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The Mephisto Redemption

Posted on 05 December 2019

The shovel hit wood with a hollow thud. The coffin, he expected - what else would be buried in a graveyard he did not care to know. Under the bitter patter of midnight rain he urged his weary arms to heave another load of dirt to the rim of the pit. His fingers were chilled to the bone, he should warm them before they took the rot, but he kept to his digging; if all went to plan, by morning he would have no further need of them.

With the gravedirt clear, Mephisto could appreciate the casket. It was a simple thing of wood and iron, like most he’d unearthed this night, except for a desiccated bouquet of what had once been roses; a parting kiss from a lover left behind.

Intriguing, thought Mephisto.

A wooden cross on the lid did little to prevent him from crowbarring it open. Like the flowers, the woman inside had long turned to dust. Little remained but a skeleton and a tasteful dress the colour of a cloudy day. He knew it was tasteful because worms had eaten most of it, leaving a suggestive amount of midrib and shinbone showing. He did note though that the stitching through the bust was the heavy duty kind, used to secure buoy nets to boats and melon sacks to whatever melons were secured to.

Promising, thought Mephisto.

He brushed the dust off her hairless scalp, squinting intensely down as though through sheer force of will he might see her as she once was. But it was for nothing; he hadn’t known her in life, and in death all that was left to give her voice was a tight lipped tombstone. His hand slid down the side of her ribcage like a maestro playing a sexy xylophone, and came to rest on her hip; the size of which indicated that she possessed a nice… bone structure.

You got buns, hun, thought Mephisto.

Peering up through the relentless rain and with dawn fast approaching, he made his decision. This one would do. He climbed from the pit and read off the dedication on the tombstone one last time. There could be no turning back if he had it wrong.

Here lies Margaret Thatcher,
beloved wife, devoted mother,
with fiery temper and hair to match her,
let Heaven and Hell just try to catch her.

He had it correct; as a redhead, and therefore not possessed of a measurable soul, she should still be floating somewhere in the limbo between worlds. It wouldn’t be Heaven or Hell to catch her now.

It would be Mephisto.

He squelched through the muddy ground to the tree that sheltered his pack. He didn’t take from it, however, instead he divested his soaked coat and filthy britches on top of it in a pile. Standing naked in the chill wind, losing feeling in every extremity, he took a deep breath and prepared himself for what he was about to do.

He’d never died before, but there was a first time for everything.

That was what made it so exciting.

He took a firm grip of his immortal manhood and slung it over a low branch. One higher up the tree would cost him precious inches - the average male penis was only so long. He would just have to kneel in order to achieve the necessary torsion.

Once around his neck he wound it, then twice then thrice. And finally he was ready to die. He leaned into his meat noose and felt his airway close, the pressure build. At once his body reacted, his salami-pretzel of a cock stiffening to further restrict his breathing. His vision blurred and feeling fled from his feet and legs, receding and centering on his bulbous scrote as it threatened to erupt.

His last thought on this earth, as the dam broke and sweet release rained down upon his head, was, I’m cominggg, Margaretttt!