1925 Man of steel materially transforms the superstructure to abolish private property and all the classes! (English version)
1925 Man of steel materially transforms the superstructure to abolish private property and all the classes! (German version)
1925 Man of steel materially transforms the superstructure to abolish private property and all the classes! (Russian version)
2025 Trump—Making the World Pay (BASE version)
2025 Trump—Making the World Pay … to Make America Mexico Again (Mexico version)
2025 Trump—Making the World Pay … to Make America Jacksonian Again (Jacksonian version)

These images are broken out because they were the last added to the production, and because the existing post on this section was already pushing the outer boundaries of oversized posts. But these images are intended as part and parcel of subsection 07-04-H.

1925 Man of steel materially transforms the superstructure to abolish private property and all the classes! (English, German, and Russian versions)—2025-06-25.  n/a; naked political statement; compare:  https://www.rbth.com/history/334246-stalin-soviet-cult-personality.  Translation (German  English):  Superman verändert den Überbau materiell, um das Privateigentum und alle Klassen abzuschaffen!  Man of steel [lit: Superman] materially transforms the superstructure to abolish private property and all the classes!  Translation (Russian  English): Сталин существенно преобразует надстройку, чтобы уничтожить частную собственность и все классы!  Man of steel [lit: Stalin] materially transforms the superstructure to abolish private property and all the classes!  Stalin’s superhero costume has a “C” on it because that is the Cyrillic character starting his name and, I think (?) is associated with the “S” sound in English.  For formatting consistency, I kept the foreign language to English translation format, I used English-language wording and sources for the original quotes, partly because it is difficult for me to access other versions and even more to determine which is the correct “original” language.  Although Marx and Engels were both German, and presumably wrote and thought “first” in some way in German, many of their most famous quotes come from addresses at international conferences or publications directed towards international organizations.  I don’t know if these addresses were given in German, French, or for that matter English although my general understanding is that in the Nineteenth Century French was still the predominant, er, lingua franca.  The language of this poster actually crams together four quotes or parts of quotes where merging them seemed intellectually honest because I was stringing together concepts (such as materiality and transformation) that they often linked; although of course the poster deliberately makes a point which they might resist.  But the intention of the posters is to attack their ideas head-on, not to misstate those ideas and avoid grappling with any issues.  Although the USSR is mercifully gone from the world, this subject matter seemed not only relevant but necessary not only because of the connection between the man and the comic book genre, but because it hopefully provides some framework for comparing with 2025 in terms of where I’m coming from.

1926-1929 Man of Steel (4 ALT vers)—n/a; examples of process; n/a.  1926 Man of Steel (ALT ver where AI didn’t print globe on beach ball but awesome expressions),  1927 Man of Steel (ALT ver where AI gave S and un-Stalinish face but fantastic globe distortion), 1928 Man of Steel (ALT ver where AI has him ironing nothing but love the coloring and style), and 1929 Man of Steel (ALT ver 2nd place for a variety of small factors) are included first, because I liked things about them, and second to illustrate some of the challenges of working with AI, especially given the tight restriction on number of words, and the difficulty I have in keeping concepts and parts of the image distinct while the number of ideas I’m trying to inject goes up.

2025 Trump—Making the World Pay (BASE version), … to Make America Jacksonian Again (Jacksonian version), … to Make America Mexico Again (Mexico version)—n/a; naked political statement; n/a.  Compare:  https://mvau.lt/media/a79e0a4b-9695-4cee-ba10-156d617d3ddc, https://leadstories.com/hoax-alert/2025/02/fact-check-trump-crown-long-live-the-king-magazine-cover.html, https://www.nbcnewyork.com/news/business/money-report/trump-posts-ai-generated-photo-of-himself-dressed-as-the-pope/6249230/.  This, and to a much-milder extent, 1779-1780, are the only direct attacks I allowed myself on specific living political individuals or movements.  I am concerned that posting them will cost me viewers, but the fact is, one of the worst problems we have in America today is people feeling like they can’t speak to people on the opposite side of the political divide, or that they’re not interested in hearing from people on the opposite side of the political divide.  This is not an ad hominem attack since it’s all about policy not appearance or personality; and I generally avoid criticizing others if I can find a way around it, sometimes going too far in that direction.  However, if I hesitated to express my very deeply-held views when I genuinely feel a need to express them to make important points, for fear of losing audience, (1) I wouldn’t have artistic integrity, and (2) (something I think is really artistically and politically important here):  my biggest concern about the US is people not speaking their mind in a civilized way to people on the other side of any given political fence.  So how can I possibly comment on that, without standing up and doing it?  I wanted to do it, and I did. If you want to respond, please do so with constructive comments or with counter-works of your own.  If you send me a message on DA I *will* check out your response on your website and offer any thoughts in response I might have.  Let’s talk!  (Not shout or ignore one another.). We have a lot to offer one another!

2026-2028 Trump (3 ALT vers)—n/a; examples of process; n/a.  2026 Trump (ALT ver with my favorite of several brilliant expressions), 2027 Trump (ALT ver with awesome money globe), and 2028 Trump (ALT ver great eating money while sycophants applaud) are included first, because I liked things about them, and second to illustrate some of the challenges of working with AI, especially the difficulty of getting it to portray specific actions, especially ones that sound violent with respect to symbols (e.g., smashing a globe).  It took a LOT of work to get it to do anything other than sprinkle dust or snow on top of the globe.  I believe I drew a policy-violation-you-could-be-banned warning when I tried specifying “Donald Trump” in an image months ago, so I had to try describing his face and toss out many, many, many otherwise-promising versions because I didn’t feel like they “vibed” Trump.  On top of that, I became convinced that at some point the AI started fighting me on descriptions that sound like Trump; query whether Big Tech has muzzled its most dynamic creations to prevent anything other than glorifications of their great helmsman, Trump, e.g., “orange hair,” the same way Chinese censors erase references to Winnie the Pooh because of its use in the past to refer to President Xi (who you risk your life and family to criticize directly in the PRC).  Certainly, the White House’s production of AI-generated images showing Trump as a King, the Pope, etc. suggest fawning on the Great Helmsman is allowed in Silicon Valley.  But definitely not criticizing.

Literature Section “07-04 DEFEND THE CONSTITUTION—Lessons for Americans”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 4 of Chapter Seven—Accompanying Images:  1774, 1779-1780, 1784-1788,1790, 1925-1929, 2025-2028—Published 2025-06-24 to 06-29—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

1790 07-04 Long Live the Republic—DEFEND THE CONSTITUTION
1774 07-04 American Maniac
1779 07-04 Raising a Flag over Mar a Lago (faded)
1780 07-04 Raising a Flag over Mar a Lago (sepia)
1784 07-04 Such is life (ABRIDGED version)
1785 07-04 Everything is for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds (ABRIDGED version)
1786 07-04 It’s good to be the king! He who saves his Country does not violate any law (ABRIDGED version)
1787 07-04 I AM the deep state.  Let them eat cake (ENGLISH version)
1787 07-04 I AM the deep state.  Let them eat cake (FRENCH version)
1788 07-04 After us, the flood.  Weep and watch us eat, you revolting peasants!

This section’s title is not intended to preach to Americans, but rather to clarify that while I am culturally deeply rooted in the Anglosphere, I have great respect for the French and my goal here is not to echo old jokes, but rather to help Americans recognize that we cannot well laugh at the French without pausing to ask whether their experiences are any different from our own.

These images are about the soul of America, not France; and the extreme hostility and division of America into two camps of people who don’t seem able to communicate with one another any more, even though our interests as fellow Americans are 98% aligned and only 2% unaligned, a problem I end up addressing most squarely in the last image, 1783.

The more I focused on propaganda, freedom, and civility in the present as the point, the less-relevant it was to limit examples to any specific historic time period. But as it happens, my starting point was WW2, the contemporary Golden Age of Comics, and what America’s obsession with fundamentally anti-democratic and anti-egalitarian superheroes might say about its challenges with self-awareness.  Particularly since I found support for something I had long suspected:  That not only was the original idea of a “superman” or “overman” underlying American superheroes the selfsame theory of Friedrich Nietzsche that inspired the Nazis, the inspiration for Superman’s moniker, the so-called “Man of Steel,” was none other than the mass-murdering dictator Joseph Stalin (“Stalin” was a pseudonym he adopted meaning “Man of Steel” or “steel man”).  Numerous factors contributed to the success of the character and the genre, but critical to it was the fact that many people were highly receptive to the idea.  Fantasies about how wonderful communism and fascism were in other countries in the 1930s were grossly misplaced, but understandable to some extent; and I wouldn’t hold them against anyone with the intellectual honesty and personal humility to learn over time when faced with their overwhelming and obvious flaws.  But understandable or not, believing such fantasies was then, and is now, an existential threat to the things that really can make the future better:  democracy, capitalism, and above all individual liberty.  Falling for the fantasy that celebrities, the wealthy, strongmen, the vanguard of the proletariat, the purebloods, philosopher-kings, or any other category of special people can be or ought to be trusted with power over others is stupid and dangerous.  Deciding that one cannot be bothered to educate oneself and vote responsibly, is stupid and dangerous.  It reminds me of the old joke about playing cards:  How can you tell who the sucker at the table is?  It’s the coward who surrenders their faith in individuals, including their own agency and responsibility, then acts surprised when he or she is exploited.  D’uh.

It’s no accident I picked crazy Esmeray as the primary representative of the US in this series of pictures.  She expresses both my hopes that America can be its best, and my fear of its worst excesses.

Literature Section “07-04 DEFEND THE CONSTITUTION—Lessons for Americans”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 4 of Chapter Seven—Accompanying Images:  1774, 1779-1780, 1784-1788,1790, 1925, 2025—Published 2025-06-24 to 06-29—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

1790 07-04 Long Live the Republic—DEFEND THE CONSTITUTION—2025-06-24; Esmeray; propaganda poster.  I made this one, then discarded it in favor of the French posters when I started developing them, then brought it back to fill out the series because I like the image, and the reason I originally liked it was the way it seemed to draw a parallel between the experiences of the US and France, and the challenges they have faced in the past and they both face today.

