FICTION: The Throne of Kwan Yin by Sirena Gibson

            The Pop House was a monstrosity. The faceted gems that covered the outside walls were laser cut glass, impregnated with oils so they would glow with luminous, rainbow fire. The streets around the glasshouse were closed off at midnight, once a week, when a noxious cleaning fluid would spray down the sides from a series of black, snakelike hoses on the roof. This kept the gems brilliant and clean. Unfortunately, the cleaning fluid caused a chemical high. Homeless drifters would skirt the barriers and rub themselves against the glamorous facade, shredding clothing and skin.
The cleaning solution was a slow and painful poison when introduced into the blood stream. That did not deter them. Eventually, the barriers had to be electrified. The sight of impoverished souls grinding to death on the walls of the Pop House drew only morbid tourists not paying customers.

            Missy Miss was set to arrive at the Pop House for the most auspicious event it had ever held. Missy Miss was a singer, actress, rapper, and entrepreneur, but most importantly, she was believed to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Section of her ribs and pelvis had been removed to make her impossibly thin. Fat was injected into her skin to make her it shiny and smooth. Her hair was fiber optic filaments. Electronic signals guided her movements. She wore thigh high, seven inch, stiletto boots, and a gelatinous blue mini dress. Her cape was an octopus carcass. Her jewelry was lead encased uranium. Her arrival was almost as anticipated as the event itself.

            The Paparazzi wore jester’s masks. They tried to cut off her clothes with lasers. They tried to pull them down with hooks on poles. Small remote control cameras rolled onto the red carpet to photograph up her skirt, the public had a right to know if she wore panties. It was a matter of moral decency, they claimed. Missy Miss deflected the lasers with a mirror, broke the poles and tossed the hooks, smashed the panty-cams under her boot and entered the Pop House.

            The interior was dark and subdued. The carpet was the color of a fresh arterial spray of blood. The walls were a deep oak paneling. Posters of past events were bathed in a warm amber glow of light. No event compared to this evenings. The crowd that gathered, both ladies and gentlemen, were of the highest social strata, royalty, diplomats, politicians, dignitaries, philosophers and the great minds of the era. They curled their lips in disdain as Missy Miss walked down the aisle towards the front row. Many of them were responsible for her creation and all of them benefited from the technology, mask-like skin, glowing hair, electronically expressed movements. The event that brought Missy Miss together with the crowd of social elite was the Second Coming… of Confucius.

            The stage was set for Confucius' arrival. Asian style clouds, the kind that loop and curl, hung from clear filaments. They were assorted at different depths and heights. The lighting was designed to look like a rising sun. Confucius arrived on his own personal cloud. A dry poof of silt arose from the clapping hands of his audience. Missy Miss did not applaud. She sat stalk still in her front row seat. Confucius summoned a ball of light, then another and another. Then he juggled. He did some tricky flying. This was met with soft oohs and aahs from the audience. Missy Miss, however, sat watching intently, silently, leaning forward in her chair. Confucius stopped and asked for questions from the audience. Missy Miss jumped, quick as a cat, on to the stage with him.

            “Thieving daughter, “He addressed her “who steals the worlds wealth, what are you doing sharing a place of honor with me? I have nothing for you vampire woman. Wisdom is the one thing a girl child cannot steal: she has no basket to carry it away in.”The audience laughed. Confucius took a bow. A smell of rot rode the waves of laughter.

            “Is it true then, that you say a woman has no soul?” Missy Miss asked as Confucius floated in small circles in front of her.

            “None at all. A woman is the vessel for the man child. They serve no other purpose but to serve man. If they do not serve, they suck, like a flea or a tick. They suck and suck for they will never be full.” Many heads in the audience creaked as they nodded in agreement. Missy Miss pulled a long switchblade from her boot and made a quick slash across Confucius' throat. Confucius was not harmed.”Stupid girl, I am the eternal one. You are the empty vessel with a hole.” The crowd clapped and hooted at this wit.

            Missy Miss climbed up onto the wooden stage clouds. She climbed one after another until she reached the highest point. The audience wondered what she might do next. A few people had snuck in camera phones and now they had to take a photo of the showdown between the great philosopher and the pop tart.

            Missy Miss cut a long black hose down from the ceiling. It drooped like the belly of a fat snake. She sliced it open. A stream of poisonous cleaning fluid jetted out. Missy Miss used the palm of her hand to direct the spray into the audience. It burned away the flesh revealing long hidden eyes, running like glue into the rictus grin of exposed teeth. The audience became fully realized corpses within seconds.

            “Demoness! How is it you destroy these people and you are not harmed!”

            “I am, as you said, a thing without a soul and a thing without a soul cannot die. You, on the other hand, are just an ugly man’s dream, and look…” She swept her hand across the auditorium. “There is no one left to dream about you now, so go away.” Confucius glowered as he dissipated into oblivion.

            Missy Miss exited the Pop House. Outside, the world was deathly quiet. The paparazzi lay inside their jester’s masks as bones and jerky. No light shone save those in heaven. Cars sat on flat tires. Paint pealed and stone crumbled. Tattered curtains hung behind broken glass. All of humanities' artifice was in decay. Missy Miss could no longer hear their cries. She looked up at the stars above. They shone so beautifully, the end of the world did not bother her at all.