© Morphart 

Searing heat rippled in waves across the rolling dunes of sand just west of the Egyptian Nile River. The air is rank with human sweat and animal feces as sounds of taught ropes stretch and oxen snort while stout foremen angrily bark out orders reinforced with sharp snaps from leather whips. An army of a thousand dirty slaves are aligned in neat single file rows loudly grunting in timed unison as they gallantly pull the colossal granite statue of Pharaoh Ramses II up the steep slope to its final position just outside the recently deceased king’s tomb.

The workers are laboring extraordinarily hard today because there are four muscular men in clean white pelvic wraps approaching. They are grasping two thick carrying poles that support the Pharaoh’s litter throne. The vertical posts and upper railing of the mobile room are gold plated and brilliantly reflecting the mid day sun. A gold embroidered plush red velvet curtain surrounds the cabin on all sides. Inside sits the High Priest, Roma. His very name strikes fear within the hearts of every soul in the kingdom from rumored tales of torture and murder, which are constantly whispered during the late hours of night throughout the slave camps.

Pale fingers and wrists adorned with large gold rings and elaborate bracelets sparkle in the relentless sun as Roma holds the soft curtains slightly apart to view the important construction efforts currently underway. His weather worn face and sour expression leer out from within his cool transport sanctum, only confirming truth to his evil intentions. His eyes are thickly trimmed with black paint, exaggerating his angry expression, making him look even more intimidating as he scans the terrified peasants with a brutal criticizing stare. The thin lips below his large pitted nose have never been known to smile, not even in the slightest, over the past decade of his untouchable position as High Priest.

Roma has been jealous of how each and every Pharaoh would solely receive the affection and respect of the kingdoms subjects, even though it is actually he, Roma, which is the driving intelligence behind every decision. This last Pharaoh, Ramses II, was no different than all the ones before, spending every waking moment indulged in selfish erotica, spanning endless hours to make up a lazy, care free life filled with luxury and bliss, while Roma’s days and nights had been totally consumed with planning and overseeing every pertinent aspect of the kingdoms varied needs for continued existence.

But, that was all in the past. It was Roma’s time now. Ramses had died a decrepit old man of almost ninety two. Roma took pleasure in seeing the old man suffer from several rotted and hideously abscessed teeth and crippling arthritis. Yes, it had been sweet revenge watching that wrinkled and hunched over king struggle in pain just to walk or lift a challis of water to his parched lips.

Roma arrived back at the palace as the moon rose in the sky and a cool breeze began blowing in through the high open balcony. It felt joyous to lie down and violate the queen in the king’s bed. Yes, he could finally feel vindication by ramming his thickness into her without worrying about being caught by the Pharaoh’s personal guards.

After he had finished sexually abusing the queen, he moved to relax on the king’s vacant seat in the throne room while sipping a goblet of sweet wine. Roma began reminiscing about performing the lengthy mummification rituals on that old mans corpse over the past several weeks. He remembered the revolting stench of decomposition flooding his nostrils each time he entered the Temple of the Dead. The dead king had been lying on an elevated bed of stone, his blackened body beginning to bloat, as two of Roma’s female assistants sat with hands busy near the lifeless head. They were topless, sprouting firm, sweaty breasts that glistened in the dancing flames from numerous small pyres burning around the room. The young slaves knew not to look away from their task of jamming long wires with hooked ends up through the nostrils into the corpse’s skull as they dug out long, stringy trails of brain matter. Roma almost smiled while watching Ramses brain being removed piece by piece by these naked young girls in such a crude fashon. He relished the feeling of ultimate power that surged through his thoughts as he recalled the savage sexual threesome he experienced on a daily basis only a few feet away from the dead kings rotting body. He indulged his every sexual fantasy with several vivacious women, knowing their lips were forever sealed from ever retelling the depraved violations they received. Roma was intoxicated with the knowledge that not a single person would dare enter the Temple of the Dead while the mummification process was underway. This process would last nearly one hundred days, and that would be sufficient time for him to indulge in wicked desires with an endless supply of helpless, beautiful daughters of the slave population. He also recalled being eternally grateful for the mandatory traditional burning of incense throughout the entire ceremonial process to help alleviate the overwhelming rotten stench of decomposition lofting thickly in the stagnant air of the dimly lit room while he abused his numerous slaves. The smell of sex, death and burning ambers only heightened his arousal for sexual release day after despicable day.

Roma couldn’t help but pleasure himself while sitting in Ramses throne room and mentally reminiscing about the sixty or more innocent girls he had savagely violated in the Temple during the past months. After only a few minutes of stroking his erection, his essence was spent on the dusty stone floor and he resumed sipping wine from the dead king’s royal challis. Just as the rim of the goblet touched his thin lips, he heard a noise coming from the huge stone pillar lined hallway just beyond the towering wood doors. His body tensed. He waited in anticipation of seeing who it was that would be receiving a severe and probably fatal flogging for disturbing his privacy.

