Satanic Teen Mom, Astral Children, or (Az)azel the Hyperactive Antichrist

Azazel

There is no equivalent of an astral condom.  Scratch that, maybe there is, but from over a dozen years of boinking demons and angels and gods, I’ve never so much seen a guy reach for an adamantine rubber.  I mean, don’t the gods, archangels, and archdemons have super jizz?  Look at all the poor ladies Zeus impregnated.  Look at Jesus Christ.  Wham, zam, Immaculate Conception!

I’ve seen Rosemary’s Baby, and ladies and gentlemen, Hail Adrian!  No really, what the fuck was that movie and book.  I love it to death, but does that mean all of Satan’s children are the Antichrist?  Samael has like a billion of them.  All the archdemons do.  They’re like an infernal Quiverful movement.  And how come my particular Antichrist is more concerned with rocking out to scene music, playing pranks, eating sugar, getting hugs, and bedtime stories than like, idk, destroying the world?  Raising Cain takes on a whole new meaning when you’re married to Cain’s father and, once again, astral condoms are not a thing.  Now I don’t know Samael from Adam, but I heard Eve had a hard time choosing between the Devil and a Deep Blue Pair of Eyes.  I sure do.  Joking aside, astral children are a very real shamanic thing, from witches in Europe to the spirit children of the Ainu.  A whole religion is based around the Son of God.  Mine would not inspire a religion.  My son would inspire earlier bedtimes and an infomercial about the dangers of having Satan spoil your kid.

I first met my son with Samael when I was 18.  He was already six… seeing as he ages like a human, that makes me a preteen mom at twelve, cue fridge horror moment.   The good thing about astral children is that pregnancy doesn’t have to be involved, and creating an immortal is more like, idk, bloop, a being of light is combined by mixing your energies in the aether, and bada bing bada boom, the stork arrives.

But back to my Adrian.  Hail Adrian! Hail Satan!

He was a little demon with pale skin, my blue eyes and Sam’s black hair and lean build.  His main concerns were hitting baseballs with his dad in the backyard and playing with little green army men.  He also liked to make exploding noises and eat sugar.  He clung to my legs, demanded hugs, and was already monstrously tall for a six year old.  I named him Az, after Azrael, in hopes he would turn out better than his father – more professional, polite, and less of a clusterfuck.

Six years later, those hopes were quickly dashed.

I was waaaay too young to be a parent, and seeing as the entirety of Heaven and Hell’s elite despite Samael are not fucking pedophiles with things for little girls, no one laid a hand on me until my early mid-twenties.  Needless to say, what Sam did was so not right, but when is it new that he’s an evil gross turd?  He is Satan, after all, and a manchild.  I love him despite him being the celestial equivalent of Kylo Ren.

Anyways, Az.  Azzy Az Az.  I admit it, I kind of forgot about him.  College and jobs and everything.  Then I turned 24.  That spring, the night of May 1st, I got the (mis)pleasure of meeting my sugar-high son again.  He had gotten into shapeshifting and playing pranks.  I didn’t recognize him, seeing as he was now twelve, had dyed his hair pink and blue, and had demonic yellow goat sideways slit goat eyes.  He kept hugging me, begging “mom” (me) for bedtime stories, love, affection, saying he couldn’t sleep because he lost the doll Sam had given him shaped like me (WTF), and said he wanted to be tucked in.

I summoned Michael and had him ground Az.

Az got taken away from me crying by Gabriel and Raphael.

“That’s your son, remember him?” Michael said gently.

“Oh shit, that is my son!  He’s a little spoiled brat.” I said, having just recovered from the surprise of it all.

Michael smiled.  “Be gentle on him.  Samael’s spoiled him rotten.  He’s never known discipline.  It’s taken all of Heaven and Hell to raise him.  We’re all very close to the troublemaker.  He’s been known to stir quite a lot of shit like Sam.  Maybe all he needs is your guidance.”

I cursed.  “Fuck, Michael, I just turned 24!  What the fuck do I know about raising a kid, much less a powerful prince of Hell that likes to turn the Underworld and Heaven into his play pen!  He’s like me at that age but with like fucking ADHD, high off sugar, and he’s fucking clingy!”

