The blood in the giant bong bubbled and swirled, emitting a sweet-smelling steam as it heated throughout the labyrinths of the monstrous Satanic pipe. A furnace the size of a torture chamber, an altar of sacrifice the size of a temple, an incinerator the size of a crematorium, the Bloodbong nearly consumed the capacious inner sanctum of meditation which housed it. Hells within hells within hells, like the universe itself.
The Bloodbong's endless mazes of tubes and chambers were woven into hypnotic patterns and mandalas, flowing endlessly into and unto themselves while filling its hollow, translucent effigies, caryatids, and telamones with hot vermillion plasma. Twisted like catacombs and intricate to the point of psychedelia, the sinister device was yet as controlled as a circulatory system, a mechanical tapestry of capillaries, arteries, veins, and organs that pulsed and beat like those of a living creature. Through the transparent, scarlet-fogged, rune-carved glass the blood could be seen pumping back and forth, rushing upwards, cataracting downwards, and swirling in crimson maelstroms, driven by the same powerful necromancies which had spawned the Bloodbong eons ago. Flames churned upwards from the interdimensional portal at its base, burning at light speed through an abyssal, roiling wormhole leading to the underworld, heating the Bloodbong with the very fires of Hell.
The center of the bong was huge and shaped like a living heart, its four contracting and expanding sections filled with a tangled mass of naked, screaming bodies, immersed to their necks in boiling blood. Some of the blood was their own. Some had belonged to their ancestors. Some was the blood of their children. They clawed at the sides of the bong's heart-chamber, their faces contorted into raw-meat animal masks. Nearly the last of the universe's dwindling population, they were not near to being the last of the Necrodelic's own personal supply of flesh. Victims, prisoners, and slaves he had, imprisoned throughout the demonium of his living spaceship. Evil he had. Power he had. What he craved, now, was enlightenment.
Chariah, the Death Addict, the Necrodelic, sat with his legs crossed in the ancient, often lethal, black lotus position, his wrists upon his knees, his thumbs and forefingers joined. Gently, he wrapped his lips around the mouthpiece of the Bloodbong. Chariah inhaled, the deep, slow breath of the succubus. Smoke billowed and filled the chamber, filled his black lungs, his black flesh, his black soul. His jet hair and ebon claws grew longer; his red eyes glowed with a hotter shade of crimson. Veins bulged like black mambas across the chiseled muscles of his caliginous figure. His blood quickened and fevered, as did his gonglike heartbeat, his meditative thoughts, and his sin-laden astrosome.
The bodies in the bong began to disintegrate, their flesh pulling apart and transmogrifying into red-tinged fumes. The thin screens surrounding the nexus of the gargantuan hookah like pericardium drew the fumes into the tubes of the pipe. Chariah exhaled, the deep, slow breath of the incubus. The clouds of smoke suffocating the chamber began to take on mystical formations. Death screams resonated like hideous mantras, then mutated into visible wraiths in rushes of synesthesia.
The Necrodelic smoked his victims alive. His plasmoptic and pyroptic powers now heightened, the Necrodelic gazed through the blood and the smoke as though it were boiling Lethe and crystalline steam. He watched with drugged fascination as the skin of his victims fell to float in the blood of the bong, as chunks of muscle dropped away like the flesh of immolated lepers, as raw gleaming organs were slowly exposed, loosened, and freed, then dissipated into gory flotsam. He watched as bones began to separate, as charred skeletons unhinged, as entire bodies were reduced to wet ash, their fresh ghosts free-falling like his drifting consciousness, and then he himself was floating like the gruesome detritus in his pipe, floating downwards into a grave, the grave of the astral plane, where Mother Chaos awaited, pink flesh beckoning, purple hair streaming on psychic vibrations.
The touch of Mother Chaos was as that of a shadow or an ebony sunset, ephemeral as the blind eye contact of the null-demons which inhabited the black holes littering space. Her mouth and vagina were two of those black holes, it seemed, sucking Chariah's tongue and penis through the pink death that was her flesh, through the limits of love and beyond, to salvation or damnation, nirvana or Hell, their astral sex a microcosm of their apocalyptic spiritual war.
Cursed with omnisentience, Mother Chaos felt all the suffering throughout the universe simultaneously, as well as all the suffering which had gone before and all the suffering yet to come. The pleasure and pain of every spirit in existence, living or dead, resonated within her omnisentient astral body, an infinity of torments which only the love of her demon devotee could assuage.
The Necrodelic pretended he was Satan, his wrathful and ultimate master, as he made love to Mother Chaos. He could feel Satan watching as they writhed through time; he was Satan, now, horns bleeding, veins and arteries wrapped in an interdimensional labyrinth around the exterior of his crimson body, barbed penis leaking fiery semen. He breathed omniscience like a drug, sighed omnipotence an eternity later.
As the Necrodelic and Mother Chaos made love, spirits rocketed through the astral plane from above, the severed souls of those whose bodies Chariah had smoked. They screamed at him as they were drawn inexorably downward.
