By Lucas Milliron
Bert stroked the shaft of his stumpy cock while scrolling through his favorite websites. His face was a wash of sweat as he watched the little boys. He starred at the screen, memorized by their naked, pink flesh so exposed and vulnerable on display for cockroaches such as himself. It was the ultimate sin, the ultimate taboo. Bert enjoyed the thrill almost as much as he enjoyed the films. His heart raced even faster as he imagined himself there, as the man holding the child’s hand, guiding their nervous fingers wherever his twisted imagination took them.
The servers Bert trolled were designed for people like him, for those with sick, repulsive tastes. They were private, untraceable, and above all else, anonymous. It was the best place to keep his sin’s away from prying eyes, especially those of his family.
The computer was infested. They were small creatures, the length of his thumb. Their bodies were that of crooked old women, with insect legs and eight long spikes like cockroach limbs running the length of their spines. At the base of their backbone stretched a long scorpion like tail with two jagged pincers.
Bert barely managed to keep them contained to his computer. They scurried along the monitor, inside the CPU, and even managing inside the software itself. the things gorged themselves on Bert’s the darkest proclivities. It wasn’t easy keeping them locked away in their box. On one occasion, they’d managed to work their way into his bedroom.
Bert was fulfilling his marital obligations, bedding Olive on their anniversary as was their tradition. His penis refused to cooperate, rubbing her labia like wilted broccoli. He sweated on top of her, embarrassed and repulsed by her genitalia. It wasn’t working, and he allowed his mind to wander. Remembering the video’s from the night before, he thought of the little boys. His stumpy cock hardened, and Olive mounted him. It was thinking about the boys that kept him engaged in the act, and it was those sins, those sick, nasty cockroaches skittering around the dark corners of his bedroom that allowed him to finally climax.
Shame followed soon after. He’d let them out of their box, and worked quickly to stomp them out. Olive never noticed him wondering naked in the dark, stepping on sin’s and squashing them before the infestation crept its way through the house. It was too close, he had to keep them locked away in his computer.
Bert’s body trembled on the verge of climax as he shifted in his chair in front of the computer.
“Honey?” Olive knocked. “Dinner’s ready.”
“In a minute!” Bert barked, fixing his wire framed glasses as they slipped down his sweaty nose.
“Ok,” she replied. “But your mashed potatoes are getting cold.”
There was only one thing Bert hated more than not finishing, and that was cold mashed potatoes. She may not have been the child of his dreams, but she knew him well enough.
Bert sat down at the dinner table with his family. Olive was a tall, thin woman. Her yellow flower print blouse fit like socks on a rooster. Their young daughter, Page, had inherited their fathers wide pot belly and mothers narrow shoulders. Her clothes fit tight around the waist, and loose across her chest. Bert was glad they were been blessed with a girl, as there would be no temptation to act out his dreadful fantasies.
The family ate in silence. Olive kept her nose in a book, while Page thumbed through her Instagram and Bert greedily forked mounds of mashed potatoes and butter into his mouth. After dinner, Olive retreated to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Page went to the TV room in the basement to watch cat video’s on her phone and Bert went back to his study to finish himself.
He opened the door, and gasped. The sin’s, they’d gotten free! The room was swarming with hundreds of the nasty little cockroaches, biting and clawing their way up the walls, ceiling and floor. As soon as he stepped into the room, they swarmed him. Bert dredged through the soup of insects back to his computer. There was a man on his computer screen wearing black robes and a Guy Fox mask.
“We are legion,” said the man in the white mask. “Now the world will know of your sins.”
The screen went black, and the room began to smell like burnt plastic as the circuits inside his computer were fried. His secret was out, and Bert had to act fast. All those tiny bodies and exoskeletons clamoring together sounded like maggot riddled meat. He stomped the insects with his bare feet, feeling the puss, guts and juices exploding between his toes. They fought back, biting, clawing, and pinching him as his attacks grew tired.
Bert collapsed, grabbing his chest as he franticly tried thinking what to do. He closed his eyes as they climbed over his face and neck. As he felt his sins closing in, a man spoke above him.
“I might be able to help,” spoke the Devil.
Bert opened his eyes again. The Devil stood before him, cloaked in crimson silks and gore matted hair. His face was long like a goat, with long horns spiraling out from beneath his hood. Bert’s sins cowered at his hoofed feet.
“How?” Bert’s voice trembled.
“I will show you the way,” the Devil pulled a parchment from beneath his robs, “but first, you must sign the dotted line.”
The Devil presented Bert not with paper, but a leather parchment made of human skin. Bert could tell by the a man’s nipple on the back corner. The lettering was old and faded like sun worn tattoo’s. Bert could barely make out the contract he was reading.
“What does this mean?” He asked.
