The Vorrh

reflex air fuck bending bending fucking nothing over and over and over again bite fuck bite fuck bending spine still fucking nothing still still the kids laughing but they run from my jaws claws in the ground teeth searching balls empty sweet she still in my nose mouth cock dripping licking sweet
.
    All but the cleric twitched their sight towards the dreaming dog, shuddering under the table. For a moment, their eyes were dissolved of their previous purpose and shed their watch to partake in the flinch that nipped and shook the sleeping animal, unlatching it from its tension to let it swing in forgetfulness. It awoke with a shudder. The table of assassins dismissed Tsungali’s hidden stare and returned to their previous clandestine conversation.
    As he walked to the door, and the semi-fresh air of the street, a single set of eyes followed his movements. Outside, he smelt evening as it settled on the high treetops, the ravine beginning to sing with returning birds. He knew this would be a place of significance for him, though he didn’t yet know when, or how. Optimism flooded his caution and he made a prayer, one hand on the talisman around his neck, the other gripping the pistol in the deep pocket of his canvas and leather gown. He would not kill his prey here; he sensed this place had something else in store for him. He collected the stumpy shotgun from its hiding place beneath the bridge and walked the stream back to his motorbike. He would kill his man further down the track.
    * * *

    She told Mutter to bring the next case up to the third floor. He obeyed with little relish, panting, huffing and stumbling on each turn of the staircase. At their destination, she instructed him to open the crate and leave. He did so without a word, even as quick, infuriated splinters pierced his hands.
    She removed the wooden shavings and other packing, and looked into the box. Stencilled on the inside was ‘Lesson 315: The Songs of Insects’. Forty screw-capped jars nestled tightly in the crate; there were no instructions. Ghertrude gingerly lifted one of the containers and held it up to the lamp. Small air-holes had been punctured in the lid, and a letter ‘J’ printed across its top. An elegant plant cutting shuddered within, a thick brown cricket gripping its stem. She began to remove all of the jars, placing them in alphabetical order on the dining room table. After ‘Z’, the letters were doubled: ‘AA’, ‘BB’, ‘CC’.
    All manner of creatures ticked inside their glassy prisons. Suddenly, as if by some unknown command, they began to chirp and strum as one, their growing voices squeezing through the tin holes and vibrating the glass, until the room shimmered with aural beauty. Ghertrude stood entranced, her hands clapped together in a gesture of spontaneous pleasure. Ishmael watched her, waiting for his lesson to begin. From below, Mutter heard the third floor come alive, shook his head and lit a cigar.
    Ghertrude tried to explain the contents of the jars, but soon found she had no idea what to say. She stumbled through the first nine, before running out of words. She asked her pupil what he thought. He stared blankly at her.
    ‘How would I think anything?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘What are these things, what is their place?’ She blushed in her ignorance and shrank in her failure.
    Many of the cases that followed were even more obscure, rendering her speechless before the packing material had left her hands. Salvation came with Ishmael’s change of heart. He decided to give up his petulant student status and listen graciously, without the rancour that had previously spilled over with his hunger for knowledge. It was true that she possessed more experience of the world outside, but he had a sharper mind to examine the facts before him, without the hindrance of their known function blinding their potential. He would try to do it her way, to speculate on the contents of the boxes and come to a conclusion based on each of their contributions.
    So it was that they began to open the boxes together, with a newfound zeal, and what she believed to be a rising tide of intimate respect. It became a pleasure: the anticipation, the piecing together of meaning, the guesswork. He was easier in his movement and speech, the angles and corners of previous mannerisms smoothing into softer, more natural alignments.
    Weeks passed in this way until, one afternoon, as they excitedly examined the textures and toughness of