1774 07-04 American Maniac—2025-06-24; Esmeray; more an explanation of the concerns and anxieties that helped motivate me to make this series, than WW2 subject matter itself.  This image seeks to set up the issue by distinguishing between citizenship and partisanship. We can be members of the same civil society, and deal with one another as colleagues, without agreeing about everything.  We can put the interests of our country ahead of other things, without being mindless jingoists or accepting an aggressive view towards the world, or a servile view of our relationship with US authorities.  I would be pleased if the entire series could encourage Americans to reconsider the benefits of working with others since the evidence is overwhelming that everyone is better off when they cooperate to improve everyone’s lot, and is worse off when they view the world as a zero-sum game where the goal is to take as much from your neighbors as you can get away with.  I’m not saying there isn’t a time for fighting or a time for standing up for yourself; there certainly are. But there’s nothing about 2025 that would make this the time for disrupting any alliances, let alone all of them. We as a country need to remember the value of cooperation and mutual respect.

1779 07-04 Raising a Flag over Mar a Lago (faded) & 1780 07-04 Raising a Flag over Mar a Lago (sepia)—2025-06-25; Esmeray; old personal photos. Compare

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raising_a_Flag_over_the_Reichstag.  The source photo is one of the most iconic photographs of World War 2, and came to mind when I was thinking about how to portray patriotism and superhero powers together:  waving the flag on top of a building in Metropolis came to mind.  And it involves Stalin, with a whole raft of ironies introduced by the fact the whole war in Europe started when Stalin and Hitler agreed to split Eastern Europe by force between them, and Western democracies objected to this horrific plan.  Ultimately, I decided to use Mar a Lago as the building because it was symbolic of much of what I object to about America’s current situation.  Long before Trump bought the property or ran for office, the US government refused to accept the estate as a gift for use as a Winter White House because it was too expensive to maintain.  He later obtained the property at a discount by threatening to destroy its value if the owner didn’t sell, a tactic representative of his history of sharp dealing.  After converting it to a club and being elected President, he used it into a way to charge people for access to a public official (himself) by making himself available in the club, which is only accessible to people who pay an exorbitant membership fee, much like the bribe-takers on the steps of the Vatican who once sold access to the Pope.  Metaphorically, we do need to take back government from the place where it is wrongfully conducted in the corrupt twilight between private and public sectors, to the light of day.  The idea that this is an acceptable or mainstream way to run a country ignores the fact that it is what traps most of the world’s population in a cycle of poverty and oppression to this day.  We shouldn’t be accepting backsliding but instead should be trying to make our country better.

1784 07-04 Such is life (ABRIDGED version) & 1785 07-04 Everything is for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds (ABRIDGED version)UNABRIDGED VERSIONS CONTAINING FASCIST IMAGERY AVAILABLE AT PATREON.COM/THEREMAINDERMAN—2025-06-26; Martin (in 1784) & Cutter (in 1785); propaganda posters.  Compare: https://www.alamy.com/vichy-france-ww2-propaganda-poster-against-communism-french-militia-supported-by-marshal-petain-anti-semitic-xenophobic-authoritarian-propaganda-poster-for-the-recruiting-recruitment-of-nazi-appeasement-appeasers-french-facist-militia-1943-signed-eric-ww2-world-war-ii-image466236767.html?imageid=218485E2-ED7B-4276-89BF-7FACCE305A9C&p=66052&pn=1&searchId=92fed0677eaf89ed1cdf2bada5be10e0&searchtype=0 (for basic composition, coloring and words) and https://www.alamy.com/vichy-france-propaganda-poster-1941-ww2-vintage-world-war-two-propaganda-poster-issued-by-the-vichy-government-world-war-ii-laissez-nous-tranquilles!-leave-us-in-peace!-image-of-a-french-family-planting-a-tree-with-four-black-beasts-three-dogs-and-a-three-headed-snake-symbolizing-the-enemies-indicated-in-writing-de-gaulle-freemasonry-the-lie-the-jew-ready-to-attack-the-land-of-france-and-its-inhabitants-vichy-france-french-rgime-de-vichy-is-the-common-name-of-the-french-state-tat-franais-headed-by-marshal-philippe-ptain-during-world-war-ii-image593595906.html?imageid=E4B5FB98-DA7E-43B7-B4CB-F56FEB1CA341&p=66052&pn=1&searchId=92fed0677eaf89ed1cdf2bada5be10e0&searchtype=0 for the thinly veiled theme that Germany has saved Frenchmen from any need to worry their pretty little heads about world events.  Translation:  C’est la vie  Such is life (but I did not find any clear etymology online); Dans ce meilleur des mondes possibles, tout est au mieux  In this best of all possible worlds, everything is for the best (apparently a shortened form of the original quote from Candide, instead of the direct language from the play).   La Vie Française  The French Life (in abridged version); Milice Française  French Militia (in unabridged version). 

Parrainé par l’École Européenne pour les Américains  Sponsored by The European School for Americans; La Presse Française  The French Press.  The French Militia was a paramilitary organization created to assist the SS and Gestapo in suppressing the French Resistance.  The rapid French collapse in World War Two resulted from a number of factors, including most sympathetically, that France—like its capitulating leader, Petain—was demonstrably a shell-shocked and traumatized version of the country that resisted the previous German invasion a generation before, that had been one of the primary battlegrounds of World War One, and that its military forces and tactics were greatly overmatched by those of Germany.  But while acknowledging France lacked the endless steppes of the USSR or the English Channel of the UK to provide it with breathing room to sort itself out, it is a fact the USSR and the UK similarly had their asses summarily handed to them in their first encounters with the Wehrmacht, but fought on despite deprivations and losses.  It is impossible to avoid some sense, though, that the swiftness of the capitulation, before the country’s armed forces were categorically defeated, reflected the fact French devotion to their own cause and Republican government were less passionate and committed than that of countries with governments and traditions much less worthy of loyalty than theirs.  To me, that loss of faith and belief in a system that at the end of the day was worth fighting for or better yet improving upon, resulting in capitulation to a much-worse form of government, resonates strongly with the corrosive hostility of the internal US “culture wars” with their focus on lashing out at other Americans in indulgence of people’s petty rivalries and gripes, and at foreign countries for our own weaknesses, rather than remembering the much greater interests and values embodied in our history our moral strength and even our institutions, as frayed as they are.  Certainly, our interests as Americans, humans, and moral agents are aligned with making democracy, liberty, and cooperation with others stronger, rather than abandoning them; and the benefits of our cooperation and tolerance are orders of magnitude larger than the ultimately small and unworthy bickering to which much of contemporary dialog often sink.  Giving up did not serve the French very well in World War Two and it’s not serving Americans very well now.  Yes, the French, galvanized and reminded of their values and heritage by the shock of occupation, returned better and stronger with a vibrant, even defiant, democracy after the war was over.  But could we please pull our collective heads out and work together, within the rule of law, to make America better without having to shoot ourselves repeatedly in the hands, feet, and other body parts first, to remember why that’s a bad idea?

1786 07-04 It’s good to be the king! He who saves his Country does not violate any law (ABRIDGED version) Unabridged version containing graffiti including sexual themes at 07-04 DEFEND THE CONSTITUTON at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

—2025-06-27; Penny, Chastity; propaganda poster.  Compare https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8z8SpgmF0sA and https://www.reuters.com/world/us/trump-if-it-saves-country-its-not-illegal-2025-02-16/

Translation:  (here translated *to* French) It’s good to be the king  C’est bon d’être le roi; (here shown as translated in both directions) Celui qui sauve son pays n’enfreint aucune loi   He who saves his Country does not violate any law; Parrainé par l’École Européenne pour les Américains  Sponsored by The European School for Americans; La Presse Française  The French Press.  The first quote is from Mel Brooks’s History of the World Part 1 (1981); but to me, it captures the attitude of public figures who openly and unapologetically use their position and power for personal ends, to the wreckage of the state and private institutions, confident that the sheep below them will not question or criticize him for anything he does.  The second quote is brilliant, because the President deliberately and knowingly quoted the dictator Napoleon I who returned France to monarchy and converted wars to defend the French Revolution, into wars for his personal aggrandizement and gain.  Napoleon did have some achievements, like modern civil codes and courts to enforce them, on the plus side of his ledger; but it’s hard to understand how they could possibly outweigh his failed efforts at continental conquest, let alone his successful destruction of the last vestiges of the First French Republic.  The fact the US President drew the same parallel between himself and Napoleon, and thus the US and France, supports my own comparisons in this series.  The quote is also evocative of Richard Nixon’s claim that “when the President does it, that means that it is not illegal, by definition,” highlighting the extraordinarily dangerous tone of the President’s current speech.  I have portrayed Napoleon making the statement while partying down during his very brief occupation of Moscow as the first snow of the season starts to fall, to highlight how unlikely the claim of being a singular savior of a nation really is.

1787 07-04 I AM the deep state.  Let them eat cake (FRENCH & ENGLISH versions)—2025-06-28; Chastity, Penance; propaganda poster.  Compare https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L’%C3%89tat%2C_c’est_moi and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Let_them_eat_cake.  Translation:  L’État, c’est moi  I am the state; Qu’ils mangent de la brioche  Let them eat cake.  I like that this propaganda poster is built on not one, but two different quotations I was taught in history, but that are now questioned or rejected by historians (as discussed at the referenced links).  At once, it reminds us that we have to adapt to changes, whether they make us comfortable or not; and be guided by reason and empirical evidence, rather than unfounded superstitions, no matter how comforting our superstitions are; yet at the same time, they’re particularly potent examples of propaganda because (to me at least) it’s clear why they have gathered such force despite their doubtful provenance.  Wherever they came from, they capture important insights in a pithy, memorable fashion.  They reflect realities and attitudes that still drive human behavior today by those who imagine their life circumstances are the only moral justification they need or care about.  At the same time, they require us to exercise judgment about what has been proven, disproven, can be proven or disproven, or is unknown and unknowable; and how our knowledge of the truth (or lack thereof) must be a moral bound on discourse.  I have pushed these issues further by adding the word “deep” because I think it may help clarify the relevance of an old quote to our present situation and debates, rather than misleading anyone about an issue that isn’t intended to be the focus here (literal translation).