“The usual,” the Devil smiled. “Just your soul. Your sin’s shall be cleaned, and your family shall never know your secretes. May I take your hand?”
The Devil grabbed Bert’s hand before he could answer. His grip was firm and hot, but much more gentile than Bert expected. With a sharp talon, the Devil sliced the tip of Bert’s finger. It stung, and a small droplet of blood pooled from the tiny wound. The Devil presented a gold and black fountain pen, and inked it in Bert’s blood.
The Devil presented the pen to Bert, and laid out the contract on the table. Without hesitation, Bert signed on the dotted line. The Devil smiled a terrible grimace, and Bert was suddenly filled with the idea, and new exactly what he had to do.
After dishes, Olive went down to the basement to watch television with Page. Bert stepped out of his office, his sins scampering out of the room like cockroaches along the walls and ceilings. Bert walked, guided by some unseen hand, his movements stiff and mechanical. He went into the basement, staying behind the couch so that his family wouldn’t notice.
In the laundry room, Bert pulled the dryer from the wall. He grabbed the monkey-wrench from the washbasin beside laundry machine, and smacked the gas line with one heavy stroke. It bent and cracked the pipe, hissing with gas.
Bert slid the dryer back into place and lit a candle on the far side of the room. He shut the door to the laundry room, and went back upstairs. Bert grabbed one of the dining room chairs. He closed the basement door, and propped the chair behind it.
Bert no longer noticed the biting and stinging of his sins. He didn’t feel them crawling under his shirt and pants. Nothing seemed to bother him as he went to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of vodka from the cheap plastic bottle. In one gulp, he swallowed the burning hooch before pouring himself another and filled the glass with ice. He took the glass into the den, and sat down on his recliner.
With a loud whoosh, the gas line ignited in the basement, the explosion bursting the laundry door open and filling the room with flames. Bert could hear his family crying for help, screaming as they ran up the stairs. Smoke bellowed from round the frame as Olive and Page threw their weight against the door with all their might. The chair held firm, and no matter how hard they tried, it would not budge. He ignored their pounding against the door as their screams grew frantic.
The fire’s hunger was insatiable,. It consumed the entire basement in moments. Soon, it was not enough, and the flames crept their way into the floorboards and wooden framework. Air seeped in through the AC ducts, fueling the fires growth as it roared with a terrible hunger.
The house was burning down. Bert didn’t seem to notice. He felt the hellish blaze and smelt the melting plastics. The flames were impossible to miss. They consumed everything. Bert sat in his arm chair, sipped his vodka and whipped the sweat on his forehead. It didn’t matter what happened to him. His life was pointless. What mattered, was that his sin’s would be cleansed by fire, and his family spared the embarrassment.
Bert looked deep into his glass of clear spirits like a fortuneteller skrying into a crystal ball. It all made sense. It was like ripping off a band-aid, a quick burst of pain that would be over in moments, rather than a life of ridicule they might receive when the world found out that he was a pedophile.
With one last belt of agony, his families calls for help ended behind a thunder of wood crashing as the staircase beneath them collapsed. Bert imagined their bodies falling down into the black void, the nothingness beyond this world and the next. He couldn’t save them in life, but at least he could save them in death.
Slowly, the fires encroached upon his chair. It ignited, and was soon engulfed. Bert winced at the searing pain as he felt his flesh blistered and bubbled. He watched as his skin turned black, and his sins sloughed away like the roasted flesh along his body. Though the pain was great, so too was his relief that his sins were dying around him. They shrilled in agony as the flames consumed everything.
As Bert welcomed deaths cool embrace, the front door crashed open. Firefighters stormed the blaze. Bert shouted in protest, but the flames had scorched the inside of his throat, and every breath he drew was incoherent agony. They carried him out and to the hospital.
There is no pain like that of burns. Existence is agonizing, as exposed pain receptors serge with pain at even the dullest sensations. Most of Bert’s trial had taken place while he lay in recovery, floating in and out of chemical unconsciousness. Though his computer had been destroyed, the evidence had already been leaked by the hackers. The proof was damning. He was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison.
Bert’s body was a glistening scar. His sin’s had not been fully cleansed. Many still clung to him, scarring around his body like the vile cockroaches they were. He walked down the landing of his jail block, listening to the cat calls from the rest of the prisoners.
An officer guided him to his cell, the inside cloaked in shadow. He swallowed hard, and stepped into the darkness. A man sat on his bed, waiting. Bert could see the man’s sin, climbing the wall and ceiling. It was a terrible abomination of man and spider. It’s body was pink, with two arms, six legs, a face with thick wiry hairs, and two finger like mandibles stroking long venomous fangs. The man’s sin watched with six human eyes from the shadows as it descended upon him. Bert was a cockroach in the clutches of a spider. The Devil had spared his family the torment of his sin’s. Bert’s suffering, however, had only just begun.