Orgasmatron
am the one: Orgasmatron!�
The Arkons froze at the sound of his disembodied and synthesized voice as it echoed though the sordid passageways and corridors of their bunker. Disorder broke out. They started scrambling about irrationally with one thought dominating their flustered minds: Is this really happening? The Arkons had called the bunker a home for three years now, though over the past three months, they had grown a trifle anxious � slightly clouded sense of doubt that seemed to arise for no given reason. They knew the bunker was safe place and suitable halfway point to their new life � but could they really be found? Does this monster � Orgasmatron � really exist?
Those questions had been answered now as Orgasmatron�s voice continued to reverberate and hum off the Shensteel I-beams that crossed the ceiling supported the walls of the main corridor like the ribs of surn whale. Racks and shelves stacked with body-armor, swords, shields and a host of other nondescript nasties, jutted from the walls in sporadic positions. Ferrus, rabbit and mountain goat hides lay stretched out on racks and tailored strips hung from hooks in the small uninhabited room to the left of him. In that same room skinned carcasses hung from the I-beams and swayed slightly. A large cauldron bubbled, unattended, in the middle of the room. The smell of boiling meat brought a wave of nostalgia over Orgasmatron; he remembered back to the long-gone days when he was a complete and pure human.
Why was this done to me? An angry ghost of a voice that was the resurgence of his conscience whispered into his mind.
He faced forward again and proceeded deeper into the bunker where the sound of his metallic, crunching footfalls on the gravel-rock were drowned out by the thick, audible waves of panic that rolled up the corridor. His senses were at a peak and he knew the height of battle was soon to be felt.
�I am the one: Orgasmatron!� he sounded again in his amplified voice. �Resistance is futile.� He kept walking down the corridor towards the milky yellow light that stained the walls about forty yards ahead. He knew the corridor filled out into a large room and that several other corridors linked that room to others. He had been here many times before to fulfill the same objectives under the same rule. That fact that there was no escape for the Arkons brought a sense of pleasure to his heart . . . a heart that had been beating for over six hundred years.
�I come on a mission from the Upper Kingdom!� he blasted statically. �I serve the dastardly Lord Herros, ruler of Dem�galand! You people have been given two choices . . . a life of slavery under Lord Herros, or no life at all!�
He halted and listened to the sounds of hysteria slowly wane to silence.
�He daaahs exist . . .� he heard cowering and drawn-out voice weep in pure disbelief.
�Shhhh,� another replied.
e was the greatest killing machine ever created.
Lord Herros had thoroughly searched The Garden of the Immortals and made sure to select the perfect male specimen � pure and strong � who was to be the one, Oragsmatron: Guardian of the Upper Kingdom. His name was Rayl Zyros and he was the grain farmer in the Garden.
He did not have any idea that his life would be taken from him. The last thing he remembered about being human was lying in his bed and thinking of the woman he loved.
It had taken Lord Herros�s finest smiths months upon months to transform a man into a metal monster. Zyros had been placed in suspended animation after being subliminally programmed by Lord Herros himself.
They had protected his entire body in a titanium battle-suit that was plated in silver. It was fitted in segmented pieces that allowed his body to be totally maneuverable. His shining silver shell, with its black rivets, was engraved with ancient hieroglyphics that told of the immortal Lord Herros and the ways of the Upper Kingdom. The sphere that was his head had now been crowned by a sharp-pointed cone-shaped helmet with two black, orbed eyes � eyes which seemed to look in many directions at once. His external nose was nothing but a small bulge with two vertical slits that allowed him to sense smell. Two holes either side of this helmet gave sound access to his ears and his external mouth was an triangular grill with an inset amplification device. This gave his external face � his new face � an expression of eternal hatred.
Though inside this suit was the body of a man The body of a man whose sanity was slipping away like sand through the neck of an hourglass. The body of a man who had found he could no longer handle being caged in a suit of death. The body of a man whose brain was once more starting to think for itself. The body of a man who was beginning to remember himself and remember what it was like to feel emotion.
Time did not exist for Orgasmatron as he walked the Parsecian Plains; minutes felt like hours and hours felt like years. He had walked this path to the bunker many times before in order to carry out the same task.. To think about how to get there would be to think about something he did not know � his brain had been meticulously programmed and most of his actions were carried out subconsciously.
Though the human soul cannot stay buried in the subconscious forever.
He had eradicated many races of people who came to hide in the Red Canyons before moving on. Though those who had seen him had never lived to tell of him. Yet most people who lived in Dem�galand had come to know of the one called Orgasmatron, whether they believed in him or not. Maybe it was the name Lord Herros gave him � Orgasmatron � that seemed to stick in peoples minds.
Though now Orgasmatron�s mind � the mind of an efficient killing machine � was starting to work against its program. He was beginning to remember his life, and what it was like, before Lord Herros had literally murdered his soul.