Muted sounds of cloth scraping across the sandy stone floor echoed throughout the hall and began growing louder and nearer. He set the goblet down and slowly walked to the enormous doors, placing his ear against the thick timbers to listen intently. The scraping continued until it was just beyond the wall of wood and suddenly it stopped. Roma waited for several heartbeats, but the air remained silent. Finally, he could take the suspense no longer and unbolted the latch and pulled the goliath, creaking doors slightly open.

The gaping crack revealed a midnight black hallway of nothing but dark shadows. He could see only a single torch dimly flickering in a leaning sconce at the far end of the wide passage. Then, suddenly, a powerful hand lunged in through the gap and cinched tightly around his slender neck. The fingers felt soft against his jugular skin but the strength was incredible. He couldn’t breathe. He was beginning to feel light headed as the blood flow to his brain almost ceased. Just as he was about to pass out, the hand shoved him away extremely hard, showing another display of tremendous strength and power. Roma’s frail body flew high in the air across the large room, landing with a painful thud on the cold stone floor near the throne seats. His body rolled with the impact and slammed hard against the throne platform landing. Roma tried to regain his senses as he looked around in total confusion and a long forgotten but increasingly growing sense of primal fear.

Then Roma got a flashing glimpse of his attacker. It was a man, but not a regular man, it was a human body wrapped in tattered linens and smelling of decomposition and spiced oils. The room was too dim to see anything in clarity from only a few small pyres burning near the outer walls. But Roma was now positive it was the mummified corpse of Ramses, now walking, limping, stumbling toward him, and dragging one leg as if it were broken. The hideous creature etched closer and closer with paused, scraping sounds of his left foot being drug across the sand strewn stone floor.

A glitter of shining gold caught Roma’s eye from the right. It was the king’s scepter. It was standing upright, leaning against the throne, only an arms length away. He reached for it, grabbing the six foot long elaborately decorated spear in his trembling right hand, the metal rings on his narrow fingers clinking sharply against the gold plating on the wooden shaft. Roma used the scepter to pull himself into a standing position then quickly turned to find the mummy only a few feet away, arms outstretched, several dirty linen wrappings dangling, swaying with the stumbling motions of the apparition. Roma swung the scepter hard, directly at the brainless head of the walking corpse, but it did not connect. The mummy’s left arm shot up lightning fast, grabbing the scepter in mid swing, stopping it as if it had struck a wall of stone. Roma reared back, pulling hard on the glittering spear, but to no avail. The mummy jerked it backward once, causing Roma to stumble straight into his attacker. The scepter fell, loudly clanking to the floor and quickly rolled toward the wall out of reach. The mummified Ramses grabbed Roma by the neck with both hands, lifting him off the ground. The dead king seemed taller and bigger than his rotting corpse had actually been earlier that same day. He had somehow morphed into a demon from the underworld, a demonic warrior of the God Osiris. Roma kicked violently at the mummy’s legs and crotch while using is glittering jeweled hands in a useless attempt to peal the dingy white linen wrapped fingers away from his neck. Then Ramses spoke,

“Roma, you have dishonored me and all Pharaoh’s before me. You shall reap a death of eternal sacrifice to the sun God Ra.”

Roma’s eyes released tears of pain and freight, causing the black makeup to smear down his thin cheeks, slowly making his face appear sad and defeated. Then a loud popping sound echoed throughout the large room. It was Roma’s neck snapping under the tremendous force. The angered mummy squeezed harder and harder until the Priest’s head separated from his shoulders. His lifeless body fell with a slapping thud to the hard stones, wriggling and twitching in spastic convulsions. The detached head shot upward and off to the side, spiraling downward, bouncing with a hollow clunk on the solid floor.

Ramses quickly licked and sucked the freshly spilled blood from the crimson soaked linens on his hands and fingers. The life giving liquid droplets instantly completed his resurrection into full reality. He was now beyond human, beyond the imagination, he was now the risen dead, the living dead, and the ultimate God of revenge.

The queen had silently witnessed the carnage and began screaming as she made a desperate attempt to flee back down the monolithic hallway, away from the creature that had once been her royal husband. Ramses picked up the scepter and held it in a jousting stance, then slung it with all his might. The gold plated spear whizzed through the air, spinning and reflecting shards of light as it passed between the tall gaping doors, ultimately striking the queen in the center of her back and erupting out of her naked chest, precisely between her sumptuous breasts with a bloody, fatal exit. Her impaled body fell and skidded to a mangled heap on the sandy stone floor. Ramses calmly walked down to her, removed the scepter from her bloody torso and held it in both hands, high above his head, as he let out a demonic moan from hell that awakened all the land to bow down before their new King of the Dead.

~~~

Audiowriter is an entrepreneur of many endeavors and a seasoned musician, located in southern Indiana.

 He has an obsessive compulsion to spend every available moment creating written text and audio recordings of melodic musical notes. He currently has several completed novels on the shelf awaiting publication, varying from graphic horror to commercial fiction. Also in his literary arsenal is an abundance of short stories, drabbles and lyrics. Many of his original songs and music are directly inspired by the intriguing tales flowing from his wildly descriptive imagination.

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