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The Dybbuk, a demon that takes possession of a recently deceased body came into this world, not through the magic of a shaman or any machination of the supernatural. The ancient monster was summoned by engineers, adherents to the faith of technological progress. It was in state of the art laboratories where the dark art of possession was mastered and by people who openly disdained esoteric cultural relics from the infancy of civilization. It was through the machinations of technology that this malicious supernatural force materialized as a nanomachine no larger than a flea. It was no aberration but a creature composed of rare earth metals and silicone.
The same malignant shadow growing out from the pit of the human spirit that facilitated the creation of the Dybbuk also ignited the desire to use it and see its effects. Folly begot folly, and the Dybbuk intended for a little-known intelligence officer found its way into a host that gave it the power to unleash apocalyptic consequences.
The cutting-edge killing machine served at the pleasure of a multinational innocuously named Geopus. Geopus was an entity that had a symbiotic relationship with death. Like a bottom feeder, it consumed all the shredded scraps of human misery that feel from the gnashing teeth of Aries. Alyssa Schroeder and Howard Bell were the two mid-level employees charged with handling the genie once it was let out of the bottle and it fell on them to explain to upper management a terrible situation was developing and worse of all there was absolutely no available course of action to pursue. Not a single scenario had been run. The calamity had been entirely unforeseen.
They decided to make a break for Mexico. Alyssa was at the wheel, her unblinking eyes were transfixed on asphalt, and the visual rhythm of the yellow lines passing through her field of vision started to entrance her troubled mind.
Howard, her defacto partner in crime, was muttering to himself repeatedly tapping the refresh button on his browser.
“C’mon, C'mon something must of happened by now. It’s been way too long,” he fretted.
“Stop looking at that shit!” Alyssa hissed snapping out of her trance.
“There’s still nothing in the news,” said Howard. “Maybe it didn’t work maybe we’re in the clear.”
Alyssa knew better than to validate her colleague's hopeful delusion.
“We’re less than 5 hours from the border. We’re gonna make it,” she said reassuringly.
“Yeah? Then what? We settle into lives as the two most wanted people on the planet!”
Alyssa didn’t have a rebuttal.
“Oh my god,” gasped Howard as he wiped away a tear.
“What?” asked Alyssa.
“He’s ordered an emergency press conference.”
“He ordered an emergency press conference?!” Alyssa said repeated.
“That’s what it says here,” said Howard.
“Wow,” Alyssa marveled.
“See maybe it didn’t work,” Howard suggested again.
“We requested updates on the targets vital signs four times you know he died,” Alyssa shot him down.
“I can’t believe it. Remember the last guy all he could do was masturbate and beat his head against the wall. How the fuck is it operating the kind of high cognitive faculties it takes to conduct a presidential press conference?” Alyssa asked.
President Barnes was doing a surprise visit to an American military outpost on the Ivory Coast when the Dybbuk came for him. His security detail had no defense against the insect-sized weapon. It infiltrated the President's nervous system and at around 4:35 AM Eastern Standard Time had administered a small electrical shock just powerful enough to interrupt cardiovascular functions and quietly kill its host. Once the nano-drone had commandeered the neurological infrastructure of a host, it put those regions of the brain collectively most associated with the manifestation of the id and put them into overdrive. What it effectively resulted in was a temporarily reanimated corpse that was extremely aggressive and anti-social.
Howard and Alyssa were the only ones on the planet who knew President Anthony Banks was dead. That morning the commander and chief’s eyes opened, and with some assistance, he overcame his inflexible body and got out of bed. He walked without bending his knees, and his arms locked at his sides. His joints ground and cracked with every step.
“Call a press conference I’d like to address the nation as soon as possible.” was the executive’s first order of the day.
Banks was sitting in front of a mirror while a makeup artist played the role of an unwitting mortician. She applied and reapplied toners, bronzers, anything that might conceal cheeks tinted with the same grey as spoiled chicken. His hardened veins looked like dark blue worms beneath his flesh, and his emerald pupils were fading into milky white.
The makeup artist was a flawless beauty roughly half the president’s age. Her lush ebony hair was pulled back tightly, and her olive skin was without a single blemish. Banks eyes followed the trail her swan-like neck to the v in her shirt where a few precious square inches of cleavage smooth cleavage emerge. Her perfectly symmetrical ovular face bunched up as the stink of the living dead assaulted her nostrils. She involuntarily recoiled when her fingers touched his cold skin. This caught Bank’s attention. He locked his gaze with her's in the reflection of the makeup mirror and flashed a grin.
She returned with a thin smile of her own and reverted her eyes away from the mirror.
