The Happiness of Michael Petalengro

“Your God did this to you….your number was never 333 as your Priests said, it was 45 as always” I told him, “I am not part of this drama, this funny interlude…”. The same words I had spoken for some four thousand years since I despatched the Christ into the cold bosom of his Father. I become a parody of myself, the eternal juggler, the clown, the puppet and the Prince.


“You are the last man thing, no more time for riddles man, you are to be dead, the last one on Earth, and you are to be dead” A spasm…Arthnat again, this shitty place of whores and fly blown turds, why here again? What great Finale has this Omnipotent God thing propose at Arthnat….fucking armpit more like


(The Prince? Long dead….why is their reality so warped? Number 444)


The electricity of atmospheric madness made glowing plasma flicker from the edges of my spearhead. A beautiful electric blue. The man at my feet was drowning in his blood, it spilled from his mouth a little, what foetid air still remained in his lungs were forming bubbles of blood that popped and foamed. Arthnat…..maybe, perhaps it’s just a final laugh at Longinus, me. A subtle tease after the pranks of the last few thousand years that cosmic bastard had me jumping around the filth of this earth.


“When you see your God,” I asked him, “..when you see him tell him that I await nothing, tell him I await NOTHING!”. I raged a little, those years upon my back weighed heavy, I could stumble with the bulk of them.


“He is not funny your God any more….seriously, from my perspective his humour is puerile and shit” I lectured.

Am I still a man? Can I still rage and wonder at Justice, at my sentence, at God? It didn’t matter any more. The man was dead. The last of mankind. Their God had destroyed its plaything, it’s pantomime.


(Nothing? Why nothing? I saw a bird flying there…in the sky, survived, this man not the last)


I leaned upon my spear and wrapped my cloak around me tightly and waited. As I shivered slightly in the coldest of winds I thought back along those hard years. I knew a man once. Long gone into the mysterious and the arcane. There was a way out and he showed me this in some vestige of perhaps sympathy towards my plight. This man John Dillinger, a bank robber, I thought of him now as I have every day…..


(Dillinger? I remember him…Black parliament and Hopkins)


Hopkins, Matthew Hopkins, Wytch fynder. Brought back from the abyss for what purpose?


A gravelled voice behind me, I shiver “Petalengro the Last”, The Satan.


He was dressed in his armour, the touch of a dandy perhaps in the overly dramatic sword he clasped casually point down idly spinning the sword so that the sky flashed into my eyes. In battle with his angelic countenance slashed with the skill of a mortal…..i would destroy him in battle of course. But he was always so interesting, and this is what made The Satan dangerous, he was borne of men and humankind were a little crazy at times….perhaps.


“Lord Maggot. Filth Hound. Hollow man…i saw your Aerobic show on some New York local cable channel….i could not move for laughter” I insulted him, I noticed he was spinning his sword in the eye socket of the last man.


“Eodim. Brightstar. Ugyadum…” He whispered. “… the cable show was just a personal thing, nothing to do with Gods or tramping, vamping humankind, just for me, it was fucking fantastic, I love aerobics”. The Abyss awaits.


Here Petalengro stood, and has stood for 14 hours as a sentry, this hill is called Golgotha the natives and his fellow soldiers call it the Skull hill. Hollows had been delved upon it, workings and filth where people buried the dead without ceremony or left the poor to expire upon it. There were bones underfoot. There has been trouble all day amongst these people. Stones thrown, whispered curses as they patrolled the narrow streets at some point a pot containing excrement thrown from a doorway onto their feet. Alas they were not allowed to remonstrate with club and sword, mores the pity. This City was filth, there is an unwholesomeness within it. Some secret.


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