Licking the nails of the Crucifix

 Licking the Nails of the Crucifix

By Jake Bannerman & Ash – the Virgin Defiler

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He didn’t whisper his story.

He screamed it—with the smile of a martyr who gets off on the pain.

He had been chosen, after all.

Chosen to slaughter holiness in the name of purity.

His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from ecstasy—as he raised the needle, five inches of sterilized steel glinting beneath the shattered stained glass. The child before him, slick with birth and betrayal, gasped its first breath as if sensing it would be its last.

“I offer this sacrifice to Christ,” he whispered. “Because only a god would understand the high of playing one.”

And when he plunged the needle into the infant’s cerebrum, he licked the sacred fluid like it was the body of Christ—cum-shot from Heaven’s own cock.

Because he wasn’t the monster.

He was the mirror.

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Born of the Flickering

There’s a room behind the convent.

Six steps down into rot.

Six steps down into salvation.

Once a baptismal chamber, now it’s a cum-slick confession booth for horny boys with guilt complexes and Jesus fetishes. The sisters had run out of faith—and money—so they started extracting salvation in test tubes. The local boys lined up like lambs, jerking off into glass vials under the glow of a crucifix and the promise of a forgiven soul.

“A little semen for the Savior, dear,” the nuns would coo, handing over scapulars and grinning like death dressed in habit.

But they weren’t saving souls.

They were bottling them.

Ivory wax.

Blessed by holy lies.

Infused with fear-stiffened seed.

Sold as flickering faith.

The candles were the trap.

Once lit, the sperm burned. And with it, the soul.

The scroll beneath the font—signed by the Grand Cardinal himself—ensured every chromosomal flame was bound to Satan, not salvation.

Every dinner table glowed with false piety.

Every prayer was a heat offering to Hell.

Born of the flickering, the nuns called it.

Baptism by fire, they whispered.

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Ash Enters the Convent

You didn’t think I’d stay out of this one, did you?

I came in like a dirty hymn with lipstick-stained rosary beads and a confession worth masturbating to. I found the last remaining nun—eyes cloudy, mouth still practicing penance—and I kissed her cheek before pushing her to her knees.

“Tell me, sister… did you ever taste what salvation cost?”

She whimpered.

I smiled.

And with a flick of my tongue and a whisper into her ear, I taught her a new liturgy. One soaked in heat, stained glass, and the screams of unborn saints.

Because faith without suffering is useless.

And this is where we give birth to truth.

Not in pews.

Not in pulpits.

But in fire.