1788 07-04 After us, the flood.  Weep and watch us eat, you revolting peasants!—2025-06-29; Penance, Chastity; propaganda poster; compare https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apr%C3%A8s_moi%2C_le_d%C3%A9luge.  Translation:  Après nous, le déluge  After us, the flood; Pleurez et regardez-nous manger, paysans révoltés !  Weep and watch us eat, you revolting peasants!  I was taught King Louis XV was responsible for the first quote, acknowledging that the rot and vested interests inherent in the French Ancien Regime would not long survive the forces unleashed by the Enlightenment.  Apparently it was more likely (and indeed fitting on some level) that his mistress, Madame de Pompadour, said it in the plural “Après nous, le déluge”.  Scholars debate exactly who said it, and what they were referring to; but it still speaks to me, and seems an apt reflection of the stark conflict between the Enlightenment, reason, compassion, and knowledge on the one hand; and stupid bloody violence and tyranny on the other.  The second phrase has no specific antecedent but simply expresses outrage at the degree to which people define themselves by how they believe they rank, instead of on their own terms.  Whether it’s ordinary people showing deference to celebrities, the privileged, and the successful; or the fortunate few spitting on people below them simply because they can, it’s a loathsome, negative, hollow, and immoral way to live.  It also references an old joke about peasants revolting.

Explicit version containing graphic violence, gore, and enhanced interrogation themes at 06-127X The Chamber of Torment I at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY:  Channah and Rivqah have just killed two Venetian soldiers and captured two Venetian officials and a Venetian prisoner being subjected to strappado, in the torture room of the Council of Ten.   NOW:

The prisoner continued to moan and struggle, but the other sounds—sounds of movement and violence—abruptly ended.  Channah had already begun to move to her left, keeping her arrow trained on one Venetian official while remaining mindful of the second official face-down on the floor before her with his arms extended to the sides.  Cautiously, she darted a glance toward the middle of the room, nodding with satisfaction to see Rivqah was the only figure standing.

The two of them remained motionless and silent, eyes on their respective prey, listening intently for any sound of alarm.

The Capo began:  “What is the me—”

“Shh!” Channah hissed, with sufficient force, and a gesture from her bow, that the Capo fell silent while the interlopers listened for a beat, two, three, four, and five.

Channah flicked her eyes back to the middle of the room, meeting Rivqah’s, and raised her chin questioningly.  Rivqah shook her head slightly in response, and both women relaxed. 

“Stay still until we get to you,” Channah barked at the two men in front of her, watching the Capo’s eyes widen at the sound of her voice, while Rivqah sheathed her sword and returned to the wall, unwound the rope, and let the prisoner down.  He groaned and wept in an odd, sobbing combination of pain, and much-greater relief from the weight finally coming off of his arms.  Still holding the pulling end of the rope, she released the man’s arms from the hanging end, and helped him off the platform to a standing position on the ground.

“Thank you!  Thank you!” the prisoner wailed gratefully.  “My arms—please—for the love of God—” the man pleaded, sincerely, turning his back towards her.

Emotionlessly, Rivqah spun him to face her and pushed him backwards to the wall, where she tied the lifting end of the rope back to the ring in the wall, and then tied his arms to the ring, ignoring his sad and pitiful whimper.  “Do.  Not.  Try.  To.  Escape.”  She commanded, staring into his pain-wracked eyes with her own, ice-cold ones, satisfied by his brief nod and hanging head.

“You’re women!”  the Capo cried out in surprise, and then humiliation immediately turning to a hard, contemptuous rage.  “Just women!”

Rivqah had already moved to join Channah, stepping around the table and grabbing the Capo by the shoulder of his expensive robe.

Imagining he saw his chance, the Capo cried:  “Let’s take them!” as he spun towards Rivqah, who stepped back—yanking him off-balance by tugging on his robe—even as she executed a side-kick into his knee, the Capo fell to the ground, never to stand again.  When Rivqah pitilessly dragged him further towards her, to pull him out from behind his table, the twisting and turning of his ruined knee elicited a sharp scream and then silence as he became unconscious.

The Lord of the Night, gamely—or, perhaps, with a foolish, misplaced, misogynistic self-contempt—responding to his superior’s cry, pulled his arms and feet in towards his body, gathering himself to rise to his feet.  His effort was killed instantly and decisively by Channah’s boot, which she raised and slammed down on the back of his head, knocking him unconscious, his arms and legs falling slack with the rest of his body as blood pooled on the floor.

Channah and Rivqah exchanged another glance and shrugged, like:  “well, so much for them.”  Then they both turned their faces toward the prisoner to make sure he wasn’t trying to take advantage of the ruckus to get loose.  If he’d thought about it, maybe even tested his bonds in the initial seconds after the Capo cried out, he wasn’t doing so now.  Now, he was looking towards them, appalled, his face whiter than the rest of him, shrinking back towards the wall as if it might shelter him.

When the Capo stirred back into consciousness, light reaching his eyes through his fluttering lids, he felt cold water rapidly warming on his face, the room swimming slowly back into focus.

Blinking, he found himself facing two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life.  Despite the sweat on their faces; despite the tangled state of their black hair after peeling off their hoods and masks; and despite their middle age—thirties or forties, he guessed, although it was hard to tell precisely because their olive skin glowed with the vigor of youth, even as their dark hawklike eyes regarded him with the cold, acute scrutiny of the most hardened and wizened crones—the two of them were unimaginably lovely.  So lovely, in fact, they made the most expensive courtesans and the most-desirable debutante noblewomen of Venice look common enough.  “Angels…” he gasped before he was entirely alert, even as he was noticing the wood-paneled wall and the shocked, terrified prisoner pressing himself tightly back against the wall behind them.

Memory came flooding back as his body alerted him to the most extreme kind of pain, more than anything he had felt since he was shot fighting the Turks over a generation ago; more than he could have even imagined before that injury.  His knee, shoulders, elbows, and wrists stung and burned worse than any sting or burn he could conceive of.

“It hurts!  It hurts worse than I—” he screamed.  And as full recollection reminded him where he was, he screamed again, twice as terrified to see the corners of the women’s mouths turning up, delighting in his cries.

“Angels…” the swordswoman, now holding an empty ladle, returning it to the water bucket near her feet, sneered.

“Of a kind,” the archer smirked.  “You are surprised to be in pain?  You know where you are, yes?  Where we found you?”

“The Chamber of Torment,” he sobbed. 

“The Chamber of Torment,” the archer practically purred.  “But not your usual seat.  Capo.”  The word was spoken with all the venom and hatred of a viper.

“My arms!  My leg—” and then he cried in horror, memory and recognition finally completely returned.

“I think you’re a little overdue for this chair, don’t you?”  And with a vindictiveness that shook him even deeper:  “And unlike the… I’m going to guess, thousands of others who came to sit here before you, you came into this room voluntarily, didn’t you?  Like you knew you deserved to be here.  Gasparo Orseolo.” 

Literature Section “06-127[X] The Chamber of Torment I”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 127 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1067 words::Explicit 1173 words—Accompanying Images:  1972-1973—Published 2025-06-28—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Explicit version containing gore, graphic violence, and enhanced interrogation themes at 06-126X Death in Venice at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY:  Channah and Rivqah are concealed on the stairway, just below the floor line of the interrogation room of the Council of Ten, seeing one of their primary targets—a Capo of Venice—and a Lord of the Night before them, but aware from the noise that someone was being tortured beyond their line of sight to their left.  They have agreed Channah will break right and Rivqah, left on the count of three.  NOW:

Three counts later, Rivqah exploded up and forward, Channah nearly on top of her, so close if either of them had slipped the momentum of the other would have taken them both to the floor.  Other than their boots drumming on the wood, they remained silent until they were noticed.  It was the Capo who, frowning with irritation wondering who would be barging into his domain creating work for him, flicked his eyes towards them first.  Channah, her metabolism and nerves on overdrive, imagined she could actually see his eyes begin to widen as he saw her coming out of the darkness, barreling towards him, the plague-mask magnifying his shock and alarm, forcing him to deal with two different surprises at once.

To further throw him off-balance, Channah let out a blood-curdling scream, echoed a second later by Rivqah.  The Lord of the Night spun around to identify the threat, wide-eyed and empty-handed, just in time to offer his crotch to her.  She accepted his invitation with alacrity, and with a violent kick containing every last bit of adrenaline and seething rage she was feeling.  “Stand and surrender!” she demanded of the Capo, her arrow pointed straight in his eye, and he did, immediately, his hands shooting straight up in the air.  Thus tamed, she looked down and kicked the howling magistrate:  “Take your hands off your cock and spread them where I can see them on the floor!” And when he didn’t immediately do so, she barked:  “Do it now, or I swear I’ll nail your head to the floor with my arrow!” 

With a frightened wail, he extended his arms, not perfectly, but well enough.

While Channah had charged forward, Rivqah had pivoted to the left, immediately spotting more-or-less what she had surmised would be awaiting her:  a big, burly, hirsute man with olive skin dangling from a rope tied tightly around his wrists, behind his back, dangling above a waist-high wooden platform spattered with blood and sweat.  The rope went straight up to the high ceiling at right angles to the horizon, almost two stories high, then through a heavy iron ring embedded in the ceiling, and back down at an angle to where the other end was tied to another iron ring embedded in the wall at about chest height.  His figure was sandwiched between those of two rough, thuggish, laughing Venetian soldiers, their red cuirasses set aside for ease of movement while they worked their prisoner over.  One was hanging like a monkey from the long rope, near where it was tied to the wall, jumping up so that when he fell back down again, the weight of his body jerked the rope hard, making the prisoner cry out.  The other was using a long staff to hit the prisoner whenever he saw a moment of vulnerability, adding a horizontal dimension to the vertical dance called out by his partner on the rope.