“What’s your name?” Banks asked.
“Sorry, what did you say Mr. President?” The young girl chirped.
“Your name,” Banks repeated.
“Jane,” she replied.
“Bank’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “I like your accent, Jane,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” she replied nervously.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Well I grew up mostly in New York but my Dad’s Isreali and my mother’s Brazilian.When I was a kid we spent a lot of time moving from-” Her voice petered out when she saw blood trickling from the the side of the president’s grinning mouth. He seemed oblivious to the stream flowing down his chin and dripping onto his white shirt.
“Um, Mr. Presiden’t you have something right here,” she said point to the right corner of her mouth.
“Oh, that. Could you get that for me please?” he asked with a smug smile.
“Ok,” she said hesitantly. She grabbed a kleenex and with a shaking hand slowly dapped the blood. She yelped when his cold hand closed around her wrist. He started planting his icy blue lip on her slender hand.
“Stop it!” she shrieked pulling her hand away.
“What’s the matter sweety? Don’t you want to make it with the free world?”
She turned and looked back at the Secret Service agents who could only offer an unsure shrug. “C’mon I got the pre-tv jitters. Help me work out some of the stress,” he lewdly suggested while struggling to stand up.
“I want to leave right now!” Jane shouted at the agents. One nodded to the other, and he escorted Jane out of the room.
“Where do you think you’re going bitch?!” Banks sneered as he tried and failed to pull himself out of the chair.
“Gah, help me up!” he ordered.
The agent still in the room rushed over to help the president out of his make up chair. He pulled Banks up by his arm and his knees snapped.
“Oh, shit are you alright Mr. President?” the agent asked nervously.
“Find out what country that bitch is from. I’m gonna bomb the shit out of it!” Banks declared seemingly deaf to the sound of crumbling cartilage.
Alyssa and Howard pulled off the road into the parking lot of a Starbucks to watch the press conference on their phones. Right now they were the only two people who could remotely grasp the historical magnitude of this television event.
President Banks appeared at the presidential podium wearing sunglasses, and a suit was struggling to contain his bloating body. His distended stomach was turning black and purple as it pushed its way out of his shirt and more fluids were draining from his orifices.
“It’s time to stop being pussies!” He shouted. “This is the greatest country in the world, and we’re not being shown the respect we deserve!” We won the war we won the right to do whatever we want! That is why I’ve decided to issue an executive order effective immediately. We’re going to fuck up a country beyond recognition, and you’re going to decide which one we put the hurt on!” He banged his fist on the podium and glared at the audience of flabbergasted reporters and pundits.
A fly buzzing above his head landed on his face. The President didn't acknowledge the scavager even as it landed on his face and crawled into his open mouth.
“Well?” Banks asked the room impatiently.
“Well what?” a reporter in the front row asked.
“Which country do you want me to fuck up?” Banks asked rolling his eyes.
Nervous glances were exchanged and the crowd murmured.
“C’mon you pussies there’s gotta be someone who needs an ass whooping.” Banks said tauntingly.
“What about Switzerland?” Someone called out.
“Who said that?” asked the president taking off his glasses to scan the room with his blank white eyes.
“That was me Mr. President” stammered a nervous middle-aged reporter standing up in the middle of the room.
“You think we should bomb the Swiss?” Banks asked.
“Well I’ve been there a few times, and each time I found them to be arrogant and frankly rude.” the reporter said.
“Same here!” a faceless voice shouted from the audience. The audience seemed to reach a consensus.
“Well alright! As of right now, I’m pleased to announce the US is at war with Switzerland!” Banks decreed.
The journalists applauded the president’s impromptu declaration of war.
“Oh my god what did we do?” Alyssa asked rhetorically.
“This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.” Howard whined.
Alyssa dropped her phone. “I can’t believe it she murmured. “I think we just launched armageddon,”
Banks went completely stiff, and his whole body twitched like he was about to sneeze. His jaw slacked, and his chest heaved. He belched a putrid mixture of bile and blood onto the podium. Panic gripped the room and people could be heard screaming. Bank’s cheeks flared, and he started to choke. His eyes burst. Clear fluid streamed out of the ruptured sack and down his cheeks. He fell to his knees with a thud before collapsing on the floor. The Dybukk could no longer use the host. The commander in chief was a shell discarded by the cybernetic devil left to rot in the studio lights in front of an entire nation.

If you like my work, please consider making a donation. I one day hope to have enough to hire some artists to work with and adapt some of these pieces into graphic novels. In the meantime, though most of the money will probably go towards pot and coffee.


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