Even when Mandy’s father, who she referred to as “Uncle Rex,” was physically absent, he left a vacuum of sin in his wake that haunted his house and family beyond any hope of exorcism or redemption. The trail of psychic scars he had inflicted upon them were everywhere. His soul stained everything it touched, leaving an indelible mark of pain to remember him by wherever he went. That was the “suchness” of Uncle Rex. His legacy was the map of chaos and pain he left behind him as he meandered like a wrecking ball through life. Presently, he happened to be back in prison again for dealing his own special brand homemade crank, which looked like a giant ball of snot turned to wax, and smelled like a combination of every house cleaning product one could ever imagine finding under the kitchen sink.
Everybody far and wide, from his mother, who had taken to hiding under the floor boards in the kitchen indefinitely to shield herself from the shame he had brought upon the family name, to the local man on the street who had grown tired of reading his name in the newspapers, unanimously agreed he truly deserved to remain incarcerated for life. The mantra of malignant intentions that perpetually percolated from his Machiavellian mind churned out charcoal colored clouds of psychic smoke, which inevitably assumed hideous anthropomorphized forms capable of traveling great distances. He was a backwoods wizard, adept at summoning fallen angels, dragons, and other forces that are known to be hostile to man and all things otherwise bright and beautiful. The secret to his success at destroying the targets of his psychic attacks was obsession. He never stopped hammering at what he wanted until he got it, and he was willing to go to any lengths to gain anything other than sobriety. And it was easy to stay hyper focused when he was high on his homemade crank.
As a natural born warlock, Uncle Rex organically possessed the psychic power to control the minds of his victims to do things against their own will, even from a distance. He had sharpened his skills by following the protocols outlined in a copy of the modern Vampire Codex that he found online. As a psychopathic control freak, nothing brought him more satisfaction than keeping all those within range of his nefarious consciousness tethered like puppets to the sadistic perversions of his twisted and terminally vengeful mind at all times. Knowing that he was born to be a wolf among gullible herds of sheeple, he was as proud to be Satanist as he was to be a member of the infamous motorcycle gang, Beelzebub’s Mions, not to mention the NRA, the KKK, Scottish Freemasons, the GOP and even The First Baptist Church, if only on Christmas and Easter Sundays.
Uncle Rex was proudest of all of his incredible whiteness. His skin was almost blindingly white, because he was a tweaker and lived in a twilight world. He was as proud of his skin as he was of his flame red hair and his preternaturally bright green eyes. He believed he was a direct descendant of the Aryan Nordics that the Germans had contacted through the Vrille society just as Hitler was rising to power in Germany. He was a true member of the master race. A renegade. A rebel. In his most recent arrest, he had to be dragged from the house, because he refused to be handcuffed until he had dawned his red MAGA baseball hat and wrapped himself in a confederate flag that was large enough to wrap around his shoulders like a poncho. Because he wanted his mugshot to go viral. And it did.
At the same moment that Bvrenda arrived at Mandy’s house and encountered the hollow shell of the helplessly bereaved and permanently pickled Hortence, Uncle Rex was sodomizing his cellmate, Biff, at the local penitentiary. Poor Biff was Uncle Rex’s type, a dirty blonde, built like a fire plug, with a muscle butt and potato biceps, short enough for him to overpower easily and turn into his bitch in a short series of easy steps. Steps, which had obviously already been mastered since Uncle Rex was now fucking Biff like a dog from behind, channeling all of the gathering tantric energy with bad intentions, as he pounded the man’s ass up to a full and steady galloping pace. Visualizing himself as Thor, riding his victim like the god of thunder driving the horses pulling his fiery chariot, Uncle Rex summoned an incubus, imbibing it with his virile fecundity to send his family and “friends” an extra special “Merry fuckn’ Christmas!”
As the god of thunder rolled about the heavens to the muffled moans coming from Biff’s face, which had been shoved into a pillow with a sock in his mouth as a safety precaution, he reveled in the power of having this lean and lithe young man’s body and soul in his immediate, complete and masterful possession. Thrusting his massive sword into the tight raw beef hole laid out before him was a slice of heaven in this new hell he called home, Uncle Rex expressed his gratitude by nailing Biffs prostate even harder than ever, to muffled cries that could have been agony or ecstasy a short distance beneath his sweating inked muscles.
The sinister joker tattooed on Uncle Rex’s right shoulder cackled with cruel laughter. The red inked dragon that wound all the way down his right arm blew iridescent green flames that were carried away by the wind to manifest murder and mayhem, answering Uncle Rex’s lustful prayers for vengeance. Because he knew, he just knew that Mandy had been the one who had betrayed him by calling the cops prior to his most recent arrest and present internment. “Come what may, the BITCH must pay!” was his mantra and curse. As the red dragon’s flames pierced the darkness, it’s roar rang out in dreadful harmony with the apocalyptic tempest threatening to swallow the world outside in the ravenous winter night.
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