In the beginning there was the slop of evil, the sloshing stinking pit of vile stew from which belched forth the sensational violence of life and death. The stench was of course of sulfur and melting tar and a deep organic funk that would make your eyes roll back in your head. When the Giver decided it was time, a hand burst forth from the simmering, bubbling stew, a great muscle-covered purple hand covered in warts and matted hair, the fuschia nails tipped like razors. Rising along with the hand came the shape of Vigornam the Champion. The first of the great ones, the warriors, the guards. Once the Giver let loose with his unholy spawn, it would the great ones, the guards, who enforced the rules of the games, unleashed true punishment. Vigorman’s fists were massive with a force like a iron block dropped from a tower, flattening anything under their crushing power to oblivion. Following the liquid birth of Vigorman came Chonterseth the Smiter, a white-skinned adrogynous creature with jet-black hair and eyes like fiery rubies. Chonterseth wielded two massive swords of fire, and its scream caused any who heard it to freeze in place and drop to their knees, begging for mercy, so unsettling, unearthly, unholy was its tone. Finally, the third guard reeked up from the muck, Gongadelle, the whispering freak. Chaos itself was the child of this guardian, whose every action served to undo reality itself. Sexes switched, weather overturned, health eliminated, she was the least understood and the most feared. Such was the Giver’s intent, to keep his children cowering in fear of him, obeying his every command, serving with gratitude at his mercy from holding back the guards. This was the way, this was the beginning and it was great and awful and good.
October 30, 2022