus.
No personal hygiene. Yet. No masking of a strong sour body odor with cheap, heavy perfume. Just her and her soiled tatters. And, no unmentionables underneath those soiled tatters [that are doing “long” business as her sleeved dress].
To reiterate … Herself: clean and pristine. No bodily parasites? Maybe a professional courtesy? Not diseased. Her clothes: filthy, smelly, and infested [with lice, fleas, crabs, etc]. A highly unnatural contradiction. Yet none of her customers seem to notice, let alone complain. They will put their mouth on her between her legs without hesitation as soon as money exchanges hands, and eat their fill to their heart’s content. Sweet, juicy peach. Fragrant glans: The only scent that is hers and it’s carnal. So, as you can see, you don’t have to be a powerful magician to divine a Nosferatu who’s pretending, if you know what to look for.
They finally come to a halt before a decrepit two-story building almost at the end of the lane. Paint is peeling off the closed front door, and the stonework is pitted and crumbling. Narrow windows are hidden behind closed wooden shutters. There is something disquieting about the house, something that you can’t quite put a name to. It is like a sound so quiet that you almost miss it, or a scent so faint that you can barely smell it … Beware all ye who enter, for this is the abode of a Nosferatu.
The massive door jerks open and something huge looms in the darkness inside. Broad shoulders and a thick, muscular build. Tree trunk like arms and legs. Short, straight, closely cropped grey hair—the very masculine-looking hairdo is called a moe. Black work boots with thick lug soles and heels, and a long black dress. A cross dresser? No … The figure steps forward enough out of the shadows to reveal the coarse features of a very masculine looking and acting woman.
Protruding eyebrow ridges. Big hands and feet. The wild, green eyes of a lunatic. Long, limegreen fingernails. An impossibly large chest, that makes The Master look almost flat-chested in comparison, which speaks volumes. Because, The Master, like all “female” Nosferatu sport double-D’s.
The Amazonian she-bitch flashes a wide, toothy grin. Two rows of large, very white, perfect teeth. A brutal smile. Helga Zoë Bell is not a cavewoman, but she could easily be mistaken for one of those savage females of the untamed frozen frontier. Nope, she’s not a barbarian, she’s something infinitely worse, and like her master, The Master, she’s not human either. Helga is an Ogre!
Ogres will eat anything, and they prefer to eat their food fresh, which means alive. Ogres will even eat each other. But, their preference is children, infants to be precise, and the younger the better. And not just human children either. Although their brutish appearance and manners can mislead you into thinking that they are a stupid lot, don’t make that mistake, because it could be your last.
“Welcome,” Helga greets the party. She has a deep, husky voice.
No one is too drunk to not notice, let alone fail to acknowledge, this hulking creature. The she-male [in this case, a female wearing a strap-on] commands attention and induces apprehension. Bulldyke. Manhater. Nevertheless, they all enter.
Entering the house is like entering one of those eerie crypts described in an H. P. Lovecraft novel. Everything reeks of graveyard stench and a rotting coffin’s musty decay. Everywhere you look there are cobwebs. Creepy crawlies scurry along the baseboards or lay in wait for the unsuspecting in dark nooks and crannies. And most of the windows have been rendered opaque.
It’s dark, dank, cold, and foreboding, in spite of the miserably hot and humid weather outside.
The foyer is huge, and it’s in ruins. Breathing in the damp, chilly, stale air is like breathing in Death herself. This previous habitat of humans, back in the day in much better times, has been converted from a light cheery diplomat’s mansion into the gloomy abode of very old supernaturals, with absolutely no accommodation made for the basic necessities, let alone the comfort and tastes, of mere mortals.