Dungeon Master Delivers
The dungeons tended to be a peculiar place, at times dead quiet, at other times violently noisy. But even in the most placid of times one should be mindful that there remained people living, voluntarily or as a result of compulsive force, in the cave-like cellar rooms. So deep and quiet were their passions and suffering that one could have forgotten about their existence had it not been for the fact that they, too, had to be fed and their remains removed from time to time.
Above it all stood, of course, Dungeon Master, who occupied an entire level for himself. A cave-filled space this was, exotic with dripstone and the most marvelous pieces of black art, collectibles from an ancient time and distant place so obscure that it was known to few. He who knows how to read such signs and symbols can come far merely by touching, smelling, sensing these objects.
“Do you adore me, Dungeon Master?” his mistress asks.
It sounds lonely, everything does down here, echoing a bit and then falling flat, somehow not hanging in the air as long as expected. He doesn’t answer. Remaining indifferent towards his subjects is his prerogative, only giving them enough attention to prevent them from freeing themselves. Weeks go by without the slightest hint of attention, then suddenly he strokes her hair with a hand inside a leather glove.
She has been with him the longest, a full eleven years, long enough for him to consider her an indispensable life companion, almost certainly safe from his wrath. If she annoys him, he will go and take it out on somebody else, women and even men who are unlikely to survive and endure long enough to enjoy a protected status. The full flame of evil burns with most intensity at the center, yet that precisely is where the sheltered places lie.
Buried deep beneath the Moroccan city of Marrakech were these dungeons often described as “Hell’s sewer system.” Most of the men and women who nested down there had been denied entry at the gates to Hell some time ago, and were now so dazzled and confused one could easily suspect them of trespassing into the lower environs. Yearning for things out of reach was to them nothing new, they looked downward, tirelessly seeking. The very exploration of this bottomless pit kept them miserable. Not an attractive place, as one might imagine, with its extreme cold and hot temperatures, the daily beatings and widespread sexual abuse. Junkies, spent hookers, child molesters, pickpockets with only one hand, imbeciles weighing 300 pounds: Dungeon Master took them all.
Antonin, the new arrival, was archtypical of a promising diabolist who gradually slides towards a bad religious standing because of laxity and overconfidence. How many young women had he tricked, seduced, and quite frankly raped in the past 11 years since his wife’s disappearance? One or two a month, about 200 in total. He could be apologetic indeed while experiencing rushes of shame after overindulgence. The first vaginal blood of a deflowered girl can be overwhelming, some of the younger ones had been crying out so heartbreakingly that it left him guilt-ridden for days. If unable to fulfill his desires for extended periods, self-pity and moaning set in, which was a sore sight to see. These states were extremes, however, his Satanic brothers were accustomed to seeing him self-satisfied and in full control of his habitat.
But his friends had for years been warning him over his nasty habit of invoking Satan’s name during intercourse. “Ah, my lovely child,” he would moan, “let me rip out your innocence and hand you over to the Beast!” Now they were threatening to kill him over his involvement in planning a fake Satanic Mass, which had featured lots of blood and other bodily fluids, a number of children and adult spectators, a genuine Satanic goat, a Satanic High Priestess, and a magician in lieu of a High Priest. Living above ground no longer appeared safe, and the more attractive underground facilities were also off-limits.
“Give, give, give, and then some” had been the rationale behind the wealthy Dutch shipping magnate’s decades-long practice of donating money, religious paraphernalia, clothing, even food and wine to Dungeon Master, undisputed ruler of the lower environs. The cold logical Satanic principle of “to give and then receive” never applied in those locales, and Antonin had wanted nothing in return. The beneficiary of his generosity was totally unpredictable and capable of indescribable cruelty, but where could he go other than the dungeons?
A wealthy man with many people under his command may find it very difficult to leave everything behind. A week spent in a hospital or prison cell will feel like an intolerable distraction, but this forced exile was permanent. While Antonin would probably be safe from the Satanists, other dangers would confront him. In the long run, no sinner was ever rich or clever enough to secure themselves against the overlord, who always broke his promises.
Even worse, the type of pursuit Antonin had been enjoying since his wife’s disappearance could not continue. Fair maidens would be brought down for his fulfillment, but there would be no hunting element in that, no seduction required.
The moment Antonin’s check had cleared the bank, four strong men forced their way inside his furnished suite and dragged him to a tiny bare cell, where he will spend the rest of his days alone and without any female companionship, except that every night he can hear Dungeon Master make love to the Dutchman's wife so passionately in front of the fireplace, their shadows dancing on the wall.