"...bastard Necrodelic...by bloody karma, Satan will have your soul as well...you will never become the Jh'a'vyraa..."
The white cataract of souls came to a blazing finale as they dropped out of sight, soon to be repossessed by Hell, probably never to be born again, for universal moksha, the terminus of all reincarnation, was imminent. Even now, reincarnation was attained by only the most highly evolved demons, for the gauntlet which preceded it grew more arduous by the moment, in direct relation to the proximity of the end of time and the velocity with which it approached. For most, to die in this age meant an eternity in Hell, their spirits plucked from the endless orbits of their samsaric cycles like planets being devoured by a black hole.
Chariah knew this, and, thinking of such universal armageddon, asked Mother Chaos, "Will I be the Jh'a'vyraa?"
"... you will be the Jh'a'vyraa...my Jh'a'vyraa...together we will escape Satan...and attain the final enlightenment beyond...you shall become the Messiah of Death...and the salvation of the Jh'a'vyraa shall be ours..."
Chariah kissed Mother Chaos and made love to her anew, her long purple nails vibrating along his back, her amethyst wings fluttering. Chariah's astral body quivered as they floated.
"Who is to be my next victim?" Chariah asked of Mother Chaos, his words running like ichor in the pulsating atmosphere.
Mother Chaos kissed Chariah on the forehead, and from her damson lips words came like slow worms, using his astral body as a conduit to embed themselves in his brain.
"...you will seek out Morpheus Rex...the Oneirophage...on the planet Grystiawa...he is a powerful demon with intricate and deadly designs on becoming the Messiah of Death...of attaining the Jh'a'vyraa...the devourer of dreams represents a serious threat to your destiny...his wise and ancient mind contains many dreams which he has ingested over the eons...dreams which you must smoke from his skull...tonight, we sail to Grystiawa, upon this dark jihad..."
The words maggoted through his mind, sensuously massaging and painfully lacerating his optic lobes, creating gory visions of the words' true meanings, and then the womb of Mother Chaos was shrinking, tighter and tighter, squeezing the blood and oxygen from his engorged phallus until it became bruised and disfigured like the throat of a strangled corpse. The Mistress of Entropy pulped his member for several moments before finally constricting her thighs and womb one final time, like a boa constrictor with its prey.
Mother Chaos' erotic quietus, their last act of tantric sadomasochism, brought the Necrodelic to Dark Orgasm, sexual death, his ceremonial gateway back to the physical plane. Blind as a grub, senseless as a corpse, helpless as an embryo, the Necrodelic drifted in an existential cosmos where nothing existed except void and orgasm. The sexual nihilism drained the thoughts from his mind like a sinkhole, then through his unfeeling body to be released with the smoke and the space that he invisibly ejaculated into the vacuum. Visions, dreams, and prophecies took the place of thoughts, only to be forgotten in the moments following their psychic flashpoints, and then the void became the orgasm, the orgasm became the void, and he was floating, floating upwards through a grave, the grave of the astral plane, back to the universe he must rape, back to the races he must slay, back to the smoke-filled, sperm-splattered meditation chamber of the living spaceship, and back to the body he must escape, ascending to the ultimate state of consciousness and freeing the tortured soul of Mother Chaos, his soulmate and guardian angel.
Awakening with newfound evil enlightenments, Chariah exited the meditation chamber through a living door that automatically dilated before him and constricted behind him. Chariah made his way to the womblike cockpit in the center of his bestial spaceship, where hanging forests of umbilical cords writhed and curled as they dangled from the ceiling. Likewise, living jungles of umbilical cords swayed and reached out like tentacles from the floors and walls. Chariah stepped inside, and a pink umbilical cord extended slowly from the ceiling and attached itself, on one plane, to his forehead; on another plane, to his third eye. A hundred more followed, joining their flesh to his with wet sucking noises at a hundred different points, pulling his body in a hundred different directions. The Necrodelic was raised toward the ceiling on umbilical stalactites, while umbilical stalagmites simultaneously fought to drag him back down to the floor. Tautening tentacles from every angle suspended the cruciform demon in midair, where he floated as though upon very slow winds. Through these umbilical cords Chariah connected with the ship's nervous system and telepathically guided it toward the Tyterviax system, where the planet Grystiawa spun and the Oneirophage dined upon feasts of dream.
A pair of telescopic umbilical cords attached themselves to the rims of flesh around the Necrodelic's eye sockets, then stretched and bifurcated throughout the bestial spaceship to the myriad eyeballs scattered across its exterior. These scrying tubes allowed the Necrodelic to observe the universe from deep within his living vessel. He gazed with wonder across the dead and dying galaxies, graveyards of space once teeming with life, now laid to waste by armageddon and extinction. He contemplated the passing cosmos, its vastness as black as his billion lifetimes.
As Chariah navigated the universe, he meditated upon love and death, and throughout the entire journey to the Tyterviax system, and throughout his entire meditation, he was haunted by Satan's blood-red stare, poking like hot torture irons through the myriad planes which separated the two of them, voyeur and demon, father and child.