The two goons were clearly cannon-fodder, without any knowledge of interest to the succubae; and that near-instantaneous appraisal signed their death-warrants.  With no value, they were only threats.  And she saw no need to tolerate extinguishable threats. 

Stick-boy was armed and standing, on balance, and thus the bigger and more-immediate threat.  But she could hardly reach him without passing and exposing her back to unarmed monkey-boy; nor could stick-boy reach her for 2-3 seconds.  Even if he was capering about idiotically now, monkey-boy would become a threat immediately if he could produce a knife from the back of his belt.

In any event, she moved to the left first, slashing monkey-boy’s neck and watching with momentary interest as his stupid grin collapsed into what Rivqah judged was a far-more-comical look of surprise.  His last act, sitting dejectedly on the floor like a child’s sad, discarded, stuffed monkey, was to try and stop the blood pouring from his neck by clapping his hands over the gash in near-imitation of the Confucian maxim to speak not what was contrary to propriety.  Sadly, it was a finale without an audience, because before he could complete the gesture, Rivqah was already turning and raising her blade defensively to meet the second soldier. 

A bit slow off the mark, he had hesitated a beat or two as his mind tried to make sense of what was happening around him—precisely as the succubae had intended with their speed of attack and shrill battle cries.  Rivqah met him halfway around the back of the dangling prisoner, seeing he had raised his stick over his head intending to bring it down on her head in a killing blow.  Either he badly underestimated her, or the Venetians only used the staff as an implement of torture, for he was clearly not trained as a soldier to do battle with it.

She thrust her blade towards his heart, and he, to his credit, managed to check and reverse his forward momentum, even as he began turning the staff from its slow, clunky, all-or-nothing coup-de-grace position toward a more-convenient and better-balanced position that might actually serve him on both defense and offense.  Alas for him, sound tactics had asserted themselves too late.  Rivqah’s initial thrust having barely scratched his chest, Rivqah, snorting and spitting in frustration like a Tasmanian Devil, whipped her own blade back and, judging the guard’s stick moving fast enough to give him a good chance of protecting his neck or even chest, flicked the blade forward and in a downward arc, slicing open the man’s stomach. 

Rivqah, something of a student of the human face—especially in battle and in sex—observed with interest as his face, too, began to transform in the moment of his mortal injury, from surprise and rage, to agony, fear, and perhaps just a touch of resignation.  As if in slow-motion, his hands loosened and the stick began to drop out of his fingers as he reached to protect his belly, or perhaps to try and repair the damage she had done.  A moment later, Rivqah slashed again, this time opening him up and watching with interest as he suffered the ignominy of slipping to the floor.  Not to put him out of his misery, but to protect their mission and allow them to communicate normally, she stepped forward, sighing with irritation, and cut his neck wide open.

Just like that, the battle had ended as abruptly as it had begun a few moments before.

Literature Section “06-126[X] A Murder of Crows IV”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 126 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1072 words::Explicit 1163 words—Accompanying Images:  1968-1972—Published 2025-05-26—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

PREVIOUSLY:  After eliminating the guards in the courtyard of the Doge’s Palace, Channah and Rivqah race along the loggia towards their assigned entry door near the front of the palace.  Chava and her little boy separate from them near the middle of the palace, while Miryam remains behind in disguise, in place of the dead guards.  NOW:

Channah and Rivqah didn’t pause until they reached the double entryway to the Stairway of the Censors.  Checking quickly for any sign of movement or human presence, and detecting none, Channah pulled open one door even as Rivqah tumbled through it, landing on her feet on one side of the door while Channah tumbled to the other, both of them trying to minimize the time they would be framed in silhouette against the lesser darkness of the courtyard.

After a tense moment, scanning the darkness as quickly as possible—ideally, before any Venetian guards spotted them and attacked—they relaxed as soon as they determined they were alone here and undetected.  The palace seemed quiet and deserted, except for muffled cries coming from somewhere up the stairs. 

With a glance, Rivqah transferred her crossbow and bolts to Channah, drew her sidearm in her left hand, a falchion with a short curved blade, and darted up the right side of the stairway.  Like most of Channah’s operatives based in the West, she was most familiar with the curved swords that dominated the wealthier, better-educated, more-civilized Muslim world most of them occupied.  Channah herself was considering relocating from Cairo back to Constantinople; and normally used a shamshir.  But the sight of such a blade would have attracted attention in Venice, so Rivqah carried the ancient Greek falchion, undergoing a revival in Italy and other parts of Europe.  She had been trained in a wide variety of swords.

Channah waited, scanning and listening, until Rivqah reached the tenth step, then began moving up the left side of the stairs after her.  Rivqah peered carefully around the landing at the top of the staircase, waiting tight up against the right-hand wall at the base of the second flight, while Channah reached the landing, sweeping broadly to the wall on the opposite side of the stairs and slipping along it to the far corner, crossbow trained on the top of the stairs, where the low flickering light of candles or torches coming from somewhere further on gave them the advantage, down in the darkness of the stairwell.

Rivqah then began moving again.  As she approached the top of this staircase she moved to the left, motioning Channah to the right as she remained on the top stair watching to the left.  When Channah reached the top of the staircase, she saw what Rivqah had seen:  a third, short and much narrower stairway to their left.  From here, the cries were much louder, and between them lower groans of pain were now audible, overlapping with two other, impatient voices demanding information and cooperation between the screams.

Channah slipped to the right, across the landing in front of them, crossbow aimed at the top of the third staircase.  With another glance, and a slight nod, Channah raised her crossbow to the ceiling while Rivqah crept up the third staircase.  If she fired into the stairway now, the only thing she could reasonably expect to hit would be her own sister.  She moved to the bottom of the stairs, keeping only her eyes trained at the third floor. Rivqah ducked as she approached the top, stopping in a crouched position with her eyes barely above floor level as she scanned what she could. 

With a glance back, she signaled 2 to the right, unknown to the left, suggesting she didn’t have a direct line of sight to the left without exposing her position to the two on the right, but there were voices coming from that direction.  Not the best situation to face; but on the bright side, it wasn’t like they were interrupting a church service.  The occupants of this room were torturing another human being, without any effort to muffle their screams.  In her experience, most humans who hadn’t become completely inured to torture preferred to move out of earshot whenever it occurred, because they found it unpleasant.  And the minority who enjoyed it were drawn to it like flies to manure; they’d be in the room, almost on top of it.  All of that gave the succubae a lot of latitude for making noise.  They could, quite literally, scream and still blend.  Well, more or less.

Missiles?  Channah signaled.

None to the right, unknown to the left, Rivqah responded.

Considering the width of the building, Channah couldn’t imagine there was too much open distance to the left.  Still… She crept up behind Rivqah, pressing up against her back to see nearly what she saw in the crowded space at the top of the stairs.  On the right was a long desk, three chairs wide, closed in front, with a candelabra sitting on it to provide light.  Behind the desk sat a gray-haired man in elaborate robes of expensive fabric, talking to an equally gray but otherwise lesser man—in proportions, in status, and certainly finery—who wore a neat but simple and unexceptional robe, standing with his back to them. 

The seated man, she knew immediately, was the Capo, a member of Venice’s ancient and privileged patrician class, rulers of the Republic for the better part of a millennium.  Knowing from her mission planning, exactly who he was, she felt the faint ache of her horns, claws, and fangs straining to erupt, an instinct she was barely able to restrain in the nick of time. 

The other man would have to be, she thought, the Venetian Lord of the Night for San Marco—night commander, judge, and all-purpose representative of the Venetian state in this district of the city during the hours of darkness.  He had five counterparts in the other districts of the city; and some nights their business brought them together here.  But evidently not tonight; if it had, they would all be gathered around that table, or outside the torture chamber altogether.  If she’d seen this fellow on the street, she would have guessed he was a shopkeeper or clerk, perhaps a merchant on the make but not yet worthy of consideration for marriage into or other admission to the ruling class.  She tended to doubt the Venetians would tolerate giving anyone other than a patrician the title “Lord.”  So perhaps he was of an ancient family that had fallen on hard times.

Both of the men were old, for humans; and would be unlikely to pose a grave threat.  They were both examining a parchment as they talked, so their attention was focused elsewhere.  She doubted the standing man could turn around before she was upon him.

Leaning into Rivqah’s neck and enjoying the smell of her, she whispered “I’ll try to take both of them alive.  You take the left; I doubt any of them will matter.  If you need me, shout at me to turn.”  Rivqah nodded her understanding, managing to tickle Channah’s cheek with her hair.  With a final “on 3,” Channah slipped back to give her room. 

Literature Section “06-125 A Murder of Crows III”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 125 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1150 words—Accompanying Images:  1964-1967—Published 2025-06-25—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

PREVIOUSLY:  By trickery and deadly threat, eight-year-old Pen has agreed to help the succubae until dawn, as they raid the Venetian capitol late on a storm-torn night of floods, seeking to destroy what the Venetian spy service has learned about the succubae and to release an imprisoned grandfather and a young girl accused of witchraft.  Pen has now been geased to compel him and spelled to trust Channah and believe she is by his side.  NOW: 

Pen, bound as a safety net by a leash attached to a harness, and following Chava’s reasonable suggestions and whispers, crossed the hallowed space, picked the lock (under a minor delusion that he was simply unlocking a difficult lock using several keys at once), opened the door of the archive, and crept inside to access the secret files of Europe’s, and perhaps the world’s, most-extensive and most-advanced spy agency:  The Council of Ten of the Serenissima. 

Within the windowless archive, with Chava’s guidance and encouragement, Pen found and raided the Venetians’ magic books, written in Latin, the language of religion and science in Western Europe, which Pen read and spoke fluently, along with his aristocratic caste’s language of Norman-influenced French, and his local language of English.  He read all their titles for Chava, setting aside for Chava’s review the very, very few Chava didn’t already possess or hadn’t already known of, or that were so rare they would be difficult or impossible for the Venetians to replace.  Although the books, collectively, contained many grains of truth, they also contained falsehoods and honest misapprehensions which the Succubae valued, not to keep their own magical primacy over humans, but to help them predict the actions of the humans who hunted them and the other creatures of hell.