Out of all the times Orgasmatron had carried out this mission he had never felt so lonely and so angry as he marched forth toward the Red Canyons. He had had three years to remember himself, and what he found had made him so indignant that it brought on other emotions that felt so alien as they passed through him.
The times he has spent with Jesse, the woman he deeply loved, plagued his mind as he walked. He knew she was no longer alive, for he and Lord Herros were the only two in Dem�galand who were immortal. The beautiful afternoons he had spent with the breathtaking Jesse in the Garden came back to his mind to play themselves out and his heart felt sick with loss.
He felt deep disgust for what he had become . . . and he felt unadulterated rage toward the people who had made him into a abhorrent beast that�s only purpose in life was to kill and walk and walk and kill.
he roaming Arkons had only been told stories of the one called
Orgasmatron. The Sumerian people who lived along the coast of the Lower
Kingdom could only warn of him. The town fabler of Deromaid had warned
the Arkons � not long after they had beached � of what lay beyond the
Great Forrest of the Lower Kingdom. He had said that all those who are
impure and who pose a threat to The Castle of the Immortals in the Upper
Kingdom, would soon be made slaves, or face Orgasmatron�s wrath and
perish.
Though the Arkons, who had sailed from their sinking Aryaland, had simply shrugged off claims of Orgasmatron�s existence � they could see that the Sumerian people were riddled with incest and disease and didn�t think highly of them at all.
The Arkons had only had enough supplies with their fleet to take them to Dem�galand � they were in search of a new life for their people. They had also heard old tales from their own ancestors that rich and fertile plains lay beyond the Red Canyons.
The Sumerians had welcomed the Arkons and have offered them a life amongst their people. The elder of the Arkons had thanked them for their invitation, but told them that they plan to move on. They also told the Sumerians that their land was slowly being forced underwater by two tectonic plates and that it was very unstable and dangerous.
�It is most unwise to pass beyond the Great Forrest,� the Patriarch of the Sumerians had announced, �for Lord Herros � ruler of this land � will detect a threat to the Upper Kingdom . . . That will impel the Trek of Orgasmatron.�
�The Trek of Orgasmatron?� Ellos, the Arkon elder had replied in disbelief.
�Yes, that�s what we�ve named it: the Trek of Orgasmatron. Our ancestors had told us it takes him three years to reach the Red Canyons on foot and the is no hiding from him . . . he will find you.�
After taking a moment to mull what he had been told, Ellos spoke: �I believe your people have let this mythological tale get out of hand � it�s dictating your lives. There is and abundant world out there, yet you lets this insignificant belief constrict your way of life.�
What followed was an awkward silence that lead off into quarrel between the two races. Two days later the Arkons gathered their supplies and moved off toward the Great Forrest, leaving the simple town of Deromaid � and its surrounding villages � behind.
Ellos, who live to be eighty-four, passed away in his sleep near the end of the Great Forrest which took the Arkons two years to pass through..
A strong and knowledgeable Arkon warrior named Romulus Varz was appointed as their new leader.
t was now time for Romulus Varz to show, and prove, his strength as a
leader. As Orgasmatron�s static voice finally abated to silence in the
bunker, Varz motioned to his fellow people to get moving, to prepare for
battle � they took a while to comply, so he lead by example.
Orgasmatron remained still and listened to the metallic clattering of the Arkons as they gathered their weapons. He thought of what he had said earlier: You people have been given two choices . . . a life of slavery under Lord Herros, or no life at all. It now came to him that he himself was nothing but a slave of Lord Herros. Apart from being a servant, he also had no life � for when he returned to The Castle of the Immortals, back into suspended animation he is placed.
For Lord Herros to grant Orgasmatron with the power of immortality was to deal him the cruelest punishment imaginable: eternal suffering.
His heart now felt cold and angry and beneath that he could feel confusion arising.
�AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH!� he cried, so loudly that every room and corridor of the bunker, that was set into a cliff of the Red Canyons, seemed to flood with the abrasive noise. His cry of frustration struck deafness into the ears of almost all of the Arkons.
Orgasmatron moved forward, his silver armor shimmering from the yellow light at the end of the corridor. He did not carry a weapon, he did not need one. The on named Orgasmatron possessed an awesome tool: the power of gravity.
The grooves on his metallic suit were set in such positions (which only the great Lord Herros knew about) that gave him the power to utilise � and concentrate � the awesome force of gravity. The way his frame was shaped enabled him to act like a key . . . a key that could unlock the sacred mysteries of gravity and magnetism so he could use it for evil and feel that evil flow through him like it was his very lifeblood.
Orgasmatron was able to move almost any unfixed object by drawing gravity from under him, intensifying it, and sending it out in any direction he desired. He could send it from his hands in two directions at once making him untouchable.
All of the sixty people who remained of the Arkon race (the youngest were now old enough to defend themselves) now stood in the room, completely prepared for battle � waiting for Orgasmatron. They knew not how he�d look or what powers he�d have, for in the minds of the Arkons, Orgasmatron was nothing but a twisted Legend.
