Picture a machine. A gigantic one, like the kind of equipment you’d see in a factory. Now, picture that machine in an assembly line, churning out children on the conveyor belts. Not test tube babies, mind you, but actual prepubescents with their own consciousness who can spell their names if you ask them to, plump and fresh-faced and somewhat naughty. Now, picture the machine set in a tireless loop, manufacturing these products non-stop, rendering the process of natural breeding obsolete, and we no longer have to resort to outdated Lebensborn-influenced methods when building an army of pure, healthy children whose blood and flesh we must sacrifice for the greater good. Picture a machine, and picture it again, and that’s the idea behind this secret experiment which we’ve been conducting for nearly a decade.
Don’t get us wrong here. First and foremost, it must be stated for the record that our aim differs radically from the twisted ambitions of our fascist predecessors. Racial purity is the least of our concerns, and we do not subscribe to their eugenicist views, which we find unscientific. Our objective is nothing more than to perfect a method in breeding children through scientific and technological innovation, so hopefully, mothers—and by extension motherhood itself—would no longer be necessary.
Why is this the goal, you may ask? For the past few years or so, it has come to our attention that once you’ve utilized real, documented children, born from real mothers and raised in their own environments, in your Satanic rituals, sex abuse rings and sextortion operations then sooner or later, assuming you’ve failed to eliminate those involved, once they’ve grown up, they will crack and reveal the truth to the public. Although cover-ups and a certain amount of damage control have been successful in burying these stories, or at least providing enough pieces of misinformation to obfuscate them, we still figured it was time to approach this matter through a scientific lens.
When we pitched this idea to our superiors, they couldn’t express their ecstasy enough. They were more than pleased to inform us that it’d be better if we could manufacture their “elixirs of youth,” the adrenochrome, that is, without having to enforce the disappearances of children whose names are on the census. We couldn’t agree more; that is essentially the aim here after all, to create actual living beings without the paperwork that came with them, so we could easily process their elimination if it was time to do so. They’d go out of the machine and they’d go back in it, simple as that. An army of disposable children, of easy-access sacrifices.
It was cloning, in the most generic sense of the term, the difference being that you’re not creating a copy of an organism, you’re creating an entirely new one; but as you may have already surmised, the project was not without its pitfalls, otherwise we wouldn’t be spending this much time trying to perfect it. Because unlike the concept of cloning, the subjects we’d hoped to manufacture would have to be around prepubescent to adolescent age, not test tube babies we’d have to feed and raise. The goal was to manufacture children en masse, every single one of whom would eventually enter the meat grinder for the ruling class and become sacrifices, whose flesh and blood will immortalize the leaders who shape our past, present and future, the policymakers and their ilk, ushering in an era of eternity for the New World Order.
We worked hard on this project for years. We researched; we conducted experiments; we did multiple tests from different angles, just a constant barrage of trial and error; we documented the results we’d gotten. Slowly but surely, we were getting closer and closer in accomplishing our objectives, or so we had thought. There was one incident in particular during the end of our trial run that stood out to me, and I’d never forget it until the rest of my days, so I’d chosen this anecdote to share with you.
It was a random Thursday evening in the middle of summer, around the first week of July, and we’d just finished our work for the day, a thirteen-hour shift that went nowhere (no surprise there!). I was always the last to stay at the lab to do inventory. Had to make sure everything was still working fine despite our madness with the equipment. With the way we conducted our trials, apparatuses rarely survived, and we always had to allot a portion of our funds for the tools alone. Nonetheless, the prototype, which we’d named “Nowhere Factory,” endured the chaos we’d brought to it, and performed well despite its shortcomings.
A few nights prior to that Thursday evening, we’d managed to enhance the function of the Nowhere Factory, successfully programming it to be capable of mass-producing undeveloped embryos using the artificial cells we’d designed in its software. To this day, we couldn’t properly explain what we did that led to it accepting our code, but afterward, the Nowhere Factory became a host of artificial miscarriages. Picture a machine, and picture that same machine churning out abortions on a conveyor belt, blood-soaked fetuses flopping into a plastic bucket with the smacking sounds of dead fish in a wet market.
So, on that particular Thursday evening, as I was checking inventory, listing down the items on my little clipboard, I heard the Nowhere Factory make a grating noise, as though it was working on its own, and this was after I had already shut down the servers and unplugged it from the power supply unit. Initially, I thought it was just having one of its own delayed responses to the shutdown, maybe a sliver of power running through its cables had yet to depart, so I ignored the noise for the meantime and proceeded with my routine inspection. But then, not even five seconds later, it happened again, a dissonant vibration sound, kind of like a whir of an engine coming from the machine’s metal plating.
Triple-checking the back, I found nothing suspicious. The cables had all been unplugged, just as I had done an hour ago, every single one of them detached from the ports that might possess some semblance of power. As I was rummaging through the entangled wirings, silence pervaded; I heard nothing but my own breathing, and for a moment that was enough to calm me. Might just be hearing things from the fatigue, I figured, but when I bent over to ensure the wirings were kept separate from their respective power sources, there was that noise again, like the sound of nuts and bolts being put into a blender.