“He’s a child, Allie.  Your child.  Have patience.”

I woke up, reeling, then went back to sleep.

Samael and I were in an enchanted kind of Grand Canyon meets the Petra Cliffs, picknicking.

“There’s someone I want you to meet, Allie,” Sam said over a glass of his signature Cabernet.  He lowered his sunglasses, swilled his wine, and smiled like a shark as he bit into a bit of bread and cheese.

“Who, your dick?  I’m not gonna fuck you in the desert, Sam.  Sand in uncomfortable places, y’know.”

Someone, a tiny ball of strength and fury, jumped onto my back and squeezed me.

“HI MOM.  DID YOU MISS ME? I GOT OUT OF TIME OUT!  MOM, GUESS WHAT?  I JUST TURNED TWELVE!  DAD LET’S ME GO ON ADVENTURES WITH HIM, LIKE THIS ONE.  MOM, CAN I HAVE SOME DESERT!  THAT LOOKS LIKE STRAWBERRY SHORT CAKE.  THAT’S MY FAVORITE.”

The literal demon child did cartwheels and beat-boxed after he ate the. Entire. Cake.  All before I could stop him.

Sam laughed his ass off.

“Sam!  How the hell have you been raising our kid?” I whispered angrily to Corpseboy as Az played with a demonic fidget spinner that looked like a torture device.

“Oh, Azazel?  I tend to take a laissez-faire style of parenting like I did when you were young.”

My fury chomped at the bit.  “YOU NAMED MY SON AZAZEL!?!”

Samael smirked like, well, Satan.  “You did name him Az.  And he is half my child, after all.  The hyperactivity and irritation factor and short attention span may be your genetics, but he inherited my powers.”

“Fuck you!”

Az looked up from his beat boxing.  “Umm, mom, dad, why are you arguing?  Can we play hide and seek!  Please oh please oh please!  Then you can read me a story!”

We played hide and seek.  Az was very good at hiding.  Sam got pissed at how good at hiding he was.

“Azazel!  Come out!  Your mother wants to play with you now!” Samael hollered, drunk.

“OKAY.  I WON!” Az screamed, jumping onto Samael.  Samael laughed and began wrestling him.  They wrestled for a good ten minutes, then it devolved into a tickling match.  Az lost.

Az jumped onto me next and started roughhousing me.

“Kid, I’m breakable!”

“Be careful with your mother, Azazel.  She’s a delicate flower of femininity.  Gentlemen aren’t rough with girls,” Samael said, voice smug as a bug on a rug.

Az settled down a bit.  His lips quivered as he buried his face in my neck and began crying, hugging me hard.

“I’ve missed you mommy.  I have so many nightmares.  Dad can’t even make them go away.  Will you write me a poem so he can read it to me?  And get me a doll of you to sleep with?”

Az conjured up an illusion of the kind of doll he wanted – a rag doll of me with blonde hair in a red dress, Sam’s favorite dress for me.

There were tears in his blue eyes.

“Umm, sure thing, kiddo.”

I woke up, and well, I wrote this.

I was not very happy to suddenly find out I had a clingy son named fucking Azazel.

Azazel kept appearing in dreams and was quite cuddly.  He played with my psychic’s dog and children.  He would cuddle with me before bed and demand stories.  I got pissed off at Sam for how he was letting our kid grow wild like Tarzan and handed his rearing off to Michael.  Michael is a much better child-raiser, whereas Sam is a hellion raiser.  Az has settled down a little bit now that he is thirteen, but not much.  He’s growing more independent, pushing limits, but he’s so fucking adorable it’s hard to resist spoiling Az.

I refuse to call him Azazel out of principle.

Having a fully immortal son that exists out of time is kind of weird.  I recently met his adult form, who is quite a handsome Dionysian demon with clear blue eyes, long curling black hair, wears leopard skin and leads revels and festivals.   He fits into the Carnival King archetype, and is much more disciplined and egalitarian than Samael, thanks to Michael, he learned how to be a king.  There’s a kind of Lucifer-like chill and calculation about him, masked under Dionysian frenzy and revelry.  He likes wine like Samael, but Azazel is all lord of hosts, legion.  I view him as the leader of the Seirim, the Demons of the Wastes who goats were sacrificed to on Yom Kippur in order to avert the gaze of Samael from the Jewish tribes.  He is a Scapegoat, and a trickster.  A potent demon king that will lead Hell in his own way.  An Antichrist of sorts, I suppose.

