In truth, it makes no sense, not even to me, but this is the world we have now. There are gods. They are powerful. They feed on fear, and also, sometimes, on us.
We don’t know where they came from, or why they are here. Some say they awoke from the depths of the sea. Some say they fall from a star which passed by our own.
I do not know, none knows, and it does not really matter now.
They are here. And we fight as best we can. And without our savior and his pastary blessing we would be lost.
Lost, long before now.
But wait. I must explain. What I write makes no sense, and this journal will be worthless if I am not clear.
The dark gods came, and they are terrible. And we must defeat them to survive. And it is a sign of the madness of this world that the greatest power there is to stop them is in another god, a good god, but one who it is difficult to accept as real. For it is because of his unrealness that he has power. He is a god we made as a joke, to tease one another with, and which was never taken seriously, but he is also a god who has never been theirs. Who is entirely our own. And as it happens, that is what matters. That our pastary savior was never theirs.
Our pastary savior beings us goodness, and light, and so we hold his blessing close to us, and fight them with him in our hearts.
As I do now. As I am about to do now.
For I am what I am, a fighter for the world, exactly because I can believe as I do. Because I have my faith.
I have it now. I am standing on the bridge of my airship, hanging half out an open window, with a rope around my wrist, looking downwards at that horror which is beneath me, waiting for the right time to strike.
I stand there, feeling the goodness of my pastary god’s touch. I feel his noodley appendages embrace me, and smell the beautiful scents of the foods I know only by faith, by hope, but which I never did taste in the old world, the world now gone, foods such as cheese and olive oil and tomato. All foods that are lost to us now.
I feel his embrace, and I feel strong. I feel warm, and full.
I glance down, as we drift closer in the wind. I steer a little, and hope the wind will not change, and that the horror below will not notice me.
Then I realize what I am doing, and snap my mind away before my thoughts draw its attention, and all is lost.
I concentrate on my pastary lord. I concentrate on what I am feeling. Warm slithery touches inside my clothes. The scents of cheese and salt, and warm pasta in my mouth. I feel pasta slip between the buttons of my waistcoat, and beneath the hem of my skirt. I feel it slide its way up my legs, and inside my neckline, and within the cuffs of my sleeves. I feel pasta sliding against my skin, comforting me, caressing me. I feel it spreading my nether lips, caressing its silky oily way inside me. I shift my feet, to let him reach. I sigh, and feel his embrace. I feel pleasure. I concentrate on nothing but pleasure, and on the sheer joy of his touch.
My airship floats silently over the dark one, and as I near it’s centre, I near my climax too. And as I do, as I feel myself come close to orgasm, I reach out and tug on the rope. The rope I cannot think about, which connects through pulleys to a cradle which holds the weapon beneath the airship, and which, at my tug, drops the weapon loose below.
The weapon falls, and I still dare not think on it, and concentrate on the touch of pasta inside me.
I concentrate on that, and not on what is falling towards the horror below, even now, as my orgasm begins.
What is falling is holy blessed pasta. A large bowl of it, upended from beneath the airship. A bowl sanctified to his name, a blessed bowl, which is the only thing in the world which can defeat a horror such as this.
The pasta falls.
It splatters across the horror. It drips and splashes and runs down its sides, and the horror feels his blessed pastary touch, and shrieks in pain, and writhes, churning up the sea.
I care not. I am lost in pleasure of my own. Lost in his holy noodely touch. I feel the culmination of my pleasure, and close my eyes in delight.
I concentrate on pleasure, because it is the only way my mind can resist the waves of horror emanating from the dying god. To be distracted, as I am, by the simple goodly pleasure of my orgasm.
I sigh, and moan, and feel his blessed slippery caress inside me, and feel pleasure, a wonderful pleasure, which goes on and on. By the time it is finished, by the time I pay attention to the world around me once again, the horror below me has died.
I sit down inside the airship, at the controls, with shaky hands and knees, and gasp for a moment for breath. Then I turn the airship back towards land, to collect another sacred weapon, so I may begin the search for another horror.
As I will, over and over, until all such monsters are gone.
There’s another one here, is why. Um, kind of why :) Also, this is like a one-year anniversary special! Oh my!