I straightened myself and checked the front of the machine. White light flashed from the inside. This made me blink twice and rub my eyes. Had to pinch a flap of skin on my arm just to make sure I was fully awake. The light kept flashing, its intermittent blinks in unison with the grating noise the machine was making. I looked around me, making sure I was alone, before kicking the damn thing in the side, at which point both the light and the noise ceased, only to grow stronger and louder a second after.
“You’re kidding!” The noise ceased at last. I was standing just a few feet away from the machine when I witnessed it happen for the very first time, the Nowhere Factory becoming sentient, creating a full human being on its own with no need for a power source, least of all our programming and controls. After it was finished, I watched the final product roll through the conveyor belt from the inside. What emerged was a deformed biological entity about five feet in height, curled up on the belt like a fetus, shivering from the cold, with pinkish flesh that was soaking wet from vernix and blood, its muscles and limbs barely developed, the bones contorted and protruding. The entity was a skinless, faceless humanoid whose visage only bore a gaping maw dripping with so much unknown fluid, its sharp serrated teeth resembling the stalactites of an endogene cave.
The creature gazed up at me, though I couldn’t be sure if it could actually see, for it had no visible eyes, just turning its blank face in my direction as if it had the powers of sight (and it might as well have). Then the creature let out a hissing noise, much to my horrific surprise. Trembling with fear, I took a few steps backward. I stood there, frozen, staring passively at this deformity, this monstrosity, as it lifted itself up from its fetal position, its claws gripping the sides of the frame and scratching the bearings. The shrill screeches of nails against the metal belt echoed in my ears, and I noticed that its malformed hands were more or less an explosion of flesh consisting of countless fingers and nails of varying shapes and sizes blossoming into a flower of pure body horror, the “petals” dripping with so much red and white. This bizarre mixture of fluids pooled beneath his presence, coagulating upon the concrete.
The creature struggled to crawl out of the conveyor belt, every bone in its frail body snapping aloud like a bundle of broken twigs after every move it made, and for every snap, a shriek of agony followed. The creature was in severe pain. This sudden realization took the fear out of me, and I began to sympathize with its condition.
“Come here,” I said. “I can take care of you.”
The creature shrieked again as it landed on its contorted elbows and knees upon the floor, splashing on the red and white puddle; that blood-and-vernix mixture. Then it made its approach toward me, dragging its arms and legs on the sticky wet surface one step at a time. Once it was inches away from my toes, the creature exerted every ounce of effort in stretching its arms upward, as if reaching for an embrace, so I knelt before it. Its claws touched my face, soaking my cheeks with that sticky substance. It reeked of rust and wax; a metallic aftertaste.
The creature lurched forward, drawing its gaping maw mere inches away from me. The creature’s mouth was wide enough to consume my entire head, its mandibles sharp enough to chop it off my body without a hitch. But to my surprise, the creature remained completely still, a rattling sound coming from the roots of its flesh, deep beneath its pinkish layer. Then, from the depths of its cavernous throat, out came a surge of more fluids, all crimson this time, bathing me until I was just as soaked as the floor it had been lying on.
My first instinct was to laugh. To find enjoyment in the absurdity of it all, this mad serendipitous journey to hell and back; a vivid excrescence through which the line between humanity and inhumanity seems to blur. Science and madness—they go hand in hand like cheese and wine; Saint Albray with a glass of Bordeaux. A lot could be said about that night in particular, but nothing summed it better than a bellow of laughter would.
The second one was to get down to business, to focus on the objective at hand. More specifically, to extract its fluids and see if they could actually produce the same results we’d expected from other means. In other words, there was that lingering question: did the Nowhere Factory succeed in producing an artificial spawn, a disposable child we could sacrifice for the immortality of the elite, regardless of how flawed the initial result might be? Could its blood have the same effect in our elixirs as a natural-born child’s blood would? Or at least come close to it? We shall see…
I grabbed a syringe, took its needle out and pierced it gently through the center of the creature’s forehead. The creature didn’t react, not even a shriek that could rupture my eardrums. Pressing the plunger, the fluids came into the tube—all red; all blood. I transferred the contents to a specimen container which I then stored in a special section of the freezer.
I stayed for the rest of the night observing this monstrosity. Neither of us slept. Next thing I knew, a couple of hours had already passed and it was morning. My colleagues had come back to work only to catch me in the middle of the laboratory floor covered in dry mucus and blood, a Lovecraftian entity snarling across from me, the both of us frozen in time. Their reaction was, needless to say, mixed, and rightfully so: some howled with happiness, celebrating the fact that the Nowhere Factory was more capable than initially anticipated, while some couldn’t express their bewilderment hard enough, a million questions bombarding their brilliant minds.
