Eli-X hated the bit where the beak actually penetrated his flesh. It was worse than the tattoos all over the inside of his eye that Princess did for him one season. She was a fascinating girl, in all reality. Big hips. Great big painted eyes. She moved like fucking Swan Lake, for Lawks Sake. But she had The Big Ascension and turned into some man-meat wrong-doer, some cumdrool breaker, staying power masher. Her name was Jellica, like Screamadelica, but very, very quiet. Terrifyingly calm in her quiet study of oak and TV. She had these tricks she could do, you never saw her hands move before your face was swelling up and you were choking to death. Like sexual sign language.

But now look at Eli-X. Why did he betray her? Strung up here in this mock-Tudor dungeon with his belly singing the Hungry Song and this Lawk Slaughterin' chicken beak drawing garish patterns all over his flesh. Who needs eyes anyway, the sores heal and life follows on like piss down a wall. A door opens. And in walks The Executioner. They always serve him to the executioner for breakfast. He takes Eli-X down from his rusting throat hook and carries him over to the little window where the gallows rope swings in the fragrant morning breeze. He must weigh no more than 100 pounds.

The Executioner will then throw him to the floor and start stamping on his head with his hobnail boots. Eli-X's brains have never fallen out but he is sure one day his eggshell skull will shatter and a thousand mewling kittens of despair will litter the cold stone floor. Always, Queen Jellica, his love, his life, stands in the doorway with her nakedness showing through the years, gossamer thin hatred lifting in the draft that keeps one awake in the hawk shrieking darkness. Beside her, her King of Thorns, our Lord in waiting.

A stinking crown of baying wolverine peasants await his screams. Each shoved-from-behind step he takes, deeper into the throng of the masses, the stench becomes more rank. They shout in his face and he can almost taste the fowl breath that emanates from lungs drowning in infected phlegm and he dry-gags stomach muscle up into his throat. He knew that this was to come someday, knew it but it was one of these things that you always think will never really happen.

Sex-lust frenzy - through the bodily aromas he can smell the wetness of the many women in the crowd – they are aroused by his imminent death. Virgins will have their sacred seals broken today; buds will burst into bloom as his neck bones snap and pearly man pollen will create life from his swinging death.

He can feel it – the tension in the air, the blood, hot and high, pumping, pumping, pumping – faster and faster as his rattling-bone frame creaks the stairs to his gallows. The crowd are ready to rumble, all nicely tooled up with their Pagan insignia plugged straight into their frontal lobes, ready for the juice to flow, to taste the death.

Moments like these are the times when the chicken beak stab is welcome and the ripping of flesh from bone lets you know that the mortal coil is still wrapped about you.

The Executioner put the noose round Eli-X’s throat and positioned the knot so that it would probably crack his neck right away as the doors flipped open below him. Eli-X’s chilled bladder let out a steady stream of urine that trickled with a soft patter onto the boards of death.

The Executioner stepped back, reaching for the hanging lever, the crowd fell silent and a gallop of horse hooves could be heard racing in this direction. Salvation, though Eli-X.

It was his love the Queen Jellica pushing nobly through the crush. She trotted up the wooden steps in her heals and ordered everyone to step back, waving around a flintlock. She took Eli-X by the face and looked into his bulging eyes, his thick purple tongue stuck out of his mouth like that. Queen Jellica put her hands to his chest, lifting Eli-X out into hyperspace. Sheer volume of stars roared by as Queen Jellica came in with lips parted, conjoining with his in cold wetness.

Eli-X had never known such sweet torture. His mouth filled involuntarily with saliva and Queen Jellica got it down her chin spilling down into her perfumed cleavage.

"In the box." she ordered, shifting her gaping mouth so that the slavery drool would roll into her mouth, gulping as the crowd turned sour, pleasure filling them instead of the death-taste they craved. Still pushing him out into the beady eyes psychedelica of hypersex, the noose a terminal tourniquet. She stuck a stiletto into Eli-X’s groin, slashing upwards, opening fabric and femoral artery. Eli-X’s blood spattered cock raged forward, in the throes of choking, into the gaping Queen hole of retribution. She suckled like a starving baby on his bollocks and finally swallowed a gallon of death sperm from the loins of the tortured man.

Up on high, a chariot of gold spits down a rain of golden spears four man’s arms long, some golden spears carve screaming women in twain, some spear guards to the cobbled floor, but none of them tears through the delicate body of Eli-X....

Into the sky like Jesus reborn rides a Sexual Messiah history may never forget.

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