Scrapmetal Paradise

I sit beside brooding Satan in a wretched scrap metal Paradise. The gunmetal glory of germs and steel has left a cyberpunk future with bodies on ice, their guts blooming forth in cryochamber pods, for us to fish through their organs and find gold.

It is a drag time, it is a rag time, it is industrial kingdoms of hordes of robots and nurses in automaton dresses stealing starlight to feed a Blade Runner future. Satan sits on a throne of melted guns, nanotubes, and motherboards. He smiles like a shark and plays with a knife in his hands, running the blade against his teeth, then along the jut of my cheekbone, leaving a thin line of red. The switchblade gleams in the mechanical moonlight.

“What is this place?” I ask, in his lap, wondering at the cyber wasteland.

“The future, where the Mark of the Beast is technology, and I rule supreme. What happens when Steiner’s Ahriman defeats Lucifer and I reign.”

“Why is it so desolate?”

“Because my path is of the material, my princess,” he winks and licks the knife, cutting his tongue, and his ram horns pierce the iron skies. His brass blonde hair is regal, his face is treacherous, and his muscles coil like a lion.

I cozy up to him, take the knife, then throw it across the room. He kisses me, mouth bleeding, and I taste the iron hemoglobin on his lips, then swallow Satan’s blood.

“Yet you’re also sweet, but scary,” I muse, running a hand through his hair. He takes his black talons and smooths the fringe of my white dress. “If you’re Steiner’s Ahriman, who is Lucifer?”

“Eh, another side of me.” He flexes his bicep, twitching as he is sick of sitting, then picks me up in one fell swoop and paces across the room. “Darkness and light, yin and yang, progress and stagnation, world domination and the path of flagellation and crying out in remorse. Fire and ice.”

“Who is Samael?”

“God, of course.”

“And you?”

“Who kills God: Science.” He fiddles with some machinery and sets me down, towering over me, a ragged beast of a leonine man. The whole city jerks as he fiddles with a rusted dial, and the bodies on ice that are mutilated and sewn together begin to cycle like in a vending machine, and he opens different cryotubes to remove certain organs from the mincemeat pudding of the suspended animation body farm and begins stitching together a demon Frankenstein on a dusty army green operating table, forceps and scalpel at his hand. The organs, patches of hair and skin, are all gory, and he weaves together a beast. “Frankenstein makes the monster, and the monster breaks Frankenstein. Enlightenment is unholy, and I have every intention for humanity to surpass God.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

We kiss, the corpse animates, and a golem of bone, blood, and machinery takes hold, marching out at Satan’s command. We lose ourselves in this forlorn machine paradise, in limbs of sin, in mechanical hearts, and the starlight is guttural Christendom, and all is lost, all is lost, all is lost, and Satan is my junkyard king.

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