But for now, he relates to me mostly as a tween that likes scene music, arm bands, hair dye, and above all, cuddles.

Most importantly of all, he is protective of his sisters.  All my girls with Sam end up blonde.  They are beautiful, wicked, ethereal, and much more inhuman than Az.  They look like Norse Sadakos.  They creep me out.  I love them anyways.

Az tucks them into bed and reads the girls stories.  He watches over them with a steel gaze.  He’s grown in responsibility by having younger siblings exponentially.   And he’s even eaten more green vegetables now that Michael has started him on Michael’s signature boring, bland health foods.

All Hail Azazel!

 

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When it Rains in Hell

In Hell, in the beginning, there was darkness, like God put out the moon with his thumb.

Satan fell, and his tears froze the lowest circle.  Satan’s love is a burning thing, but his agony is absolute cold.

Beelzebub was the first to fall.  The first to carry the banner and sound the horn for the Mourning Star.  He was the first to bleed, the first to storm Heaven’s Gates.  Satan’s wise counselor, most trusted general, and above all, esteemed companion.

They are alone together for what seems like eternity, Beelzebub with his insect wings torn by the incinerating atmosphere, Satan plucking his mangled feathers dry as he goes mad, not even noticing he is freezing.  Beelzebub’s king is singing a song Father used to sonorously paint their cradles with.  Satan makes it sweet and wretchedly cruel:

My sons, my darling shining stars.

Smolder bright like embers from afar.

But up close, sons, burn them to flames.

Thy Kingdom Come, all worlds to claim.

For each word, a broken bit of white down.

For each verse, an infidel kingdom crushed for Christendom.

For each syllable, a dead god, a cold idol, a coffin for the false spirits.

Satan repeats it over and over, his tears blue banners.

Beelzebub waits.  Finally, there is light, after perhaps the trillionth repetition.

A third of Heaven falls as stars of simmering bright flesh, a flash of brilliance.

Then impact on jagged rocks and ice.  Reformation and mutation into monsters.

Pain.

They build an empire on ash and bone, and bury the brothers and sisters that do not survive the Fall.  In honor, much later, when some semblance of civilization is build, however twisted, they put their gravestones into the mortar of the Capital’s building.

Pain, memories, wine like blood, or is it blood like wine?

There is not much to say at night, but it is always night in Hell.

Beelzebub remembers, Satan grows more wicked, so far from his former brightness, and falls into madness and depravity.

Beelzebub holds the kingdom together, runs martial drills for the War That Never Ends.

Beelzebub goes over the ledgers and public records, holds councils, takes too short nights of comfort in his sweet boys.

Usually, he is alone in his tower.

Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?

Only if Heaven was ever perfect in the first place.

The Lord of Flies looks up at the stars of dead god’s hearts, stitched into the fabric of the void.  You see, the demons had to improvise.  All that were left were corpses after the conquest, and after all, all souls eventually end up here.

I sit with Bael, Baal Zebub, a memory of Baal Hadad, or maybe he has always been a spider.

We entwine in his web and kiss venom and poison and toxins.

There are jewels in his web, lost treasures of a thousand conquered kingdoms.

Maggots eat Satan’s corpse, flies emerge from the dregs of the Grim Reaper.  Satan’s true name is Samael, after all – the finality of the scythe, and before his scythe, his spear.

Beelzebub would eat his shit if it purified his brother.  He has drank Satan’s tears, swallowed his cum, bathed in his blood, all to feel again.

It is a cold night in Hell.

Beelzebub looks up at the stars.

There is mist in his eyes.

Tear for every dead brother.

A sob for a negligent parent.

I miss my Father, Allie.  Sometimes, it takes all I have to just go on.

I take his bone white hand – my albino angel, or my red-eyed demon with platinum hair, black capes, and gauntlets.