Romulus Varz�s heart began to beat like that of a rabbit. His fellow warriors stood by him clad in their body-armor and with their swords, spears and shields in hand. Their faces were set in an expression that was a mixture of fear and alertness. He looked at them � in to all their eyes, each person at a time. The women had been sent into the farthest room with weapons in case they were found.
Varz dug deep in his stomach for some courage, then spoke thickly: �We would rather die fighting than surrender to you an your Lord, Orgasmatron!�
He looked back at his men, �When I give the signal, we attack.�
They all nodded compliantly.
His footfalls grew louder and louder and the sound they made sent the hair on Varz�s arm upright and stiff. Orgasmatron finally entered the room. He came to a halt once again and slowly scanned the faces before him � each one gaped in an expression of awe. Varz tried to say the word � attack! � but he found his throat incapable of a murmur . . . and incapable of drawing a breath. He had never seen anything as frightening, yet somehow distinctly impressive, as this metal-clad warrior that stood before him. Varz�s eyes scanned every inch, curve, edge and feature of the killing machine that loomed over him like great silver cloud of death.
The pure size of Orgasmatron and the way his armor was fitted totally captivated Varz. Each black rivet told a story in itself and the vents (on his legs, abdomen and breastplate) were unlike anything Varz had ever seen, let alone imagined. He could feel himself starting to tremble inside his own armor and without knowing it, he took a few paces backward.
�Who will submit themselves to me and become a slave of Lord Herros like myself?� Orgasmatron roared. The brutality of his voice made the Arkons wince, and it struck temporary deafness into the ears of those who had not fallen victim to his first cry of anguish.
Varz knew it; he knew his fate and the fate of his fellow race. They were to die by the hand of Orgasmatron. Though he knew they would rather die than debauch their very essence by becoming slaves. He looked to the faces to the left of him, then he looked at the faces to the right of him. Each expression denoted fear, but under that Varz could see a certain aliveness that he had never seen before. That aliveness seemed to flow into him and replace the confidence that had not been present in his stomach earlier.
Varz snarled, opened his mouth and cried, �Battle!�
He ran forward toward Orgasmatron (toward his demise) who awaited 20 or so yards ahead. The rest of his warriors ran forth screaming also.
he ocher-red walls of the main room of the bunker (that was buried deep
into the Red Canyons) were now blood-red. Orgasmatron stood still in the
aftermath of the battle . . . and in the eerie silence that
followed. His bright silver suit, spattered with the blood of the
Arkons. He felt dreamy, like this hadn�t really happened; though all he
had to do was look along the floor at the carpet of twisted bodies and
blood for reassurance.
He felt no sense of time, like he was floating in an eternal pit of sorrow.
They had ran towards him screaming in fury and fear � �AAARRRGGGHHH!� � and he had held his hands out, destroying two or three of them at a time. His ability to harness gravity had either crushed them on the spot, snapped them in half like sticks or thrown them up against the wall to smash like rotten eggs. Some had made it close enough for him to tear their heads off with his hands and some had just died of shock-horror at the sight of their fellow race being massacred.
Orgasmatron felt tired for the first time in many centuries, he turned and slowly began to walk back up the main corridor. Behind him he could hear the soft weeping of the women who were hidden deep in the bunker.
He felt a great feeling of disgust in his stomach; unlike anything he had ever felt before. In his stomach he felt this disgust and his in his heart he felt guilt, but above all . . . he felt great anger towards Lord Herros who had made him into a loathsome ogre.
He emerged outside and looked up at the sun. The blood dried instantly on his gleaming shell. �Why was this done to me?� he spoke. �I was never a bad man . . . Now I have to come to live with the memory of the great evil I have carried out. Lord Herros, if you can hear me, I shall never serve your evil ways again. If I only had the power . . . I would come back and put your evil ways to ground and bury you with them.� He paused a moment, then thought of the woman he loved. �Oh Jesse, look what has become of me. My heart has been reborn and now I feel it has to be put to rest for good . . . This is all that is left for me.�
He raised his arms above his shoulders and head, forming a large V. He looked up at the sun for the last time and bellowed with all his might: �I AAHHM THE WHAAN . . . ORGASMATRAAAAHHHN!�
With that he turned his hands in on himself and crushed himself into a jagged ball of metal, blood and gore.
any hundreds of years have passed now, and the sixth generation of the
Sumerians have come to live in the bunker along with a few skeletal
remains of what was once the Arkons. Food is scarce for them, though
they will move on soon . . . to more fertile lands. Though there is
something amongst the canyons, something out there, something so scary
it�s unexplainable. It strikes fear so deep into the hearts of the
Sumerians that they live in constant dread and apprehension.
It can only be heard at night when the moons are out and the air is still. It�s a sound that seems to snake through the Red Canyons like a relentless and unforgiving ghost . . . It was the forever echoing voice of the Legend they thought did not exist:
�I am the one: Orgasmatron.�
