My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult: I See Good Spirits & I See Bad Spirits

Theme: Doomite backstories of youth

These Remains, by Buzz McCoy and Groovie Mann (MLTKK)

Published by SleazeBox Music / BMI

Disclaimer: All characters are property of World Events Productions.

Date Completed: 09/22/08

Part I: "The Human Soul is Always Free..."

"Everyone who isn't the pregnant Queen of Dhm, OUT!" The guards' eyes lit up in fear as much as Her Majesty's servants' and ladies'-in-waiting did. They quietly ushered themselves out, not matching the shouter's gaze; due to his size, it would require an overarching neck, so avoidance was no difficult task. Queen Borrhéan gave a thin smile as she dreamily rubbed her belly, which had yet to show any apparent signs of impending motherhood. Her blue eyes focused on the bloodied clothes of her husband and the head gripped by his right hand.

She sighed, "That was my favorite arena fighter," shaking her head. "Had six arms, and always ended his fights quickly and mercifully."

Her husband's reply was said fighter's head thrown at her feet, with the calculated force to splatter her sky blue dress with coagulating ooze. She groaned in disgust, managing to downplay the dangerous tension a moment longer. "Still messy, though." She kept the emotion on her face constant as she looked up into her husband's eyes, his yellow, dark slit eyes. "I can see you want to talk about this?"

He scowled, marching up to her, gingerly removing his dirtied, black gloves. With a flourish, he dropped each one onto the floor, each sound a slap as it met the puddle of robeast blood between them. "Maybe...maybe you should remove the outer layer of clothing, too, Zarkon. It's been sullied as well," she offered, knowing full well that he killed that particular robeast so he wouldn't do the same to her. He did not lose his temper in such a way all that often, but when he did, it was absolute abandon. In a strange way, it showed he cared.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he refused snidely. He gripped both arms of her ornate chair, leaning, hovering over her like an eclipse blocking out the room's light. The violet glow blazing from his eyes was the only source she now had, hypnotic, she looked straight into them. "I cannot believe you disobeyed me like this. I distinctly told you NOT to fool around with Fertility-grade Lazon. I told you I would name a successor when it was time. What gall have you festered to challenge me in this, the worst possible way?"

" sister has given birth to a son, Taybor," Borrhéan stammered. "He has the blood to be considered the rightful heir to Planet Tyrus if I, you, we, remain childless! Doing this will prevent future complications."

"I have recently conquered the desert planet, Nemone: I'll send them there. A nice arid climate will boil away any threat you think they pose. You are horrible at politics, Borrhéan, don't feign competence before an expert," he sneered, fangs glistening from the sides of his mouth. "You wanted a child of your own for far more personal, selfish reasons, my dear." He released his grip on the chair; the cracked lacquer was evidence of his strength. He held her chin in his one hand, stroking stray strands of her long blond hair with the other. He started standing up, she did the same, until she was on the tips of her toes. He continued slowly. "Maternal Instinct never has any common sense behind it." Her feet had since left the floor, the weight of her body pulling against her slender neck. "Have you given any thought to what that Lazon can do to an offspring of two mismatched people like us?" Zarkon asked quietly. Borrhéan could not reply, all her attention was trying to breathe as pain encroached her. "Would you discard such a creature when it bursts from your loins a massive deformity? Would you leave such a monstrosity for me to handle, while you tend to your perfect little nephew? Is that your justification for this betrayal of yours?"

Her lips turned purple; he delicately lowered her until her feet flatly touched the floor. She wrenched away, gasping for air. "Our child will be beautiful, no matter what it comes out looking like," she managed defiantly in between deep breaths.

He chuckled, "Because it will be yours?"

"No, because it will be OURS!" she shouted at him. She didn't regret doing so, though anybody that dared yell at King Zarkon in the past had a death wish. Instead of a belligerent reply, or sarcastic remark, or physical demonstration of violence, he took a step back. His face looked horrified and confused.

She saw this as an opportunity to appeal to the well-guarded mystery surrounding the being, no, man, she had wholeheartedly agreed to marry five Tyrusian years ago. "Why do you always challenge my feelings for you? Why do you always insist that I aim to harm or deceive you? Why do you hide as much about you as you can away from me? We have been intimate and I have never seen nor felt your body in the five years we've been together..."

"Enough of this," he groaned, turning his back on her.

"It is not normal for a husband and wife to be like this, even royal ones," she pushed the point, her feminine voice flowing with emotion. "I don't care if you have to be this way to everyone else, but to me, your closest companion, I should have the right, the honor, to truly know you." She walked in quick strides to stand in front of him before he could leave.

"Trust me, you wouldn't want that," he admitted, refusing to look at her. "Few people can tolerate me for long. I commend you for keeping your sanity as long as you have, Borrhéan, but your attempts to humanize me will always end in failure. There is nothing you can ever do that will change me, so if that fantasy is what has been keeping you around, find another hobby that doesn't involve my psyche or fashion sense and fly back to Tyrus and preserve my interests there," he concluded, now deciding was the perfect time to grin in her face. "You have always been beautiful, yet delusional, my dear. Especially that sixth finger of yours," he added looking at the hand that bore it.