Turning to the written records of the Council of Ten, even though they were written in Venetian (rather than Latin), a language Pen had only first been exposed to when his Aunt brought him to Venice earlier in the year, his Latin and French allowed him to read the spines, introductions, and section titles in the books well enough to locate what the succubae wanted most:  The records of the interrogation, conviction, and execution of Anzola Ipato, by one Gasparo Orseolo of the Council of Ten, who had been burned at the stake on Wednesday, the 3rd of October, 1515.  Morally, exposing an eight-year-old with even partial literacy of Venetian to such material was one of several testaments given during the course of the evening, to Chava’s limitations as a surrogate mother-figure. Technically, the very existence of the record was a testament to the efficacy of the Venetian secret service, which had accomplished something very few humans, human governments, or even human civilizations were ever able to achieve:  identifying, capturing, and questioning an actual demon of hell:  Tirtzah the succubus.  After weeks of agonizing tortures, including especially vile and inhuman tortures methods devised by the Inquisition that were not normally performed by the Venetians (who relied heavily on the strappado), her mortal form, and thus her ability to visit Earth, was destroyed by fire, possibly the most agonizing form of banishment from the Earthly plane. 

Chava had persuaded Pen to push, pull, and drag the heavy folio volume back across the church to her position in the Venetian Senate Hall.  There, with Pen nestled on her lap, she read and carefully edited the record, using her magical powers and her great manual skills, to alter—as subtly as possible to try and evade any Venetians re-reading it from suspecting it had been changed—the text.  As much as she estimated she could get away with, she replaced information learned about the succubae with inaccurate information that would be less helpful, or even self-defeating, the next time the Court of Lust tangled with the Serene Republic.  Chava’s focus was on things Tirtzah had said that might hint at or reveal anything the succubae perceived as a potential weakness or exploit.  Then she had made Pen reverse the difficult process of moving the volume back into the library.  And because Pen lacked the strength to lift the folio-sized hardbound volume over his head back up to the high shelf he had pulled it from, she had him pull down all the nearby volumes and pile them up with the altered volume somewhere in the middle.

Pen also found and recovered for Chava, Tirtzah’s magical ring, which the Venetians had taken from Tirtzah.  Ultimately, they had not been able to make much out of it since capturing it.  By recovering it, the succubae ensured they never would.

Finally, Chava had tried various ways to help Pen make sense of a section of books written—and even labeled on their spines—with lines and geometric combinations of lines that Chava suspected was a Venetian code.  This, neither she, nor any of the succubae, had anticipated:  volumes so secret, they were encoded when written and kept within their very fortress and capitol?

In the end, she decided against doing anything with them, at least not tonight.  Even if the boy started with the last volume and worked his way backward, dragging every single volume out to her, it might take him hours to bring her the volumes covering 1515.  If, indeed, she could even identify which ones those were.  And then to repeat her work on the Venetian-language records, she would have to decipher the code well enough not only to make sense of the text, but to try and replace existing words with credible substitutes.  The only other option would be to burn the lot; but in addition to being a terrible and unnecessary loss of knowledge—a possibility she loathed on principle—it would be pretty clear to the Venetians someone had been in their secret archive and was trying to destroy at least something the Venetians had learned and hidden there.  Chava couldn’t even be sure what the coded—or cuneiform, for that matter—books were, let alone whether they actually recorded anything about Tirtzah, which seemed unlikely.  If they did, keeping a copy in Latin would rather tend to defeat the purpose of keeping a copy in code.  And because Anzola Ipato’s trial was only two years’ past, thus alerted to an effort to tamper with their institutional memory, they could and probably even would reconstruct much or all of it—accurately—from living memories, which would completely reverse Chava’s efforts to destroy the Venetians’ Latin record of their recently-acquired knowledge of succubae.  Destroying a vast knowledge without helping the succubae, and thereby making it unlikely she would destroy the limited knowledge actually harmful to the succubae?  That would be the worst of both worlds, and she decided against it.

In the end, Chava—with Pen’s semi-witting help—completed her mission before Channah and Rivqah finished theirs.  Instead of risking Pen coming out from under her influence while he was in the secret archive, and thus beyond her physical control, she brought him back to her and, inspired, decided to make the most of the opportunity by influencing Penny to do whatever he could, to save himself.  Chava warned him he literally could not escape the succubae until dawn, and must avoid crossing Channah, or if possible even attracting her attention again, in the meantime.  But once he saw any part of the sun, he should immediately, or as soon thereafter as possible, slip away when neither Channah, nor Rivqah, nor Miryam was watching him, and run for his very life.  When Pen protested that Chava should come with him, or that he wanted to see her again, she promised that if he obeyed her like a good boy, she would visit him again in a week.  Finally, still concerned that she had not impressed the danger upon him sufficiently, or persuaded him that a 5,000-year-old succubus didn’t need an eight-year-old boy to protect her, and having already used him to cross the sanctified church and plunder the secret archive, she added the force of compulsion to ensure his commitment.

Literature Section “06-124 Grimm Transformations VIII:  Child Laborer or Child Soldier?”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 124 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1264 words—Accompanying Images:  1960-1963—Published 2025-06-24—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

PREVIOUSLY:  n/a.  When I was kicked off DeviantArt in early March, I was advancing two story lines:  The first, adult Penny’s and adult Chastity’s introduction to hard-core succubus sexual and moral domination; and the second, child Pentecost’s very first introduction to the succubae.  As best I could tell, images generated in relation to the second story line (not the first one) were what DA’s algorithms decided were unacceptable and caused me to be kicked off DA without any opportunity to defend my work or make it conform to DA’s standards or even be told what DA claimed I was doing wrong.  I therefore backed off this second story line until I felt like I had enough distance and perspective to avoid DA’s matrix-agent-like algorithm. 

Mind you, I don’t think I have any worry about failing to comply with DA’s policies—I don’t think I actually ever violated them before—but rather, to avoid being summarily and arbitrarily dumped from the platform and having all my work and comments and followers wiped out.  The arbitrariness with which this gruesome artistic death sentence is applied is a significant deterrent, and even an overbearing threat, to creativity, artistic integrity, and intellectual honesty.  I can’t really say this thread of the story is what it would have been before my previous avatar’s execution; but rather, it’s a similar story I care about enough to tell, even though it is limited and redirected enough to give me some hope I might—might—be able to do the story-line and the subject matter justice without the figurative death penalty from DA.  I guess we’ll see.

Here, then, is a summary of the second plotline to date.  NOW:

On All Souls’ Eve in 1517 AD, Channah, with three members of her Court (Miryam, Rivqah, and Chava) and a human child swept up with them (Pentecost Argent), are mounting a surreptitious assault on the Doge’s Palace, capitol of the Serenissima—the Serene Republic of Venice. 

Venice is drowning:  Storms dominating the Adriatic and Central Mediterranean have brought acqua alta (“high water”) to the lagoon city, flooding its streets and basements even as rain and lightning lash its domes and towers and canals.  

Queen Channah and her Duchesses, Miryam and Rivqah, all three of them trained and experienced assassins and infiltrators, are spearheading the assault.  By contrast, Chava, her Queen of Arms, is a strong, skilled metalsmith and stonecutter with a meticulous personality and a bookish mind, brought along with them for her very specialized knowledge and skills—not her prowess in battle.  Chava had come to Venice the night before, on All Hallows’ Eve, an auspicious night of power and disruption, to raid the empty, unconsecrated church of San Zaccaria for precious metals and holy water to use in service of her Queen.

There, she had been surprised by Pen, a neglected English child in the inadequate care of an indifferent Aunt.  Like many human children, Pen had some capacity for sensing and perceiving the supernatural.  Like a much smaller number of such children, he was ignored and reckless enough to pursue his curiosity about the things he sensed, rather than sensibly ignoring or cowering from them.  At San Zaccaria, Chava and Pen had been immediately drawn to one another by their compatible personalities and—much more powerfully—their respective needs to take advantage of their chance encounter to fill the awful, aching holes in their own lives and persons.  Pen’s innocence, and Chava’s capacity for empathy, conspired to protect Pen, an altar boy at the church, and allow Chava to complete her mission.  She had rocked him to sleep in her warm, dry cloak and then stolen away with her prizes, the most supernaturally-charged relics and ritual items in the church, leaving only the crucifix on the altar as a concession to comfort the boy and assuage his conscience.

Tonight, All Souls’ Eve, he had surprised Chava (again) and Channah as they prepared to assault the Palace.  Driven again by feelings deeper than and separate from common sense and conscious reason, desperate for Chava’s attention and care, he had come to return her cloak.  By doing so, he had inadvertently brought himself to the attention of probably the wiliest, most-passionate, and most-evil creature to still walk the surface of the Earth.  His arrival, discovering them in the storm-filled Piazza San Marco minutes before their secret raid on the Venetian capitol began, had complicated the Queen’s evil plans, to say the least.  Too young and innocent to be of proper interest to the succubae in his own right, he was simply a nuisance.  Leaving him alive risked his reporting their presence to Venice’s nocturnal guards, the Lords of the Night.  But leaving the body of an eight-year-old child on the metaphorical steps of the palace risked raising a general alarm.  And by revealing Chava’s tender tendencies to Channah, Pen had unknowingly put Chava at risk of punishment by her Queen, because he was not the first human toward whom Chava had shown what Channah considered an inappropriately undemonic attitude.  Indeed, this was not even the first time Channah’s own plans had been inconvenienced by one of Chava’s little pets. 