Later, about a few hours after I had explained everything to them, we put the fluids to the test, attempting to concoct a small sample of what we’d usually make for our superiors. The end result, its physical form at least, was more or less the same, lacking the inconsistency and instability we’d come to expect, meaning that the blood of this creature was no different from human blood, but the question was, would it have the same effects once consumed? In other words, could this creature’s blood and organs be harvested for the benefit of our masters? Fortunately, we had the following week to discover its capabilities, for another secret meeting between the world’s richest, most powerful men had been arranged in Switzerland, and my team and I were tasked to do a representation on the latest trends in biological warfare on a global scale, nothing more than a front to our true intentions which was to mediate the Satanic ritual that was about to occur behind the red velvet curtains of power in the afterhours.
We brought our creature to Europe for this meeting, though we made sure to keep it locked in a cage in the cargo of our private plane, isolated from the rest of the world. I had assigned two of my colleagues to keep an eye on it. Off to the conference we went.
Should go without saying by now that this conference was a sham, no more no less, the perfect excuse for these perverted degenerates to come together in one location and touch bases, conduct business, exchange stories, get some networking done, pitch some ideas and of course, have fun. The true purpose behind this so-called “conference” wouldn’t come until late in the evening, but for the meantime, my team and I had a presentation to give, and even though it was a bogus cover, we had to play the cards we’d been dealt and present as perfectly as possible.
Later that night, the same people who’d been questioning our statistics regarding the rising trend of bio-weapons in the Middle East would find themselves within the comforts of our arrangements, almost as though they hadn’t been just seven hours ago haranguing my team and I in front of an audience of hundreds of people. “Earlier we were their guests,” I remarked to one of my colleagues, “but tonight they are ours.” Indeed, it couldn’t be any truer; the stage was set for an orgy in the darkness where the powerful actors for the global stage could indulge freely in their personal choices of catharsis, whether it was a shot of heroin, a snort of cocaine or a group of minors with untouched crevices. Tomorrow night they’d revert back to the public, more palatable, more family-friendly versions of themselves, making major decisions for a corporation worth billions or for the foreign policy of the government, but tonight they were all the same, just a bunch of faceless, depraved libertines exploring the peaks of human pleasure.
Then it was time for the ritual, at which point each guest began drinking from the wine glass we’d prepared, containing the precious fluids we’d extracted from our dear friend. With one sip they stained their lips and teeth shining red. Based on our assessment, walking around the drawing room and giving everyone a quick temp check, everybody seemed pleased with the taste, the fruits of our labor synthesized in perfect harmony, and we received nothing but compliments from our esteemed guests. However, we had to keep in mind that it was the effect not the sensation which we must carefully monitor. Although we ran tests that seemed to yield positive results, there was no way of knowing whether the fluids worked just as the same as our original batches if we didn’t put them to the test to our usual consumers.
Thankfully, we received the results in real time. There was no way to tell if it was a placebo effect or not, but the guests kindly informed us that they could feel their bones strengthening on their own already, as well as their skin clearing, their wrinkles straightening and their blood pumping, erections abound. One remarked he must’ve aged backwards in a minute. After the round of free tastes, after the round of ritualistic humming and Latin prayers and blood sacrifices, they proceeded to engage in their twisted proclivities, and they did so with the vigor of youth, as though the elixirs served as a piece of oak in the fire of their burning passion for lust. What a magical night it was.
The following morning I decided to show them where their new batch of adrenochrome came from, leading them to the hangar where our private plane had been parked, and to nobody’s surprise, they expressed the same level of shock and horror you’d expect from anybody seeing a creature like this for the first time, a contorted humanoid beast with physical features so disturbing and incomprehensible you’d think it was the bastard offspring of H.R. Giger’s mind and David Cronenberg’s.
“This is good and all,” a renowned diplomat said, “but if we were to do away with the use of children, can this monster be a good alternative to quench our sexual thirst?”
“A good question,” I said. “Actually, I’ve never considered that before. I’ll get back to you on that one.”
Which brings us to the present day. Currently, I am alone at the laboratory again, busily conducting one of my twisted experiments, and this time it has nothing to do with the results of the creature’s blood and more about the pleasure this creature can provide me. It is a known fact that pleasure is immeasurable—there is no unit of measurement that can determine something as subjective as my sexual appetite—but what I can provide my superiors is a rough outline, a ballpark, with regards to its sexual prowess. So I bend the creature over before me, and search for a crevice through which I can enter, and when I find a narrow slit across the bottom between its contorted hind limbs, I give my lubricated cock a quick tug and stick it in. The creature lets out another shriek which reverberates around the research area, but I choose to ignore it.
— Jayvene Timblique is a fiction writer and activist from the Philippines. He is the author of the collection of transgressive parapolitical short stories, Divine Surveillance: Tales from the Black Site, published in 2024 by the independent press, Shonenbat Collective, and is presently working on his debut novel which bears the same satirical themes. You can follow him and his paranoid takes on Twitter @jkultra23, but chances are, you already do.