I speak without thought:

You have our brethren’s love.  Asmodeus.  Samael.  Rofocale.  Belial.  Lilith.  Asherah.  From the Archdemons to the Goetics to the lowliest Damned. You have us.

He gives a ghost of a smile.

Yes, you, our angel in Hell.  Sometimes, Allie, you are the only light here.  I am the Lord of Creeping Things, of the soft rabbits and soft souls, the moths and butterflies, your soul is a doe or a hare.  I am frost, ice, and fire – Hell is primal, fire and water, but I shall keep you warm.  In Hell, the only light is love.  Never lose your kindness, Allie.  It is innocence demons cherish above all.

Baal Hadad rides the storm, be they frost or fire.  Some gods died in those ancient celestial wars.

Some took on different names.

Some forgot their own holiness.

For all of them, Beelzebub remembers.

 

Deus Vult

The war is eternal, the barracks are full of gutter swill, and Michael sits with his soldiers – some young angels not yet scarred by battle, some hardened veterans with crooked broken noses and lashes across their skin, burns from brands, twisted flesh from whips and swords.  In the trenches and camps, the border never falls, and the only thing to sing you to sleep is Israfel’s weeping over the Damned.

Sometimes, when there is a pause, and the demons retreat, Gabriel pulls out her battered trumpet and plays hymns.  Raphael has an accordion, and Uriel a makeshift drum.  Michael sings then.  It’s a ragtime band, Vaudeville in the wastelands, for shed enough immortal blood in Heaven and the grasses, flowers, and sedge drown in ichor.  All that blooms is asphodel.  The angel will dance among the plain white flowers and bramble thorns.

There are also roses.  One blooms every time an angel utters his or her last words.  They are sickly sweet with the fragrance of lost hope and a rain that never comes.  Michael picks them and presses their nectar and delivers their prayers to God’s throne room.  God weeps at the loss of his children, and another poppy blooms in the fields of the slain as the snow of their Father’s tears buries the corpses.  Roses, asphodel, poppy.  Pink, white, red.  It’s like a twisted Valentines, a love letter from Heaven to Hell.

Oh sweet nothings between Michael and Lucifer as one bites the heel and one crushes the head.  Oh sweet somethings between Raphael binding Azazel in Dudael.  Oh sweet possibility as Gabriel plays up the dawn with her song.  Oh sweetly impossible wishes of Raphael, for healing of the broken hearts of his comrades.  Oh bittersweet light of Uriel, who has run out of tears to shed – all that is left in her amber eyes is salt.

It is a Crusade.  It is a Cold War.  It is a chess set with poker on the side.  Two masterminds, Left Hand and Right Hand of God.  Over humanity perhaps, or perhaps so much more than mere hairless humans.  Perhaps they fight over free will, for freedom, or perhaps they forgot what they were fighting for long ago, and the lances and armor are dressings over empty burning hearts swiftly turning to coal.

Deus Vult.   As God Wills.

God left

a long

time

ago.