Fortunately for Pen’s life—if not exactly his soul—Channah, always practical, egotistical, and purposeful above all, had seen a way to turn the unexpected complication to her advantage.  Because the Venetians had protected their secret archives on the second floor of the palace behind a church that had been properly consecrated, neither the Succubae nor any of their familiars could easily sneak into the archives.  At least, not without either risking teleporting into a space they had never seen (possibly to be bisected by a wooden panel, or have their guts or legs or arms scrambled by a pile of books) or undertaking a loud and destructive aerial assault on the archive by flying demons blasting holes in the stone walls of the Venetian capital in the middle of a crowded city.  Neither option was really acceptable.  And thus, the succubae required a human who would be able to enter hallowed ground:  A human neither under their compulsion, nor already marked as the property of hell. 

They needed a human either detached enough from humanity or reality, or vulnerable enough to influence and trickery, to do their bidding.  And to keep their purposes secret from humanity, they preferred not to hire or recruit humans ahead-of-time.  Instead, they had planned to free a teenage girl already known to them, tempted but not yet owned by them, from Venetian custody in exchange for her help, and then use her to raid the archives for them.  Having already been labeled a witch by the Venetians, tortured, and thrown in the semi-submerged cells of the Palace known as the Wells because they weren’t quite ready to execute a minor girl, the succubae counted her as well reliable to do what they wanted in exchanged for being spirited away.  But if Chava could use the boy to raid the archives while they accomplished their other dark purposes, it would shorten their time in the Palace and thus improve their chances of escaping without the Venetians ever figuring out for certain whether they had raided the secret archives. 

With a combination of artful deceit and deadly threats, Channah had tricked and cowed Pen into agreeing to comply with a geas:  not a compulsion, which might keep him from entering the church; and not a contract, which he was too immature to make; but a deadly magical consequence that he understood would befall him if he failed to do what he had said he would do:  To do everything he could to help the succubae until dawn, and to obey Chava’s instructions until dawn, insofar as he could do those things without committing any deadly sins.  In exchange, Channah had ungenerously promised not to murder him that very night.

With Channah’s plan thus secured, Rivqah scaled St. Mark’s Basilica and from her vantage point atop it, slew the Venetian guards outside the Doge’s Palace.  Channah and Chava rushed Pen to the Palace and past the guards too quickly for him to examine them or even properly see them, while Channah lied to him that the guards had simply been knocked unconscious; while Miryam dragged their bodies out of sight and, disguised as a Venetian soldier, took their place guarding the half-finished stairway leading to the planned, “new” entrance to the Palace.

Chava and Pen made their way to the Senate Room, just outside the church, where Chava shrewdly used a trust spell, building on Pen’s natural gullibility as a child and the rapport they had developed the previous night, not to control his actions or decisions, but to persuade him she was by his side rather than talking and appearing to him inside his head.  Then she simply guided him, as an adult might guide and influence a good boy like Pentecost Argent, to break into and rob the Venetians’ secret archive, by convincing him they were simply recovering an article stolen from the succubus and taking a peek at the Venetian’s books. 

Literature Section “06-123 Grimm Transformations VII:  The Red Beast and the Little Boy”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 123 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1237 words—Accompanying Images:  1956-1959—Published 2025-06-23—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

1688 07-04 Look for the deadly women:  Partisans, Gonorrhea and Syphilis (ABRIDGED version)
1689 07-04 Easy to get… Degenerate sluts and their diseases
1690 07-04 Avoid Pollution–Use Protection Squad Salons (ABRIDGED version)
1691 07-04 PARTY MEMBERS BEWARE!  Loose talk to loose women can cost lives
1692 07-04 TELL THEM NOTHING!  They might be agents
1932 07-04 Join the CCF-Women with a will to Win-Apply at any Army Recruiting Center
1934 07-04 Join the CCF-Women with a will to Win-Apply at any Army Recruiting Center
1946 07-04 Here are the “Liberators”! (ABRIDGED version)

These images arose out of a desire to show adult Penny and Chas acting in roles similar to their roles as operatives of Channah in ARP, namely, spies and saboteurs.  Since I wanted them to be acting for the Western Allies, they would have to be portrayed as a risk warned against in Axis propaganda.

As the project expanded, the posters became a way to comment on the narrow roles Axis ideologies prescribed for women—and the hypocrisy shown, especially as the war wore on, in their treatment and use of women.  Even the Nazis, from the very start, when faced with defiance by some strong women, celebrated them for their achievements in areas outside the home.  Notable examples (listed not to apologize for them, but to criticize fascist ideology) include one of the most-important propagandists on behalf of the Nazi regime, Leni Riefenstahl; women who used their celebrity in nontraditional roles to support the Nazis such as Hanna Reitsch; and Yoshiko Kawashima (identified in images 1932 and 1934 by her Chinese name, Jin Bihui), a tragic figure victimized from a young age and deeply conflicted about her own sexual and ethnic identity who burned a fiercely unconventional arc through the Japanese occupation of China ending in her execution for treason. 

By the end of the war, hundreds of thousands of German women had been trained in military schools and were serving for all intents and purposes as soldiers of the regime, in dangerous battlefield jobs, most of them performing air-defense and fire-fighting missions during air raids while Allied bombs were falling all around them and Allied fighters, virtually unchallenged in the air, could focus on suppressing air defense.  Yet I found only one example of a recruitment poster showing a woman wearing a helmet, and only a couple with women in uniform, at a time when uniforms were ubiquitous in German society, worn by civil servants and military personnel alike in a fully-mobilized economy.

Their own country refused to call them soldiers, asserting that they were merely civilian “helpers,” despite the fact that by the end of the war, their formations and positions appeared on Wehrmacht organizational charts and their uniforms displayed military, or more-sinister (i.e., SS), insignia.  Which points to a complication in understanding their position in Nazi society:  After the war, German men and women alike, especially those “helping” the SS, had every incentive to, and in fact fell all over themselves to, deny women had been in the SS (which was declared a criminal organization) or the military (which was deeply implicated in crimes of the regime). 

Nonetheless, it seems clear that the Nazis were unwilling to admit they needed women’s help outside the home as well as inside it, to fight their war; or even that women were capable of doing the jobs they were actively recruited, and eventually drafted, to perform (and that they did, in fact, perform), because to do so would have meant admitting shortcomings in their own ideologies and propaganda.  There is much less information available, at least in English, or that can be found using English-language searches, about Nazi Germany than Fascist Italy, or even more, Imperial Japan.  Accessible portrayals of women in Japanese wartime propaganda were few and far between, and those I did find weren’t accompanied by text I could cut and paste into Google Translate, or retype on my keyboard.  But totalitarian regimes and newly-emergent industrial economies tend to be socially conservative, and what I was able to find suggested very conservative and limited roles were prescribed for women.

Axis ideology did not allow women to be heroic figures.  It did not even allow them to be dangerous, nefarious, or even sexualized ones.  Thus, even in propaganda reminding people not to discuss or reveal sensitive military information, which were ubiquitous across all combatants, Axis posters rarely identified nefarious or seductive women as the threat.

Posters of the Western Allies (Soviet patterns sometimes allowed or required women to be heroic but didn’t offer them much agency or sexuality) were another matter.  If anything, as suggested already in relation to Allied Recruitment posters (subsection 07-04-F), women were often portrayed as conniving, traitorous, diseased sluts constituting a threat to the war effort and to decent servicemen.  Women featured prominently as antagonists in Western Allied campaigns warning against loose talk; and almost inevitably, were the primary villains in campaigns warning against venereal disease.  These campaigns were prominent and widespread, with some reason; venereal disease had become a significant source of manpower shortages in World War One, and the US in particular from the very start went to war with a vengeance against VD.  The results, helped by medical improvements, were notable:  infections among US servicemen in World War Two were possibly as low as 3% of those a generation before when the total number of mobilized men had been lower.  But to a significant extent, the campaigns focused not on the logic and mathematics of infection, or on the diseases themselves, but on the (mainly female) agents of transmission.

For purposes of these images, I used propaganda posters produced by the Western Allies as the starting points for made-up Axis ones that the Axis powers would have been unlikely to produce.

Literature Section “07-04-G Axis Portrayals of Women”—Accompanying Images:  1688-1692, 1932, 1934, 1946A; 1688U, 1690U, 1933, 1946B&U—Published 2025-06-17 to 06-23—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

1688 07-04 Look for the deadly women:  Partisans, Gonorrhea and Syphilis (ABRIDGED version)UNABRIDGED VERSION INCLUDING FASCIST IMAGERY AVAILABLE AT PATREON.COM/THEREMAINDERMAN. 2025-06-17; Penance & Chastity; propaganda poster; compare numerous examples at https://cvltnation.com/crazy-venereal-disease-posters-from-wwii/.  Translation (German to English):  Suchen Sie nach den tödlichen Frauen: Partisanen, Gonorrhoe und Syphilis  Look for the deadly women:  Partisans, Gonorrhea and Syphilis.  The linkage between “good-time girls,” “loose women,” “prostitutes,” “pick-ups,” “bags of trouble,” etc., and diseases in numerous posters was thoroughly spelled out for slower servicemembers.  The broadest categorization, and the closest to bluntly suggesting all women are whores, that I saw, which also offered some spurious pseudo-scientific statistics, was the poster cautioning “98% of procurable women have venereal disease.”  Alternatively, that could be interpreted as insulting servicemen, e.g.:  “98% of the women available to losers like you are diseased….”  An implication more narrowly targeted against women suggested “Amateurs” are just as dangerous as prostitutes.  I included partisans because actual German posters addressed them as menaces, including at least one instance where as I recall, they portrayed a female as a partisan.  I originally made the unabridged version thinking nothing of it, then realized it could create a risk of being removed and had nothing really to replace it.

1689 07-04 Easy to get… Degenerate sluts and their diseases—2025-06-18; Penance & Chastity; propaganda poster; compare https://artpictures.club/autumn-2023.html specifically, and other posters generally, at https://cvltnation.com/crazy-venereal-disease-posters-from-wwii/.  Translation (German to English):  Leicht zu bekommen:  Degenerierte Schlampen und ihre Krankheiten  Easy to get… Degenerate sluts and their diseases.  There were at least two versions of this poster during World War Two.  The comparison of prostitutes to their diseases was made visually by the original images in both versions.  I just spelled out the comparison between human beings, viruses, and bacteria more explicitly here.

