Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer

This is where we end.
Tucked so neatly under the aftermath.

I stare at my now long dead cat as its fur fuses and its stench fills the sill upon which it lays. I see its flesh sag and melt and my mind shifts to the meat in my moribund fridge. I think maybe it is time to have sex, but my flesh is also limp and I can feel as the life at my groin curdles and dies in the shimmer.

Hai rotto il cazzo.

Looking up I can tell you, I can paint for you how it looks. You want to know, right? Then allow me to regale you of this portrait, this abomination we all so clumsily wrought.

The sky is wet and dripping.
The smeared bowl above, after all we have done to it, is done.
It is done and it hangs and it weeps like napalm tears through the cherub puff of newborn cheeks.

It is done and it purges down upon every last one of us; all of the refuse, all that we infused for so very, very long up and into its veins.

Vaffanculo.

It seemed to happen so fast, although of course it did not. This bitch brew had been fermenting for years. But then, on a staggeringly hot Sunday morning last winter it all just — broke.

The weather congealed. Lightning forgot its thunder as rain tumbled as bawling fangs from an acid-loosened jaw. And a black wind did lick all with a most putrid and sticky caress.

There was someone I paid to love me once. I wonder if they are still working? Might even get in for free, being as its the end of days and all.

Genesis was her name, though surely it wasn’t. I think her name was Ane — I don’t know why, I just do.

I remember Ane’s tears as they gathered in the gutter beneath the deep green pools of her eyes as she came. And, the welts as they swam shimmering below the glow of the sweat that glazed and dribbled from the arch of her stomach. Or do I?

I have lesions of my own now, legions of lesions and if we were together again oh, how we would compare. What fun!

I wonder if she remembers me? I wonder… if she managed to find whatever it was she was looking for. Everyone’s looking for something. I just hope that Ane beat this bitch, that she gouged out its eyes and beat this bitch to pulp.

Troia.

Sorry, this is a bit embarrassing… but that’s the end. Of everything, everything that is or will ever be — for us, that is. Not sure how I know, but I do.

All that is left is the bit where my heart gives out and I fall to the floor and curl into a foetal ball like my poor dead cat. I didn’t think I even owned a cat, but maybe my husband did… yeah, maybe it was his.

Anyway, all this is of little importance. What is important is what comes next. What follows as our dick-headed reign finally succumbs to the storm.

Che tadd arriva nu cazz in cap.

Epilogue.

There are two heavily pregnant corpses laying in a cave. Simultaneously their blackened flesh begins to shudder and undulate and bulge and rent. The cave fills with cries of the type of fear that accompanies the swallowing of first breath and life again returns to the plain.

The creatures that slide forth are not infants but rather grown adults and the ruin of their womb-caskets fall away as they claw out and scratch at the stone.

Their wet naked forms inch ever closer until, at last, they meet and outstretched fingers sweep together and interlock and they smile.

“So nice to meet you”, they say at once as a new kind of heat kicks within the furnace that ignites in the pit of their chests.

Vuoi scopare?

And so again it begins…

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