She blanched, hating the reminder of the polydactyly that resurfaced in her blood line every generation. She had eleven toes and a tail as well, and it had always been a topic of conversation among the royal gossipers so much that when she was officially introduced into Denubian royal society, most of them were convinced she had lobster feet and a conjoined twin growing from her back. Not surprisingly, the only person who didn't seem to give the rumors much credence was King Zarkon, someone who even among his own subjects was freakish. His countenance was as terrifying as his height and his exploits, and once he had announced his courtship of her, the nasty rumors and looks stopped. Some were replaced with ones of pity, but she felt no shame, and for the first time in her life, a sense of kinship. He was someone who endured ridicule and odds to become a powerful ruler; he never spoke of his past, but she knew it was there, a big part of his ambitious drive. Imperfection dominating over perfection, the idea was contagious, to prove to those that thought themselves infallible could be cast down by the very ones they had cast out of their circle: wonderful, bittersweet!

He had been surprised at her enthusiasm over the courtship, and had designed clever ways to test her limits. Exotic foods derived from the strangest parts of Dhm's fauna, explaining esoteric customs and then have her flounder through them an hour later and try to diplomatically apologize any misinterpretations got from them, even once going so far as to suggest who tailored her dress since he may want something in his size. She passed each and every trial, not willing to lose and walk away a spinster for life, but more significantly, she was intrigued by someone so unlike anybody she had ever known. When he showed her his odd collection of small trinkets and jars of preserved malformed animals, some quite young, she knew she was in and marriage was imminent; he had been wary when she asked to wear the battered pendant made of gunmetal, but he had relented and let her do so to this day.

Upon thinking of the formaldehyde coffins, she renewed her resolve to convince him that their child would be nothing like that collection. It was only after they were married did he reveal he wanted no children from their biological union, and that he would pick a successor. He had been so certain she would be relieved of worrying about producing a faulty heir that he could not comprehend the rejection she felt. The Fertility Lazon was a trick traditionally used by the Dhmk to strengthen livestock, conjure up new agricultural breeds and robeasts for old tribal warfare; nowadays, it was also used to allow children from Dhmk and Duonulans. Fecundity was varied, but made fertile children possible as well; an occasional mutant stillborn seemed well worth the risk to many such couples, and helped unify the Kingdom more. Few bothered to try with humans, which were once regarded in much the way gorillas were by her race. Those attitudes were changing rapidly, no doubt by her marriage. Zarkon had chosen a human bride for many reasons: he obtained a wealthy planet under his jurisdiction with no bloodshed, he did not show a preference for Dhmk or Duonulans, thereby preventing any worries of ethnic bias on his policies, and as she had since learned most importantly, made it virtually impossible for him to naturally have a child. To others it may be the strangest crusade to pick, but she was certain that she could give him a perfect child, and prove to him that he had more to offer a child than not. She knew he would be happier for it; he just needed someone brave enough to push him. She ground up the lazon and drank it with her tea each day, convincing her husband to share it with her every so often. Painfully researching Duonulan aphrodisiacs, she coupled that with a select group of Duonulan dancers that were throwbacks, though none as ancient a lineage as his, and proceeded to construct a grand birthday celebration for him that lasted a typically long Dhmk week. Needless to say, it worked, and here she was, in the decisive battle of the war.

"Am I truly so horrible?" she whispered.

"No, Borrhéan, it's not you. It never HAS been about you," he looked at her lower abdomen, shrugging his broad shoulders. "So, how far along are you?"

"I'm not exactly sure...but it was around the week of your birthday," she smiled. He did not, lifting his crown off his head so he could pull at his skunk-plumed hair, tightly coiled to sit neatly within his ostentatious display of power. "Curse you," he said in between snarls. She could tell that the malice was aimed inward at his perceived lack of self-control. He unwound the knot, squeezing the bound tail of hair. "You have already filled your quota of ripping one head off today, my husband," she played. He glared at her. "This is serious, Borrhéan! This could be catastrophic!" He noisily sat down in her favorite chair, too tight a fit for him to comfortably accommodate his tall form in numerous layers of clothing, but she easily guessed the inevitable blood smears were his main intention. "What are my options?" he asked aloud. He looked at her with an inquiring eye. "There's always a chance you could spontaneously miscarry, you know."

She crossed her arms. "I'm still taking the Lazon."

He sniffed. "Not anymore you're not. Henceforth, any food or drink or vitamin supplement of yours is getting a Lazon litmus test."

She pulled up another chair in her lounge, propping it next to his. She elegantly sat into it, folding her hands on her lap. "If you are concerned, I am all for prenuptial care, Zarkon. Karyotype testing, DNA augmentation," she bit her lip at the last part.

"Heh, not in this Empire."

"You can't be serious about that. Every pregnancy needs to be monitored and," her argument stopped in her throat as he stood up and went to the door.

"As I said, not in this Empire." He turned to look at her. "Clean yourself up, pack something light, and leave a list of provisions to be sent later by ship. You are going on a trip."