1690 07-04 Avoid Pollution–Use Protection Squad Salons (ABRIDGED version)UNABRIDGED VERSION INCLUDING FASCIST IMAGERY AVAILABLE AT PATREON.COM/THEREMAINDERMAN. 2025-06-19; Chastity & Penance; advertisement; Translation (German to English):  Vermeiden Sie Umweltverschmutzung – nutzen Sie die Schutzstaffel der Salons  Avoid Pollution–Use Protection Squad Salons.  There is no specific historical example behind this poster; the anti-VD advertising campaign was Allied, and the Allies (to my knowledge) didn’t operate any brothels like the SS, Wehrmacht, and Imperial Japanese Army (although the Japanese administration under American occupation after the war did operate official brothels for a time).  The address is the actual address of Salon Kitty, a high-end brothel that was taken over by the Sicherheitsdienst (SS Security Service) for spying on Germans and foreigners of interest (and is actually not representative of the official, overt forced-labor brothels run for German military, SS, and kapo personnel since it was a clandestine operation).  The phone number in the abridged version is that of the Reichsführer-SS’s (Himmler’s) office according to the 1941 Berlin phone book (only a limited number of entries from it were available and legible online).

1691 07-04 PARTY MEMBERS BEWARE!  Loose talk to loose women can cost lives—2025-06-20; Chastity, Penance; motivational poster; compare https://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/original-john-falter-wwii-poster-458626456, for the Allied anti-loose-talk poster that was the departure point design- and slogan-wise.  More broadly, see the Allied posters warning about loose women at https://cvltnation.com/crazy-venereal-disease-posters-from-wwii/ and https://www.cnn.com/2015/08/25/health/wwii-vd-posters-penis-propaganda/index.html, further discussed above.  Translation (German to English):  Parteimitglieder Aufgepasst (vorsicht)!  Party members, pay attention (beware)!; Unanständige(s) Gerede (Gespräche) mit unanständigen Frauen kann (können) Leben kosten  Indecent (loose) talk with indecent (loose) women can cost lives.  The original is targeted at sailors but because of challenges with the AI (discussed elsewhere), this one is targeted at a category of people who theoretically could be in civilian clothes since I could not generate any suitable images for this with uniformed Germans.  Google changed translations on me when I double-checked before publication from German back to English; the translations shown are based on the final re-check with variations to illustrate how words varied based on the original English and English translations of the later German.

1692 07-04 TELL THEM NOTHING!  They might be agents—2025-06-21; Chastity, Penance; motivational poster; compare https://rarehistoricalphotos.com/american-propaganda-posters-world-war-two/.  Translation (German to English):  Sag ihnen nichts!  Tell them nothing!; Sie könnten Agenten sein  They might be agents.  I counted it as a win that I was able to get the girls on their stomachs.  The AI really does not like being told how to position people, especially women.  I really like the faces and expressions here, which seem at once girlish and sinister.  Unlike 1945, which I was able to double-check with an Italian pronoun guide online, I didn’t find a way online to double-check whether the German would be different for a female vs a male or mixed “them”; any input on this point would be appreciated.

1932 & 1934 07-04 Join the CCF-Women with a will to Win-Apply at any Army Recruiting CentreUNABRIDGED GERMAN COUNTERPART INCLUDING FASCIST IMAGERY AVAILABLE AT PATREON.COM/THEREMAINDERMAN. 2025-06-22; Fang; recruiting poster; compare: https://www.alamy.com/vintage-ww2-recruitment-poster-with-female-ats-member-in-uniform-union-jack-flag-flies-behind-women-with-a-will-to-win!-join-the-ats-apply-at-any-army-recruiting-centre-1939-1945-image342804140.html?imageid=16439DED-FF10-4602-991A-74F85C0BBF85&p=66052&pn=1&searchId=eecbd4edf63c33347e7f7b028a6f8218&searchtype=0; Translation (Mandarin to English) 有必勝意志的女性!  Women with a will to Win!; 般的  General Jin Bihui; 加入  Join the; 反叛亂騎兵部隊  counterinsurgency cavalry force; 向任何陸軍招募中心提出申請  Apply at any Army Recruiting Center.  Any feedback on the technical aspects of this poster would be much appreciated.  The poster is in Chinese but I’m not even sure, if there had been such a recruiting poster, whether the proper language would have been Chinese, Manchu, or even Japanese.  The “counterinsurgency cavalry force” is the irregular formation raised by the Qing dynasty princess who was adopted (abused) and raised in Japan and later became associated with the Manchukuo puppet regime (it is her photograph above her name, Jin Bihui, in a Manchukuo army uniform).  I am not sure if the force had an official name; or if it did, whether it was actually that, or if “counterinsurgency cavalry force” is a descriptive reference.  Being that it was a cavalry force and she was a Manchu, perhaps the most obvious pool for her to recruit from would have been Manchus.  By the time of World War II, however, I understand Manchuria had been heavily Sinicized.  Because the poster is in Chinese I used her Chinese name, Jin Bihui.  I’m pretty sure, but not entirely, that I have the correct Chinese-character transliteration of that name; but in addition to having formatting issues with it, and the lingering uncertainty, I did hope by including one bit of Latinized text with the only specific name I included in the poster (it doesn’t even use the word “Manchukuo” in the text) that people who didn’t notice this description could find relevant historical information about the poster online.  I made two versions, one for the year the puppet regime was created and the other for the year it was renamed Manchukuo and made nominally imperial, because what can I say:  I like Fang in black leather.  These posters came about because, having seen Channah in leather and thinking of poster 1933, it seemed only right that the leather-armor-clad Fang should have a poster of her own on the evil side of the fence.

1946 07-04 Here are the “Liberators”! (ABRIDGED version)UNABRIDGED AND BONUS VERSIONS INCLUDING FASCIST IMAGERY AVAILABLE AT PATREON.COM/THEREMAINDERMAN. 2025-06-23; Miryam, Rivqah, Lancelot; propaganda poster; compare https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-italian-world-war-ii-poster-here-are-the-liberators%60-shows-the-statue-57365951.html.  Translation (Italian to English):  Ecco I “Liberatori”!  Here are the “Liberators”!  The original poster chilled me, partly because it reminded me of the Norwegian fascist poster (widely used by the Germans) “Liberators,” and partly on its own account, and its description by one source online as an “angel of death” version of the Statue of Liberty.  As an American, it creeps me out to see American icons toppled and reversed that way, especially in this day and age; and especially when—by alluding to Allied bombing campaigns in the Italian example, and half-a-dozen ways in the “Liberators” poster, they manage to capture a kernel of truth about America’s own moral challenges.  In some ways, I imagine this to be the worst nightmare within the ideology of Axis propaganda because it depicts women from fascist countries not just as victims (as in poster 1945), but as collaborating or cooperating with the Allied conquerors, perhaps even with a bold spirit of determination to survive in difficult circumstances where the roles assigned to them by Axis ideologies are no longer enforced, and the men they were supposed to rely on for protection have been defeated in a war of their own making.  Of course, there were German and Italian prostitutes during the WW2 era; but the German and Japanese policy of forced-labor brothels very much reinforced and followed their racist ideologies by making women from occupied countries service their troops.  Racially-ambiguous Lancelot allows but does not require the viewer to add a racial dimension to the poster, although as noted with respect to 1945, doing so would be entirely consistent with Italian wartime propaganda.

Explicit version containing masturbation, orgasm, cunnilingus, and consensualnonconsent themes at 06-122[X] Arousing a Succubus at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY:  Chastity and Penance, naked, vulnerable, and bound, completely traumatized by their recent, total sensory isolation, have been led by Channah into a place of darkness silence and sterility.  They plead with her not to leave them here while she runs a quick errand.  NOW:

She whispered, her voice cracking with emotion:  “First you want me and love me.  Then you frustrate me and try to thwart my plans… and now you show pathetic need and fear?  To me?!  The Queen of the Succubae?”  She asked incredulously, shuddering and closing her eyes, feeling their fear spike to panic.  “Ooohhh…” she hissed slowly, pressing her hands between her legs.  “You poor girls are terrified… of me, and of losing me.  All at once!  While I’m still mad at you!  Ungh!

She opened her eyes, staring deeply into theirs.  “You girls are perfectThank you, you silly cows!”  And as she felt their hopes start to rise:  “All you had to do was behave like men, just a little bit!  Show some courage!  Show some independence!  But no… you’re just teases!  I’m gonna mess you girls up so hard you’re going to learn to lose control from fear and arousal at the same time.”  Then she laughed, shaking as their hopes crashed back into confusion about what they had done, and terror of what she might do to them… outweighed only by their desperation for her to stay with them in the Honeycomb and protect them.  “You two are quite mad, to tease and enrage a succubus that way.  When are you going to learn your lessons?”  She shook her head, incredulously.  “My lessons, that you waste!

Pulling something small from her pocket, she approached Chastity, staring down at her, ignoring their blubbering, confused, frightened questions—well, not the emotion of them, that she lapped up.  Only the content.  Then Channah stepped over the beam on the floor, to which Chastity was tied, one high-heeled boot and then the other, delicately and sluttily at once; before dropping to sit on the bar, her crotch right in Chastity’s face, locked in front of her by the ring fastened to Chas’s collar.

“Bitches!  SILENCE!” she commanded, her thunderous voice swatting theirs down to muteness as quickly and effectively as a professional boxer might put an elementary-school thumb-wrestler in his place with a knockout punch.  “You’ve only got yourselves to blame for your current predicament, after all.  Don’t come whining to me now!  I’m dying to start our honeymoon… it’s all I’m thinking of!  Can you imagine what it’s like to be a Queen, with so many responsibilities, everybody’s boss, always being expected to have all the answers and make all the right decisions, and take care of all the little weaklings around her, all the time?  ALL I’ve been fantasizing about since our wedding is our seclusion, away from the world, away from other people, away from any chance of risk or harm, where I don’t have to teach you and guide you and correct you and monitor you and discipline you, only love you and be loved!  I would have thought you’d want that too!  Instead of just…” she threw her hands up in frustration:  “Prolonging this whole affair by forcing me to interrupt my work—again!  And delay our special time of safety and love together—again!  Just so that I can punish you… that’s right, you guessed it, AGAIN!”  By now she sounded furious, almost on the verge of tears:  “You’re so selfish and thoughtless!”

