An Inhuman Condition

In the hopes that I continue working on this soon, I’m posting a raw section of Synod Horrenda. Sketch art and characters are from my bittery dick of a pal at http://ugisart.com/. He also has these really funny comics for sale at http://futurelandfillpress.bigcartel.com

II – Fidgit

“Life is messy and people stink. Like diarrhea stains on the grundle of the world, we’re all just waiting to be wiped out. I think that’s why the end of days is such a popular trope. It’s comforting to think that all the pain, struggle and obligations will burn away, but I’m not so sure. I’ve dipped my dick in death, and for whatever reason I’m still here. I’m a walking example of all the ways a person shouldn’t act, and despite everything I’ve done, the sleep won’t come. I can’t help but laugh whenever I hear about tragedy: a happy family killed by a drunk driver, a fitness instructor getting an embolism at 45. And for all the suffering in the world, miserable cocks like us are free to run around unfettered sticking needles into our arms and our pricks into anything that wiggles and won’t say ‘no.’”

Fidgit moves his jacket aside and sticks the needle between a couple dirty bandages rust stained with dried blood. Wrapped around his chest and next to his heart, his ‘skin’ is a decomposing mess. The dirty wrappings covering his body contain the decay. The few cracks in the coverings let his spiked hair, rotting jaw and a single strained eye socket poke through.  He squeezes the plunger and, for a few moments, finds a hypodermic heaven.

“And if you don’t like me, that’s fine, but you’d be blind to think we’re any different. If you even have eyes, I guess.”

The dark, faceless figure lingering in the room steps toward the lit candle on the table. As he moves forward, the light jumps away from his features. He’s nothing but shadow shaped by an overcoat. The black bowler hat molds the cloud into an approximation of a head.

“Take a seat, you prick. I’ve got the kettle on.” Fidgit grins through his Ace-bandaged face, “So where were we?”

He pulls the needle out of his chest. “Right, I was talking about us, the freaks. They call you Lord Hat because doom and haberdashery seem to be your only pleasures. They call me Fidgit, and I don’t really give a fat fuck why. Maybe it’s from the coffee and speed I stick in my ballsack just to get a saggy erection. It’s bound to make any man a little wired and uneasy.

“Ever since my skin started rotting away, I’ve found that it takes a hell of a punch to get a rise out of me. I have to settle for third-string hookers and pay them double just to see some action. I’ll admit it makes me a little cranky, but what the hell else am I supposed to do? Did you know I blacked out on the tracks and got hit by a train last month? When I woke up, a bum was fishing through my pockets. It startled the piss out of him when I clocked him hard, cracked my neck and swallowed a dozen Adderall. Maybe the reason I’m so hard to kill is that I’m already dead. I sure as hell almost look the gig.

“So what does a man do when he finds himself, literally, falling apart?

“Does he look for a sense of purpose? Is there some task or goal I need to find to leave my own, personal skid-mark on the world? I’ve seen people carry a hard-on for others, organizations, causes. If you ask them why they do it, it’s always out of the goodness of their heart; that they’re searching for something. That’s bullshit though. Everyone has their own motives and reasons for everything. At the heart of every good deed, the polyp of personal pride is beaming bright. It’s a selfish world filled with self-centered people.

“Should I find a higher power? Is there some magic banana in the sky to fill me with light and infinite happiness when I finally meet the dirt? There are people who claim to buy into the rules and purpose that religion gives them. They say the world is getting more Godless every day like it’s a bad thing. I don’t really give a constipated crap about an afterlife or an old pet, but we both know the ilk of organized religion’s upper-echelons. I can tell you the people at the top of the altars, they don’t believe in anything. They love the money, the power, the erotic allure of robes, rituals and righteousness. God’s just a fetish for them, another way to get off, and you’re nothing but the hand rubbing their banana.

“If you’re here to kill me finally, well good, fucking, luck to you. Just let me get my cup of tea, and we can go off to see the wizard.”

Fidgit stands and walks over to the boiling kettle. He pulls two tiny teacups and stuffs them with a couple tea bags. He grabs a box of rat poison from the cupboard and dumps a hefty load into his cup. He looks back at Hat, “Do you take yours black?”

Lord Hat makes an audible sigh. “The Mother would like to see you.”

Fidgit dunks his tea bags for a minute. “I’ll send a picture in my Christmas card this year.”

“I’m sure you think you’re very funny, but any patience or social grace you might believe me to possess has already been strained by your antics and chattering. The Mother has instructed me to bring you to her audience, and that is what’s happening here. I won’t say it again.”

Fidgit downs his boiling cup of tea, dribbling the soaked bandages around his mouth, “She is definitely a mother if you know what I mean, and I think you have the social grace of a rusty nail. I s’pose an early bedtime is out of the question, so let’s see the haggy dogmanatrix, then. Want your tea in a travel flask?”