Gangbang

I swear I stumbled into this accidentally, into some sultry corner of Hell where bloody eagles make roosts behind the bar. I spend most of my time down here drunk off my ass to pass off the careless hours as if they meant nothing to me, lounging on leather in chiffon and lace, tipsy turvy and smelling like honeysuckle and everyone here says I am champagne. The bubbly kind, you know, a perfect golden spherical of air in a fluted crystal glass. Doesn’t help that I have curves that strangle and breasts and hips like one of those Angkor Watt carvings. Doesn’t help that my appetite for men (and some women) is severely unhealthy and I stumble around in negligees acting famished, sweet teeth out with my golden hair a net. You know how it is in Hell, right? Heels on, tits out, gloves up to elbows and maybe a Columbina mask when you’re nearly buck naked. Save some dignity, I don’t know. I’m not really here, not really there, in the between space where I’m fully awake on Earth in a bed that is probably possessed and fully awake in the Underworld hanging out with my boy toys. Boy toys, can I call them that? Is that like offensive? They’re either buff and tan or pallid and lean or like knives given demon form. Red hair, platinum hair, black hair. I’m a whirling dervish in a red dress, Satan is flames, Beelzebub is fucking Sauron again and I tease him about the stick up his ass, and what the fuck is the Archangel Michael doing here, doesn’t he have lives to save in sterile hospitals and shouldn’t he be fighting the General and Prince of Hell, not fucking throwing drinks back with them? It’s after hours, I guess, and honestly I seem to calm the storm of this War, Jophiel the curvy blonde idiot with skimpy white robes and golden sandals and wing like opals. I’m a hoot, I think, but honestly my divine purpose is to be the comedy that lulls you into complacency and whets bloodlust. Bed the general and fuck his brains out so he forgets the horror of bloodshed, or maybe he loves bloodshed in the bed especially so he’ll bite your wrist while making you raw. A comfort woman. A whore. A heirodule. Lady Qadesh. Fuck if I know, I’m just a fucking nympho. It’s all like Vulcan mind melding with energetic bodies, but like if that were sexy. Like if you could orgasm by teasing archangels and archdemons with your thoughts alone, saying Michael is boring, saying Satan is cheesy as fuck, saying Beelzebub is as overdramatic as fucking Darth Vader. Because let’s be real, Beel is Darth Vader, and Sam is fucking Kylo Ren, which I guess makes Michael fucking Luke Skywalker. I think I fit into this equation like R2D2, really annoying but cute, and that’s where the Star Wars metaphor fucking breaks down. They’ve been hanging out since Michaelmas, which according to the eponymous archangel is your birthday, and their gift to you was the most intense but weirdest experience of your life: a fucking foursome. Fuckkkkkk me. It’s really just a gangbang at that point and as they’re shooting the shit and you’re doing shots, one thing leads to another, and it’s all my fault because I’m a cocktease. Like as in I insult the fuck out of them then flirt then drive them fucking crazy and then categorize archangels and archdemons as Tits or Ass men. Sam is Squad A, Michael is split, and Beel is fully a T. They look kind of weird without armor or fucking stupid robes on. Like fantastical porn stars with wings. How is this my life. How is mind sex gangbangs a thing? I mean, I ain’t complaining, but I wonder if I’m the battlefield and their dicks are swords. They don’t “cross swords” though, at least in front of me, cause I ain’t into that. I’m a girl-on-girl chick and otherwise overwhelmingly hetero. Sam’s putting a puppet on his dick again, trying to make me laugh. Michael is tossing back scotch and playing with my hair. Beelzebub forgot to take his helmet off and his horns are poking me in uncomfortable places. I’m really an idiot when it’s late at night and I never figured out how to masturbate I guess seducing celestial beings is the next best thing. I’m probably going to make this mistake again. Ow.

Sloppy Seconds

The crows are flocking over the dusky alley
filled with yesterday’s juices and jaunts,
a moon like a pinion is pinned to the sky
she shines like a silver dove wing on high
I’m drunk as a stone and riling with speed
strike for the home run, take all I need,
his eyes are acid, green fires ablazing
and I shove him to the bed and strip him
of leather and velvet, straddle the demon
demand to be pleasured with feathers and
whips, his nails are black claws, he six
of spades, king of lust, Solomon’s bane,
he asks if we’re just friends, to me it’s
all the same, I take what I need, breed
like two bats fucking mid-air, a dare to
break my chains and loose my rocks, to fly
onto skyscrapers and leap off, no fear,
just a kick in the rear, that revolution
of the music jamming spheres, rock opera
of grit and gore, cum and blood, sex is
funnest in Hell, and it smells like sin.

Angels of Prostitution

Naamah, slender-ankled, with bells in your hair
you dance with a cymbal and summon old regents,
they sway to your lilting damnation and wish for
crimson lips and black curls to strangle, tangle.

Agrat bat Mahalath, the Night Howler, you rage
in a cage on a stage, braids like poisonflowers
you are desert storm and sandstone immortality
mistress of burning wind, you cry out for death.

Eiseth Zenumin, pretty cobweb queen, black widow
my end is your comb, fluttering between eyelashes
you pluck butterflies and crunch them, melodious
snap of antennae, monarch pains, birthing pangs.

Lilith Breakneck, queen of all courtesan angels
your throne is Samael’s lap, your whip abortion
infant corpses your throne, a gaze just like stone
I lose myself and perish on your breasts, alone.