And the second both girls started frantically trying to apologize and plead she raised one insistent hand, instantly cowing them back into scared silence.  “Are you girls scared of this place?”  She asked, lip rolling in an exaggerated pout.  “What’s that?” she asked their silence.  “Yes or no.  Are my widdle babies scared for mommy to leave them alone in the dark?”

“Yes, Domina!” they admitted reluctantly.  “At least,” Penny tried to explain, “I’d like to get used to it, or… have a little more time after the—you know…”  While Chas burst out: “Please stay with us!”

“Awww…. So sweet.  I can’t even stay mad at you.  I have an idea so Mommy can take care of you, while Mommy’s also doing all the work, and taking all the efforts.  As usual!  I have just the thing to protect you from your fears about this sacred place.  Mommy will make it all go away.  I brought these just in case you girls might want them.”  She placed her hands over Chastity’s ears, and with a final, contemptuous twitch of a smile, pressed the magical earplugs into her girl’s ear canals.

Chastity cried out.

It was the kind of cry actors practiced for years, hoping for their chance to use it in a reputation-making dramatic scene.  And Channah howled back like a rabid wolf, throwing her soggy dress over Chas’s head and grabbing her hair, crying and cursing and nearly barking with passion as she did.  “You’re the Jezebels!” she whimpered, then shivered as Chastity’s screams fell into wracking sobs and pleas.

Right then.  That was it.

Channah managed it again, only a little one, but the kind that’s so intense it’s nearly unbearable because you’ve already come so many times your body is raw and primed for it. 

Chastity was still sobbing when Channah finally shook her head to gather her thoughts, stood, and stepped over Chastity, and then Penny, standing over her back facing the cube and drinking in her big-word, long-winded apologies and pleas.

Her high heels brought her ankles up to a height equal with Penny’s temples, and she rose on the toes of her boots to slam her ankles into the girl to get her attention and silence her. “I want to discuss this persistent problem further tomorrow, and during the coming week.  I do want to take care of you girls, but I also have many responsibilities as the Queen and I can’t spend all of my time coddling and protecting you!  I have to take care of everybody else, too!  I was hoping you girls, with your free time and leisured aristocratic lives, could help me!  You’re my wives!  Don’t you want to be sweet to me the way I want to be to you?!”

“Yes!  I promise you we do!  We’re most sincere, our beloved Domina!  I’m sorry!”  Penny wailed ashamedly; almost histrionically.  “We didn’t mean to interrupt you, Domina.”

Hush!  What did I just say?!” she spoke, crossly, catching Penny off guard and watching how she flinched as if she had physically hit them, looking hurt but also guilty about upsetting her.  And… she smelled it like a drug, another hit of the addictive whisper of fearlovearousal:  uncertainty, and worry, about what punishment she might inflict on them if she fancied it; but also, even stronger, about how much she wanted to please Chastity, and how miserable she felt that she was failing in that.

“Put your lips to work.  Your sisterwife has already taken care of my orchid, but you can kiss my boots, baby.”

“Thank you, Domina,” she gushed, seizing it as an opportunity to show her apology and regret again, lips and tongue slobbering on the dirty toes of Channah’s boots.

“Such a good girl when she wants to be,” Channah said significantly.

And the last thing Penny heard as the earplugs entered her ear canals, before real and pervasive darkness, the complete, oppressive silence of death, and the utter loss of even the opium smell of her Mistress and the dusty flavor of her boots, settled over her… was the sound of her own weak, scared, desperate pleas.

Literature Section “06-122[X] Arousing a Succubus”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 122 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1230 words::Explicit 1248 words—Accompanying Images:  1951-1955—Published 2025-06-21—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

1949 06-121 The Evil Queen Bee seducing Her retinue
1950 06-121 Let ME find the path for you, my pretties

PREVIOUSLY:  A traumatized Chastity and Penance, naked and vulnerable, are led by Channah into the honeycomb, a mysterious structure used by the demons for travel, finding it dark and silent and sterile enough to make them feel like they are being cut off from the world all over again.  NOW:

With her sixth step, the silent darkness ruptured, practically exploding into light.  Despite Channah’s warning, of course, they were startled and surprised.  Of course, they jumped involuntarily, causing her to chortle merrily, as images swam into focus around them—organic shapes of flora and fauna, geometric ones of geography and buildings, on each of the six walls of the room, with a seventh billowing from smoke into clarity above them, and even a flickering below them like the floor itself might start to resolve into something—

“No!” Channah gasped as if scandalized, covering their eyes with her hands.  “I saw you looking down, Penance Batonnoir!  You saw the floor spark, didn’t you?  Clever girl—too clever by half for your own good, isn’t that right, Chas?”

“Very much so, Domina,” Chas had to agree, sounding amused and bemused at the same time. 

“Don’t you dare look down, Penance girl.  Just one stray moment of curiosity—and I know you, you’re curious about everything—and gravity might drag the three of us straight down before I could even teach you about the sheets of the Honeycomb!”  She giggled.  “And since you have no business leaving my sheet, so to speak, that’s a skill you’ll never need anyway.  So… let’s spend this week exploring my sheets only, shall we?  In your own sheet, it’s simple:  Back and to the left is always home.  Always.  Back and to the right is where you just came from, unless that happens to be your home, in which case it’s determined like the other four faces,” she kind-of explained, turning them 150 degrees counterclockwise and guiding them—with her hands still over their eyes and counting:  “One.  It’s already gone.”  But she kept her hands on their eyes until she announced:  “Two.”  Then she brought her hands back down around their necks.  “Three.  Four.  Five.  Watch your pretty toes!”  And then she finished authoritatively, “Six!” drowning out the girls’ tentative “Seven and a half” (precise Penny) and “eight” (casual Chas). As well-matched as they were physically, there was little chance there was any actual difference to speak of between their respective strides.

“Now.  I need you to move just over here…” she guided them to the right, and then forward, maneuvering them around the outside of the glass cube.  They immediately noticed there were chains hanging from the upper rail and rings embedded into the lower rail, on this side.  “Now kneel down, and stay over here on the side, out of the main path.  You don’t want to get in the way of any important people.  And since everyone who uses the honeycomb is a succubus or accompanying a succubus, you can presume there will always be at least one person much more important than you, in here.  Got it?”

“Yes, Domina,” they chorused unconvincingly, getting what she was saying, but not why she was saying it.

“For the same reason, to make sure you’re in a respectful position if any of your betters come across you, I want you down on your knees.”  She was unfastening Chastity from the leash she shared with Penny as she spoke.  “Go on, kneel, I know the floor hurts a little but we have a strict rule, animals left in the honeycomb are always hitched.”

“‘Left?!’”  Penny asked, scared.  “‘Hitched?!’” Chas protested.

“Ohh… come on, Chastity!” she teased her, thereby easily ignoring Penny’s question.  “Who’s your cowgirl?”

“You are, Domina,” Chastity answered, embarrassed but also a little excited.  “See?” she kissed the back of her head as she pushed the girl down to the floor.  “What good little hucattle you two are.”  And with that, she locked each girl’s collar to one of the rings in the floor, Penny’s to the ring nearest the iron door, and Chas’s to the ring nearest the honeycomb, spacing them about six feet apart.

“Mistress?”  Penny squeaked.  “Domina?  Please, you aren’t going to leave us, are you?”

“Aww… my little poodle.  You’re a grown-up!  Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of the dark, darling?” she asked, managing to sound both sympathetic and irritated at once, as she pulled up on Penny’s bound wrists, hard, causing the girl to whine and shuffle her knees forward to ease the pressure on her shoulders, before using one of the chains hanging from the top bar to hold her wrists up and behind her in the strappado position. 

“Not the dark per se, Domina,” Penny squeaked, sounding a little whiny and pathetic, even to herself.  “But, it’s just—this—today—after the trigger—the honeycomb, Mistress!”

“Aww… does the honeycomb bother you?”  she pouted distractedly.

“It’s just… kind of upsetting, Domina…”  Chastity chimed in, her voice a little uneven, sounding even to herself like she had doubts about what she was saying.

“Oh, you poor little dears,” she said regretfully, locking Chastity’s arms into the strappado position.  “Unfortunately, I have to make an appearance here at Sademtsaowah.  Half an hour is  about the minimum I need to linger here to be confident I’ve given all—well, almost all—of the damned enough time to wrap their empty skulls around the fact they need to attend to me here.  Most of them react faster than that most of the time, but taken as a herd…” she shrugged.  “It takes time to keep the number of stragglers down.  Now,” she began, stepping over the bar into the cube, heading toward the iron door.  “You g—”

“Can’t we please come with you, Domina?”  Chastity pleaded frantically.

“Please, Domina, I promise we’ll be good girls!”  Penance added.

Sounding firmer, she emphasized:  “I have a great deal to do here and want to get as much of it done as possible, in those thirty minutes so I can give you sweet little love muffins mommy’s full attention on our honeymoon!”  They heard her turning and stepping toward the door.

“Please can you leave us with the guards Domina, please?!”  Chastity pleaded.  “We’ll be ever so well-behaved!”

“We—we’ll be a credit to you, Domina!”  Penny assured her.

She hesitated, and then turned back towards them, slowly, seeing the hunger in their eyes, not just for her, but for the light she was radiating.  A thoughtful, calculating look crept into her eyes, and just the hint of a smirk lifted the corner of her lips.  When she saw that both of her girls had caught the look on her face, and that it made them both quail like red-headed stepchildren, she bit her lip and pressed her knees together, sniffing deliberately and sighing with pleasure at their sudden burst of lambchop panic….

Literature Section “06-121 Led Astray”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 121 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1101 words—Accompanying Images:  1949-1950—Published 2025-05-20—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.