The sign above the club invited those who worshiped the macabre. Flames danced on the side of the doors. Priscilla did not see anyone who did not have black hair, or whose head was not shaved. Dark red and black leather was the normal attire. Tattoos and piercing littered the skin like a canvas of pain and beauty, and flesh.

The masses moved in through the gate. They were neither invited or did they pay to enter the club beyond. This was pure anarchy disguised as a good time. Priscilla moved in, feeling uneasy, even slightly sick, at the thought of entering the club.

Inside hardcore alternative music blared. The man singing could have been singing in German, or Italian, or Dutch, or English. His voice was so horse and he shouted so loud that the nature of his language could not be translated unless one concentrated on nothing else.

Chains hung from the ceiling. Blood-like splattered paint clung to the walls. Knives and hooks hung from the chandeliers, which held candles, not electric lights. Every so often the hot wax would drop from the chandeliers to one of the party guests below. No one seemed to notice.

One woman, wearing only enough clothing for it not to be considered nudity, had been chained to the ceiling above. She beckoned all to join her erotically. Priscilla tried not to stare.

As she continued to slither in between groups and individuals towards the back Priscilla saw one woman being flogged. As the whip cracked over her back the woman moaned pleasurably. Priscilla felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The scene was brutally horrific, yet the woman did not seem to think so.

Priscilla continued back. Finally she found Kenny. He with two women surrounding him. One of the woman had piercing which held her mouth closed. She looked at Priscilla and managed a smile. The other woman appeared to be blind, yet despite her impairment she also looked at Priscilla and smiled.

"Priscilla," Kenny said. He elongated the vowels when pronouncing her name so that it took almost double the time for the single word to form.

"I heard you have something of mine," Priscilla said.

"What's that?"

"The box."

Kenny smiled as if some young prodigy had just been initiated to the rank of master. He reached into his trench coat and removed a small cube wrapped in a dirty handkerchief. The two women sitting next to him seemed to quiver. They backed away as best they could, holding their knees in front of their bodies as if that would protect them better.

"It's yours."

Priscilla reached out, her heart starting to beat faster. She pinched the corner of the handkerchief with her left hand and slowly pulled black the cloth. The shine seemed bright in the darkness of the club. She covered her eyes for a second, then the shine died as it was absorbed by the darkness.

"Not here," Kenny ordered. He covered the box again, then slid it closer to Priscilla.

"Don't worry. I don't plan on opening it." Priscilla grabbed the box and walked away.

Warren looked at the mangled creature in front of him. It's teeth moved up and down constantly. The sound was deafening, yet somehow it was unthreatening. The creature was white, not like a white person, but literally white. It had nothing below it's arms, making it impossible to know if the creature had once been a woman or a man. It's face had been pulled, disfigured, so that it stood blind, but he somehow knew that the creature could see him. It's face never moved from his direction.

A second set of chattering teeth started to echo in Warren's ear. He turned to see the cenobite known as the Chatterer standing not more than five feet from him. On either side of the Chatterer there were two men who looked like cowboys. Their faces were hidden by the brim of their cowboy hats.

One of the cowboys pulled a hook from beneath his coat and started to approach Warren. The Chatterer held up his hand in protest. Although he was clearly surprised, the cowboy stopped his advance.

"I solved it, right?" Warren asked. "I solved it. First I solve it. Then you come. Then I go with you, right?"

The Chatterer turned to his minions, then to the Torso that "stood" behind Warren. There was something wrong. Why weren't they taking him?

This world is ours, a voice said. The voice was almost inaudible above the chattering teeth. We just need to make it so.

"And him?" both of the cowboys said as one. "What of him?"

The Chatterer walked forward. He was mere inches away from Warren. Although he did not breath Warren could smell the rot that festered inside of the being that had been the Chatterer.

You shall be a god. When the time comes, you shall be a general of my army. An army of flesh, and you shall know what you desire one thousand times over.

Warren smiled. He didn't fully realize what the Chatterer was talking about, but he wanted in. "How do we begin?"
We already have.

Jericho sat down across the table from Priscilla. Her eyes looked hard at him. They were filled with hate, and his were filled with lust. He smiled. It wasn't often that the sister of one of the women he killed came to visit him. And she had a gift.

"Priscilla, how nice of you to come."

"I heard that you were given life in here."

"It must be disappointing to you. I'm sure you desired for me to get the death penalty."

Priscilla shook her head.

"That's our justice system for you."

Priscilla slide a small cube shaped package in a brown paper bag to him. "Take it. It was mine. Now it's yours."

"How nice of you. A Lamont Box. I've always wanted one."

Before Priscilla could speak again he extended his hand and pulled the paper close to him. She was alarmed, that was certain. She couldn't have guessed that he would know what the box was. That delighted him. Jericho slowly unwrapped the paper as he spoke.

"Do you know what this is for? There has always been a way to call for the cenobites, you know. Before the box there were sacrifices, and words, and other objects. The existence of the Lamont Configurations are finite, but the existence of the cenobites, that has been far before the existence of written word." He looked down at the box, now fully open. It looked beautiful. "You might want to leave for this."

Priscilla stood up and headed for the door hurriedly as Jericho started to move his fingers along the ridges of the box. He felt one of the guards put their hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, Jericho. It's time to go back to your cell."

"With you in a moment."

He pressed down on the smaller of the two circles and watched as the box started to open.

A few minutes later Jericho stood in the middle of the visitation room. The two guards that had kept a vigil eye on him sat in the corner. Their hair had turned white. There was the distinct odor of urine. The kind that came from a grown man pissing himself with fear.

Jericho walked to one of the guards, helping himself to the guard's keys and handgun. He slowly stood, aiming the gun at the guard's face. "Thank you," he said. The sound of a bullet quiets all.