The Radioactive Bride by Alessandro Manzetti

Author:Alessandro Manzetti [Manzetti, Alessandro]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781944703844
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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THE MITHRAEUM

September. The Baths of Caracalla lay in the shadows of the new flyovers, intersecting in multiple crosses, exasperated curves. The whore Rome flows upon there: boxed souls rolling from the city center to the tunnel of Via Cristoforo Colombo. The giant tube leading to the sea, running parallel to the Double Sewer Connector IV. Two entangled snakes of steel2, spitting out clean and waste waters. They seem to bite each other, long metal reptiles, with their copper teeth. The Ostia estuary is spectacular: cannonballs of shit shot into the horizon.

The thermal complex has changed since the 216 AD inauguration, the VI Century abandonment, and now it looks like the ruins of the modern era—splattered in exhausts of human machines and piss of rats. Nothing like that. The construction workers of the Black Hen have been hard at work on the underground structures of the Baths of Caracalla, the forgotten ones. Castra Tenebrarum. They have attached an oxygen tank to old Mithra’s lungs of dust, hidden for centuries in his cosmic cave. Wedged in rock, intubated, pissed off.

The cardinals are gathering in the ancient mithraeum for the new vow established by the She-Pope. Machete at their sides, hooked to the purple sash warped by their fat bellies; the red marbled zucchetto with black bow on their heads, to keep fresh already-crashed brains.

The She-Pope’s generals pass through the vestibule, an inertial-guide floor moving them all without muscle exertion, into a rectangular chamber with cross vaults looming over a floor of white and black mosaics: the Sanctuary. The statue of Aphrodite Anadyomene awaits them.

The primal slut has been restored: covered in neprom, equipped with three breasts, a red flashing LED between her legs, a big chicken beak. The walls are adorned by the ground-down original marbles, by the rough petra genetrix, by new protrusions animating the disorderly trajectories of crystal snakes. Those solid-tongued beasts seem to stretch out toward the cardinals’ buttocks. But who would really get poisoned?

Between the pillars, there are slanting pews. The generals must quickly take their seats for the ceremony. In the middle of the room, a perimeter of Lar fire shows the old pit for the Taurobolium, dug into the rock by Caracalla’s engineers and covered by an iron grate. A damn motherfucker of an Emperor, Caracalla, alchemic and syncretistic: Mithra, Aphrodite, Serapis Kosmokrator, Jesus Christ and Aion.

Many sides of the same coin, an orgy of East and West, an exchange of holy fluids. Stuff for every taste, soul propaganda.

The She-Pope had the ancient mithraeum tailor-shaped for her. On the right wall, a big ass is installed, with two small testicles dangling. It is the ass of Cybele, the ambiguous Magna Mater, the goddess of the t-girls, the Black Madonna of the obscene Candlemas. Nobody else. Processions of ancient eunuchs and twentieth-century transgender, all for her. Korybantes and Mamma Schiavona, the summit of Montevergine, voluntary emasculations and improvised Gay Prides.

Then, no more Taurobolium: in the Rome of the Apocalypse nobody gives a fuck about bull blood, physical prowess, redemption and purification.

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